The Witch of Letters

To wake up to the loud bass of God knows what kind of grungy music someone’s kid is playing at full volume a couple of doors down from his apartment is not exactly how Leon wants to be woken up on a random Sunday morning after another gruelling mission. It really is not.

But it’s exactly what is going on right now. With an insufferable beat stomping in his ears and making his walls tremble with edgy tones and a nausea-inducing, messy rhythm. It’s stupid that he instinctively reaches for his gun; it’s even more stupid that he points it at the closed door of his apartment. And by the time he actually understands what the hell is going on, anger pools behind his eyes. Fucking kids.

He’s still in his sleeping clothes when he bangs on your door. And, judging by the messy hair and three sizes bigger t-shirt you greet him with, so are you.

«Oh! Hi, can I help you?» «Lower that damn music down, do you have any idea what time it is?» For a second, you blink dumbly at him, with the edge of your door in hands and the sweet smile frozen on your face, and Leon is almost proud of how impolite he has come across. Then something in you snaps, and your face turns into a scowl; a pissy, youthfully-judgemental scowl. «Like… 2 pm, dude?» What?

Now that you have mentioned it… the hallway does look suspiciously lit. He must be looking completely lost, and a good portion of dumb, if even you — the most terrifying of monsters, a young adult — after a piercing eye-roll, find pity for him in the depths of your cold, cold heart. «Alright, I’ll tone it down a notch, but you have to go to sleep earlier next time. 2:15 is genuinely fair game.» And with a hip propped against the doorframe, you arch an eyebrow and deliver the last painful jab at his dignity: «grandpa.» For a second, Leon is so out of depth that he genuinely gapes. Well, there goes his resolve. «I’m sorry—»

Not that you step down easily with the derogatory sass, on the contrary, his sudden nervous behaviour seems to spur you on. «Don’t have a heart attack over it,» you cut him short, before swinging your weight from leg to leg and fixing him with a sour expression. «I’ll cut the music out, so you can have your afternoon nap in peace. Old man.» And with that, and a last dismissive huff, you close the door in his face, and he’s left standing on your “go away” doormat that does nothing but rub salt into his wounds. Well, that was brutal. It’s only when he’s back inside the safety of his apartment, too awake by shame to go back to sleep, too physically taxed to do anything else, that he finally realises he never stopped to buy coffee yesterday, coming back from his latest mission; and the nagging feeling of having forgotten something gets dethroned by pure despair.

He has to do some serious mental gymnastics to convince himself to throw on his leather jacket and walk in his pyjamas to the store, but he cannot function without coffee. It still takes him 20 minutes to hype himself up enough to even slip on his shoes. No socks because he hates life.

And today, life hates him back apparently, because as his door slams shut, his eyes connect with yours under the rim of his baseball cap and you’re simply there, at the end of the hallway like a sphinx guarding his freedom, between him and the stairs for the outside world, one yellow package in one hand and the handle of your door in the other. Your eyes scurry to his, attracted by the loud sound of the closing door, and something wicked splits your lips in a grin. «Well, well, well… aren’t you up bright and early?» You mock, crossing your arms and dangling the forgotten package from the hiding place tucked against your hips. «I finished coffee.» Is the only thing he can murmur, surprisingly truthful and plain. For a minute or two in the brightly lit hallway, nothing but silence lingers in the air; then, suddenly, as loud as gunshots, your laugh ricochets through the walls. «Man, today is not your day at all. Get in, 12B, I’ll make you a cuppa.»

And on a normal basis, Leon would have never accepted, but today, nothing feels normal. So he follows. The apartment is furnished the way Leon would expect a 20-something girl’s apartment to be furnished, perhaps leaning a bit on the side of 90s grunge; the one he lived on his skin firsthand during his own youth, and now echoed in his neighbour's cramped living room/kitchen/music room. It’s a weird transitory space that feels lived-in, as if its purpose had shifted and changed during the years, settling into an impractical mixture of old functions and newer ones. «Do you play?» The row of guitars and what he assumes are bass lines the wall over a mismatched old piano that screams “old lady” rather than college student. All different colours and shapes, a particular one even having two necks and some glittery finishing over the body. Those too feel lived-in, with scuffs and scratches across their varnish. «No, I like to spend my paychecks caring for these bitches out of the kindness of my heart.» sassy, «I’ve been playing since I was seven or so.» It should feel like hostility, but Leon knows what true hostility feels like, and that is not it. You’re more like a hissing cat swaying your tail dismissively, deeply offended. «You’re a mean one, aren’t you?» The coffee machine sputters to life, a low buzz indicating a long life of usage. You turn and tilt your head, unimpressedly looking at him through your lashes, «Me? Are you having a senile moment? I was sunshine and rainbows when I opened that door; — your hand does something incoherent with itself in the general direction of the exit, then, coming back to him, a finger points square at his chest — you were the mean one. It’s truly not on me this time… As you sow, so shall you reap.» You pronounce at the end, like a mantra, spinning on your heels, chin up in pride, messing around with pots and coffee pods.

«I had a rough night. My bad, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.» It’s really easy to slip onto the stool at your small kitchen island, as easy as asking for your forgiveness. It feels almost… normal, a well-oiled machine that has finally sputtered back to life after years of neglect.

It sounds stupid. «Don’t stress about it.» The comforting aroma of coffee fills the air, the sound of poured coffee curls around the edge of your words, mixing and fusing. «There is space for my piano and then some inside those eye bags.» Your figure turns, your smile settles back into the soft one you had opened your door wearing, and something soft tugs at Leon’s heart. His cup clinks onto the kitchen island, you sip your own, the day outside slowly moves on. «Sugar?»

It gets really easy to talk to you, like sipping the sweet coffee cooling in his mug, like huffing at your playful jabs and hiding his smile under the rim of his hat as you question and probe to get a rise out of him.

It’s well past four when his stomach grumbles loudly, and you once again laugh at his expense. His joints creak as he rises from the stool, hands hoisting him up «Well, that’s my cue to leave. Pardon me, my lady.» Your laugh is a kneecap shot; Leon has dealt out his fair share of those, he knows how effective they are. You take no prisoners, stretching lazily over the counter dividing you two, your hands shooting from across the island to cup his own. «No, no wait! I’m having fun.»

His legs give up, and he crumbles back into his seat. «Tell you what, pretty eyes.» Your hands don’t leave his. «If you don’t have coffee in there, it’s hard to believe you have actual food. I’ll make you a deal: I cook you up something de-fucking-licious, and you tell me why I thought you were dead in your apartment, and your cat was eating your face to survive.» Your voice is light and cheerful, your back straightens, and your eyes glimmer in the afternoon orange light pooling from your windows. He’s suddenly two sizes bigger than his own skin, so out of place in your serenity, «I’m not usually around.» he chews in between his teeth, unable to avert his gaze but willing to try. Yours, once again and unsurprisingly, feels steady. Unhurried. «No shit, Sherlock, but if you want food, you’ll have to be a bit more loose-lipped.» «Why?» It’s an honest-to-god question, perhaps a bit too honest for his training. It feels like a layer of his soul is being peeled. You shrug your shoulders and let go of his hand, almost sure he won’t attempt another flight, and turn on your heels to start the late lunch. «'Cause I’m nosy as fuck.» you offer simply, putting a small pot on the stove and bobbing your head as if to punctuate each word now that he can no longer see your expressions. «Well I— I’m truly not… around… that much.» if you wish to humiliate him for the dumb repetition, you don’t let it show, simply huffing a somewhat derisive sound and arching an eyebrow from behind your shoulder. «How so? I thought people your age had achy knees, not travelling desires.» Yeah… why so? But most importantly, why is he around now? And why does he have the feeling he’ll have to make peace with the idea he’ll be around quite a bit more?

To put it simply, Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow. He’s not getting any younger, tons of new agents are getting recruited every month, and his experience is starting to get outweighed by the constant ache in his knees. He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty.

His silence must have been interpreted as offence as you quickly cast a glance behind you and rectify: «Alright, I’ll quit it with the old man jokes. You did piss me off tho. Did the coffee taste of peace offerings and spite? Because that’s what I was aiming for.» You’re cute. All words and sassy remarks. A chatterbox with a cute scowl and an even cuter irritated frown. «Mmmister?» He gotta put his ass in gear, «It’s Leon. It’s stupid I haven’t told you yet.» God, he’s out of practice. But that doesn’t seem to faze you, little does apparently. «You’re fine, Leon.» You concede, pulling open the cabinet over your head. «You feel like the mysterious type. Plus, I liked “grandpa”» Grandpa. His eyes trail your back; you’re difficult to pinpoint. There is something unmistakably weird about you, the way you talk, the way you act, but Leon doesn’t really get what’s tipping him off; you’re just weird. It’s plain in the way you laugh, and it’s there when you say some absurd thing, bending backwards on a logic that is all your own, but it doesn’t stem from those. It just permeates them. His eyes catch yours, once again over the edge of your shoulders, and he finally notices you’re quiet. «Sorry, I wasn’t— I was paying you attention… I just got lost in thoughts.» and those same eyes shine, not with malice but not with innocence either. «An open-eyed nap? Alright, that was the last one. Tomato sauce or pesto?»

A couple of days later, he finds you at his door. Mail in hands and a new, silly, pyjamas hanging loosely on your body. «Dude, Kennedy? Really? Like the president?» Never mind “Confidential” is plastered all over the mail. The postal service managed to fuck it up regardless. «Gotta something to say about that?» Your shoulders shrug, your hand stretches, «Not really, it just sounds silly.» It’s out of his mouth before he can catch it, «My middle name is Scott if that fans you amusement.» It does, it really does, if the nasal and ugly laugh that escapes you is any indication. Weird. «Well, your mail got delivered to me mister president.» Yeah, he can see that; he got some neck to twist back at DSO.

He knows it’s not early, he won’t make the same mistake again and embarrass himself twice on the same matter, but he’s so fucking tired. «Dude—» This time you’re dressed, a black shirt of some band he had seen in concert, but that probably broke up before you were even born. Already on a war footing. «I know, I know, it is fair game, but— please, I just really need to sleep.» It must have been rude to cut you off like that; it definitely was, but he had been verbally digested once; he doesn’t want to have that experience again. You look pissed, eyebrows drawn, and hand gripping the door frame at your side, and for a second, Leon double-guesses his social skills, nonexistent, and his ability to not make you mad with his mere existence. But the sharp tones in your drawn eyebrows smooth, softly, almost out of habit, more than real softness. You look… gentle? «Aight. Fine. I’ll cut the music.» Leon can feel a sight escaping his lungs. «Thanks, really. I’m sorry.» Your head shakes, your shoulders do the same, and the myriad of bracelets on your wrist ring like bells. «Don’t be. I get it.»

That is the moment he should retreat, go back into his apartment and back to bed, the couch if he can’t manage the off meters separating the two. But something seems to prevent him from doing so. You are still there, scrutinising him like a mortician. He should take your doormat’s advice.

«Did you manage to buy coffee?» He didn’t. «Shit— no, I’ll go out tonight.» Last week had been a nightmare; spotty missions of a day or two, polluting his everyday life. Not hard at all, but gruelling. Your tongue clicks on your teeth, «Don’t bother, grandpa.» Fucking nickname, he won’t be able to shake it off, won’t he? «I gotta pull an all-nighter anyway. Just knock, and I’ll get you set up.» That’s odd, you’re odd. Oddly gentle, oddly kind. «You’re awfully nice for being this rude.» Even your laugh is odd. «Rude my ass, dude. Go catch your beauty sleep, princess; you look like shit.»

He does, catching up with his sleep — not look like shit, thank you very much — in a blissfully silent apartment, and then, not even bothering to put something decent on, he knocks at your door. «Damn, old man. Thought you would have been out for at least a couple of hours more.» Weird, but weird in a funny way. Like weird ha ha. «Thanks God you’re funny, girl.» Coffee at your place becomes a habit. You bitch and whine about “taking care of your elders”, but Leon eventually understands it’s an act. He does odd jobs at yours from time to time. The sink doesn’t work? You don’t even have to ask, he’s already two-thirds of the way to getting it repaired. The shutters don’t close all the way, and you hate sleeping with the light of the outside world? He’s already oiling them. It’s a nice balance. It makes him feel needed.

It’s not really clear, in the strict timeline he keeps tabs on in his head, how or when, did warm coffee became trash TV from the worn dip of your couch. It just happens. There is so much caffeine you both can ingest without seriously damaging your stomach before the ridiculous excuse to keep the moment going starts to feel old. The shared silences and the lively conversations weigh more than a possible ulcer on his part and a probable insomniac night on yours.

It’s not unexpected from his point of view; you’re full of life, a constant buzz fluttering around him, softening the blow of his mind’s reeling thoughts, spiralling in silences stretched too long in his deserted apartment. But it’s — once again — kinda weird for yours. For some reason unknown to him, you actually like him around, no, you want him around. He has passed his whole life noticing details, the true distinction makers between life and death in his missions. So it’s not really “spy work” to spot them as they surface. The room you have made for him in your life, nudging your clothes and rags away enough on the couch to make room for him, tugging them in the crevices of the seat. Not gone but folded enough to just let him exist in a spot that is all his. The shift is in the cup you always give him, blue and white, glazed wrongly, probably a failed art project of yours or a close friend. In the pack of cookies you have started to pull out of the cupboard every time he says, “I should go” without really feeling like going. Only to bribe a few minutes, he was already willing to give up, out of him.

Hell, most of the time you open the door of your apartment before he can even knock on it. It’s odd, and it’s even odder that you have stopped murmuring the ritualistic “what a coincidence” after the first couple of times, but somehow that puts him at ease. It’s clear that you want him to be there, in your apartment. And it’s a feeling so long forgotten he had thought he would have struggled more to recognise it.

And it’s not even such extraordinary company the one you offer, it’s mostly a quietly buzzing presence, sometimes a tad too much, but mostly enough. It’s enough when you sit at his side. You have one of those old TVs that, when you shake your hand in front of it, makes it look like you have twenty fingers or more. Per hand. And he’s sure that will probably be the thing that fucks his vision up once and for all — Leon is sure about that — but it’s enough.

Even with the eye-murdering TV, he cannot stop knocking at your door, sliding down the couch beside you as you pluck chips from the bag and hand him “the greasy ones” because you’re picky like that, and somehow you can feel the difference.

He doesn’t complain. When you are too deep into your film, you even feed him, aiming for his mouth without taking your eyes off the TV. It’s awkward, clumsy, and so irresistibly you.

Somebody is trying to remove the door from its hinges. The gun is in his hands in seconds, low, ready. He gotta get out of the apartment quickly, he doesn’t know how many are there, he’s in civilian clothes, his ammo is in his bedroom— «Leon, open up, I don’t care if you’re asleep, come on!» Your voice sifts through the door, through the cracks in the crappy old wood as your fists bang on its expanses. The gun, from his sole lifeline, shifts into an imminent threat; he disarms it and tosses it away as fast as humanly possible, as if burning. God damnit. The door swings open; his frame must be towering over you if he can see his own shadow obscuring your entire body. «Kid.» If you’re intimidated, you don’t let it show, with a shove and a pull, you literally stumble into his apartment. «Dude, there is a fucking Porsche down the street!» Your gait falls jittery and excitedly, running at the window and throwing a glance out of it, down the street. «wha—» But you don’t let him finish, actually, you don’t even dignify him with a glance, waving a hand with chipped nail polish, at him still trying to merge yourself with the window screen, «Put some clothes on, I wanna go see.» Your logic is a fucked-up mess he’s not sure he wants to tackle this early, and this hungover. And yet he asks. «Why do I gotta be with you?» «I don’t wanna go ogle all by myself, I’d look like a creep.» Ah, yes, sure, now he understands. «Because with me you’ll look different?» At that, you finally turn, sharp gaze fixing him with impatience, and a tinge of… embarrassment? «No, but… you know, we’ll just be two creeps… like a flock, you know, anonymity in numbers and all that shit. Better than the lone creep anyway.» He doesn’t really know, mostly because if you don’t want to look like a creep to the owner, you don’t really gotta worry. It’s his. And he already thinks you’re a creep, or at least some other variant of plain “weird" «Alright, gimme a sec.» And yet he yields. «Hurry, I don’t wanna lose it.» You won’t.

«Duuuude, that’s so fucking sweet!» You look like an overexcited… you. It’s actually pretty difficult to compare you to something tangible, something he knows and can catalogue. Your wonder is fresh and childlike, but your excitement comes off of you in waves of low curses and keen eyes raking over his car. He shouldn’t have come home drunk last night, he shouldn’t have left the Porsche out of the garage, but for some strange reason, he doesn’t think the mishap bore horrible fruits. It’s actually pretty nice to see you like that. «You like cars?» «Not as much as I like guitars, but I can appreciate. I’ve never seen one of those before.» Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. «You only like French cars or like…» Your laugh rises airy and light, not in derision, not even mischievous, once again, only yours. «Dude, Porsches are German.» The key in his hand clicks, the car beeps to life, and you almost jump out of your skin. When you turn around, panic visible on your features, looking for the owner, the keys are already dangling from his outstretched hand, and for a second, he can gloat in the magnificent picture of your owlish eyes blinking, slow; as the cogs in your brain shift and clunk connecting the dots. When he speaks, it’s a low rumble, «Alright, teach, do you wanna go grab some coffee?» You look like a fish out of water, gaping at him, and if your eyes could pop out, they would. «Are you?» You don’t even finish the thought, your eyes dart back to the car, to him, «Is it yours?!» «Yup.» Joy jolts through your veins, zapping behind your eyes, raw and unfiltered. «Oh my god, can we— coffee? Can you—» but then something snaps, all that enthusiasm bubbles over, but it’s as if the means to feel it were suddenly taken away from you. And you shift, a bit awkward. Silence falls. «Have you… have you drunk…» your voice comes out low, very low, almost inaudible. Torn between jumping in and putting your feet down on something you won’t negotiate on. He did, he could actually say he got hammered, stumbling up the stairs well into the night and collapsing into his couch moments after, not even properly securing his door, passing out where you had found him this morning. A heap of crumbled clothes and the shadow of a legend. Slowly fading away. Yesterday had been… weird, but not your type of weird, sad-weird. His life had flushed down the drain, drowned in cheap alcohol because that gave the worst hangover headache, and at this point, “hurt” is the only thing that keeps him connected to that part of his life that is actually way more than a part and that without he doesn’t know how to function. So yeah, he’s had a drink, several actually.

But your weird — right now — feels so real he can’t find it in himself to deny you; contagious and fuzzy, like a bad case of the flu. And he feels all warm and sluggish as he stares down the path of voluntarily wrapping around your finger. To be commanded left and right, for the simple pleasure of keeping you content. Buzzing. Not the same buzz he finds looking for solace in the bottle.

You fidget in your spot, growing roots, not moving a single step to get inside the car. He’s weirdly proud of you for that. «I did, that’s why you’re driving.» And for being a sad excuse of an old man, he must have done something right because you suddenly shine.

The coffee shop you drove to that evening was a random one, the only one open this late into the hour, but somehow that became a usual spot. “Usual” is also the habit of letting you drive. For a couple of minutes, Leon simply kicks off and lets you drive, letting you guide him wherever you want. The both of you end up going there quite a lot. On weekends, on Mondays, on Tuesdays… every time Leon is not at work. So a lot. You don’t seem to mind the fact he’s mostly silent, he hopes not rude, but definitely silent. He can’t change in the snap of a finger.

«So… you like own this crazy car but live in that shitty apartment building. Are you like one of those dudes who spend all their money on flashy cars?» The asphalt runs smoothly under new tyres, your voice drifts through the car. «The apartment is good.» The eyebrow-rise is comical, Leon thinks he did laugh; «Leon, I live two doors down from yours. I know mould is growing in your bathroom as well.» It does, in fluffy cotton balls of slightly concerning black substance. But if he closes his eyes, head lolling on the window of his car, he can recall the memory of pristine surfaces, modern lines and oddly shaped high-end lamps looming over perfectly 90° corners, walls of egg-white paint, expensive furniture. Untouched. Waiting for him after endless missions. A solitary life in the guts of a place that screams “aseptic” from every cashmere quilt. «Not really. I have another— place. I just…» You don’t press, you don’t ask, you just let him find it on his own. «I just don’t like it.» Your hum is barely audible over the sound of the car, but it’s sweet, and it’s soft. «And you like that piece of crap? I heard there are loud neighbours on that floor.» At that one, Leon actually laughs, unguarded and raw. He has been like that for a while now, slipping into the habit of simply existing out of questioning in your orbit. A gravitational pull that lures him in. «I’ll take your shitty music over never-ending silence any day.» The corner of your eyes crinkles, that unfiltered laugh seeps into the car, and his heart skips a beat, but oddly feels like it’s falling into the rhythm of yours.

He’s heading down a very dangerous path, but you are driving, and he has no power over the destination.

Leon huffs, annoyance must be visible on his face, perhaps pulling at the worry lines littering his forehead. Wrinkles, there is no need to call them by any other names, they’re wrinkles. «I used to be able to bullseye a wind chimer a mile away.» The newspaper slaps against the table. He can feel the waves of tension rolling off of him, and so must you. One eyebrow arched, eyes unimpressed. «And now you can’t read the newspaper without glasses.» The deadpan lands harder than you probably intended, smoothing the rest of the phrase out of your lips with a softer edge to it. «Come on, grandpa, use this. My father forgot them here like a lifetime ago, I assure you, he won’t mind.» But it doesn't land where you must have hoped it would land. And you must have seen that on Leon's face, this time around, there is more than tension; there’s hurt.

Your voice comes soft and unhurried but firm nonetheless; you don’t reach, you don’t corner, and for that, he’s grateful. You just exist, and you let him do the same «Leon… what’s wrong?» «It’s fucked up.» There is not much more to it. It just is. He has grown old. Useless. The look you pull is weird. Why must you always be weird? So complex to read? Because for a second, you look hurt. Plainly, openly. For what he said. As if he had said it about you. «Leon…» Easily mistaken for pity. Not that he truly believes it. He knows deep down that’s an excuse. The clock over your stove ticks by, time falling slowly out of his reach. «How so?» Your voice rises steady and calm; in a sip of coffee still too hot for him to drink but apparently perfect for you. «What?» Your shoulders shake gently, eyes darting up over the rim of your cup, directed at him. «Why did you know how to “bullseye a wind chimer a mile away”?» «I’m military.» Safe, easier than explaining Raccoon City. Your face pulls, half displeased, he’s well aware how opinionated you can get on government stuff; he gets where you come from, he had wanted to become a cop — a lifetime ago now — for the exact reasons you had listed. Tone heated and annoyed, one dying day he had passed lounging on your couch. He had wanted to change the world back then, to make a difference, but life had yanked him away from that path, hard. And the cop inside of him had died that faithful day. More than thirty years ago. You eye him suspiciously, as if he had turned into the enemy all at once. «Hold the gun, I’m DSO.» «Meaning?» «Division of Security Operations» Your face scrunches up, a very cute frown that tips into displeasure ever so softly, hiding your emotions had never been your forte. «Wow, that gives me like… nothing.» His scoff flees his lips almost unwantedly. «Anti-bioterrorism.» You hum, the sound rippling the surface of your coffee. «Cool.» You relent at some point, as if admitting it cost you something.

The bitterness resurfaces suddenly, ugly and unwanted. It was cool. «Not that it matters now. It has been a while since I’ve been active on the ground.» If there is something that you are, it’s not subtle. Your eyes bore holes where they rest on his figure, intense and searching. «That doesn’t change the fact you had been… DSO or whatever.» «No.» He hadn’t been someone— hell, something in a while now. Aimlessly drinking his sadness away, syphoning your joy, your calmness from your company. You don’t speak, nor correct him. «No, you don’t get it.»

For the first time since he met you, Leon sees it all from an outsider perspective. Outside the bubble of comfort you envelop him in. He’s old, so very old, and you’re younger and brighter, with a future waiting just around the corner. What is he doing weighting you down? It flutters out of his mouth in an exhale. «Of course you don’t. You’re young.» Then the right word to describe it boils down: «It’s humilia—» «Normal.» Your voice cuts him off sharply. Two steps, the clink of your cup to the kitchen island separating you. Your hand falls to his shoulder, and you look at him like you need him to believe you. Unmovable. «It’s normal, Leon.»

Something, in the deepest depths of his soul, is cracking open; he can’t actually pinpoint it, but he can feel it. It doesn’t scare him this time.

Falling for you is soft and graceful, then all of a sudden, it's messy and horrible. Jittery and unsure around you. Like he had lost the balance of your shared existence. So Leon does the next best thing than confessing: he withdraws. Because you don’t feel what he had found himself feeling for you, and it’s a fool’s hope to think of you as anything more than a weird acquaintance.

Days of isolation turn into weeks. You don’t knock on his door, and you don’t go looking for him.

Your absence rings louder than he thought it would. It’s in every nook and cranny of his life where you have jammed your presence, and it hurts around the edges, like a sharp object pressing onto his ribs. «Leon?» clammy hands wrung around each other, pulled hair. Sweat glistening on a thin sheet on his skin. He’s too old for this. «I… I’m sorry, I can’t— I can’t be alone right now.» What a pathetic thing to say to your twenty-something neighbour at three am after you have tried to avoid her for nearly a month. You ought to kick him out, curse his name, and spit on him. Because he’s a coward, a pervert and a pathetic man looking for comfort in retracing a bridge he himself has burned to the ground. «Oh… Yeah, sure, come on in.» But you are just so fucking odd. The apartment buzzes with the soft sound of the fridge in the far corner of the kitchen, the TV glows with a very annoying static and a low crackling sound. You lazily stroll barefoot to the couch, crunched covers squished down, rummaging through the cushion for the remote and shutting the TV down. The room falls into an uncannily still silence, Leon’s heart stutters but stops the galloping it had done for the past interminable minutes of lone panic. The remote slides back over the couch, a thud in the otherwise silent room. You turn and lean into the backrest from behind it, leg outstretched, as if you had never sat in a damn couch. «I’m sorry…» Comes out of his lips small and unsure. «You can go back to sleep, I just— I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—» «It’s alright, do you wanna sleep? Or talk, or like, watch trashy TV?» The proposal is so stupidly sweet he can feel it in his teeth. A dull ache. «No, no, it’s—» What is it? «I just wanted to know you were— okay. Just… safe.» Your head lolls up and down in a sluggish rhythm, crossed arms, a foot coming up to scratch the back of your calf. «Do you wanna sleep over?» He must have heard you wrong. «What?» «Like a pyjama party, shame I just ran out of facemasks. Sleep here.»

Knowing you’re there, it’s— it’s enough, you can go back to sleep.» It is. It really is because all of this has always been about how much your presence has come to ground him. Your voice lifts something heavy in his chest, soft and calm. «Will you be able to sleep at yours?»

Fuck no. «No.» «Then stay. Why torture yourself?» Because I deserve it. And I don’t deserve you. Too bold. Instead, he settles on: «It’s a loaded question.» Your shoulders draw in, a silent chill running down your spine in jarring shivers. «It wasn’t supposed to be. Stay.» A huff of a laugh filters through his teeth. «I—» «Leon. Please…»

«Yeah… okay… I’ll— sorry. I’ll settle on the couch.» Your face pulls; there is something you wish to say underneath the sleepiness, but you refrain. «Will you be able to fall asleep there?» «Yeah, I will… eventually.» You look less than unconvinced, but once again, your self-control puts his to shame. «Okay.»

It’s an afterthought, soft around the edges, as you pull away from the backing of the couch, sleep clinging to your judgment. You pull him in when you’re close enough, arm circling the small of his back and a palm guiding his nape to the crook of your neck. A soft embrace. Comfort seeping through his clothes, where your skin meets and burns through each other’s warmth. Your voice hitches, «Door’s wide open if you want to curl up and spill your guts.» Then, as if you wanted to drill the thought deeper into his understanding, you clutch harder. «I’m right here.» And with that, you retreat. And he’s left struggling against what that had meant. He can’t recall for sure if he clung back. He does eventually. Fall asleep. Around five or so. And wakes up at eleven, to the soft clatter of kitchen utensils. «Good morning, pretty eyes.» Your voice fills a very deep void he never noticed. I love you. «Good morning.»

Your eyes burn on his skin. Always so unsettling focus. «What?» «Something’s different.» The slurping sound of the straw in your glass announces you’re done with your overly sweet milkshake. He’s halfway through his steaming hot coffee. «The milkshake?» He doesn’t even know how you could be able to tell, all that sugar must have fried your taste buds. «No, dummy, you. Something is different with you.» An eyebrow arches, he sips slower, just because he knows it irks you. «I don’t know what you’re talking about.» It has been a week since the night he spent on your couch. And that has gone blissfully unacknowledged. On his part, you had simply behaved as if what had just happened was the most normal thing that could have happened. «Yeah, you look… better?» your voice cuts through, smacking the tackiness of the sugar away from your lips. «Is it a question or a statement?»

He doesn’t get to listen to your reply. A waiter, all sweet smile and bubbly attitude, approaches your booth. «Can I bring you anything else?» She asks, tapping a pen over an already filled notepad, looking directly at you; Leon has been the “scary guy” all his life, he’s not surprised the woman must feel better speaking to you instead of him. «Oh no, I’m all done.» So he folds himself into a smaller version of what he is, pressing closer to the window, head tilted down. Less scary, less imposing. «What about your father?» The words freeze something in the air, like a spell gone wrong. And all he can inhale is ice-cold dread. Until he has to mutter: «I’m fine.» before the moment drags out worse than it had started. «He’s not my father.»

Your face is hard to read, soft-eyed, a simple smile on your lips, a genuine tilt of your head. You look at ease. You don’t look ashamed. «I’m so sorry—» «Don’t worry.» Man, you’re weird. «You drive like a madman, are you sure you’re not drunk?» You’re not even worthy of a proper answer, so you get a grunt. The road bends and twists in intricate backroads, “to avoid the insomniac rush hour.” you always say when you take it. «Leon—» but tonight you’re in the passenger seat. «I’m dry. Been a week.» Silence falls back, your head falls softly onto the headrest. «A week, mhm?» Fuck, you’re way too damn observant for your own good. «Yeah, been thinking of quitting for a while.» He steps on the gas, sidestepping a lone car going too slow for his liking. «What got your panties in a twist?» «Nothing.» And you let it be nothing for a couple of seconds, even a minute if Leon believes your magnanimity, «Was it the waiter’s comment?» But you’re not that nice, all things considered. «No.» And you’re not easily deterred either. «Then why are you trying to snap your wheel in half?» «You don’t know me.» The whiplash is painful. His own venom drips down his lips, poisoning his own thoughts. «Fuck— I—» «You think so?» Fuck, fuck, fuck… he fucked up so badly. Like horribly badly. «I—» «Stop the car.» That’s it. That is how the only good thing left in his life ends. Because he’s a sad man who doesn’t know how to stay in his lane. «Please, I’m sorry—»

«I want to know you. I do. And you can start letting me get to know you by telling me why you're mad right now.»

The car sits idly on the side of a deserted road. No other passerby in sight, you might as well be the last humans alive in the world. It feels like it. «I hate that she just assumed…» Your voice clicks, a low hum, almost like a buzz. «Why?» unkind. But not harsh.

You just sound demanding. No point in running. «Because I like you. And you deserve better.»

«Better…» Yes, better than someone edging on the void of the half-century mark with no other accomplishment to his name than destruction and blood. Yeah. Better. «Yeah.» «Better than you, but you still get to decide what I deserve and what I don’t.» «No, you—» You don’t even blink as you deliver your next line. «I’m the worst person alive.» And he falls for it like a dumbass. «You’re not—» «Then you aren’t either. If I like you, and you’re such worse, then I in fact do not deserve better. I deserve you exactly.» The air in the car grows heavy. Your words linger between your bodies. «You don’t like me the way I like you. Believe me.» «Boy, you’re dumb.» Your belt clicks, the car gives off a faint alarm, still on, still humming under you two. And for a second, panic sets in. He’s sure that next will come the bell of the door being opened with the car keys still inserted, yet another alarm blaring in his head. But it doesn’t. You lurch over the shift, hand fisting his shirt in your grasp, and then you yank him to your level and kiss him.

And then the rest falls into place with a satisfactory click. The odd-weird you’re dancing on the edge of infects him like a virus, and suddenly, he’s all jittery buzz and tingling fingertips as well. It must be all that sugar he’s tasting off of your tongue.

«Abso-fucking-lutely not.» his palms fall to your figure, harder than intended.

Your huff is playful; you rarely aren't. «Hard ass.» His hands grip harder. Your waist, your hips, your thighs straddling his lap. He guides you lower, harder, over the clothes you still cling to. «I am.» He still clings to. It’s hard to explain. He now knows for sure you won’t judge him; you have done plenty to deserve his trust, but the objective truth is that his body no longer looks like what it used to look 20 years ago. The scars have gone from “enough to feel mysterious” to ugly viper’s nests of leather-like damaged skin, varying in colour and texture; his muscles, no longer cutting, look defined, sure, but the definition of too strenuous work that had left marks deeper than stretch marks over bulging biceps. He looks used. Exhausted. And that scares him.

Your hand dips slightly lower than he thought you would, grazing the hem of his shirt, and his body goes rigid. «Wait—» Your hand retreats immediately, clasping behind your back as if demonstrating to him you’re harmless now; holding onto your forearms. Your lips land on his cheek, soft and steady, until you withdraw, but don’t leave him behind. «Sorry, love, got carried away.» The ease is so jarring he doesn’t even have the time to chastise himself. «It’s okay.» he mutters then, because he truly feels like he has won the lottery with you. Then a huff follows, as you litter his face with kitten kisses. «You sound like my mother when you call me “love”» Your feigned gasp comes with the definitive withdrawal, eyes wide open and false shock painted on your face. He had told you at least a dozen times. «You should know better than that.» you tut suddenly, popping your neck softly. You’re not wrong, his couch is kinda uncomfy. The smirk surfaces like a message in a bottle. Only reading “trouble” all over. «Aren’t you the one who got all grumpy ‘cause the waiter insinuated you were my daddy?» The tip of his ears warms up, and he’s sure that if he were in front of a mirror right now, he’d notice a soft dusting of red colouring them. «She did not say “daddy”» Your grin only gets wider. «She didn’t… I could tho.» Jeeze, he’s gonna combust. «Okay, you’re in time-out.» But he knows you have filed his reaction under the “for later shenanigans” folder inside your brain.

You dismount him like a saddle, swift and confident, not at all bothered by the interruption. He is tho. «Hey. Princess, hold on a second.» His fingers wrap around your wrist. hot versus cold. You always seem to run a bit colder than the rest of the world. Your eyes don’t. Pools of endless warmth zeroing on him. «What’s up?» So he blurs it out. «Does— I know it’s bothersome.» and he can no longer take it back. «What?» And if he can’t take it back, and you’re both already there… he might as well go with it. «The interruptions. It’s— frustrating, I know. I’m sorry.»

Your blinking is slow and deliberate, or maybe it’s just confused. «It’s not. I mean, not really; I do wanna jump your bones, you’re stupidly hot, I feel like I’m salivating every time I see you. But your comfort is the number one priority. So it’s actually not that hard a choice.» Oh…

Well, now he’s the one wanting to absolutely wreck you. It’s not fair. «Can I sleep at yours tonight?» «I’d be offended if you didn’t.»

This is silly. You are silly, your ideas are silly. It’s silly that you’re lying facing each other on your comically small bed. «Your mattress is minuscule.» «But he’s very hard. He’s compensating.» A hand lifts from the cramped space between your bodies, and a snap of his fingers hits the side of your forehead. «Dirty mind. If I knew it was this small, I would have stayed on the couch.» A smile at the edge of your lips pulls slightly. «I think he’s average size.» Typical. «Plus, I got rid of the bigger one to get you all close and cuddly the day you’d finally accept to nap with me.» Leon huffs. This close, he can see the strands around your face moving by the action. You look stunning, groggy with sleep and illuminated by the low light of the outside world. «A mastermind, I see.» Your giggle settles into a comfortable background noise, mixing with the sounds of the street below you; mischievous glint shining behind your eyes. «I got you in my bed, didn’t I?» You did, hell yeah, you did. «What’s next, Emperor Palpatine?» That grants him a full laugh, a soft sound falling precisely between embarrassing and sweet. «I’m swaying between making you cut that beard of yours and letting me shoot a real gun.» Silence falls softly over you, like a blanket pulled under your chin.

Leon’s the first one to break it. «Can I kiss you?» Your eyes soften. «How many times must I tell you, Leon: you don’t have to ask.» One too few. He will never stop doubting himself. «Only once more, I promise.» It’s not once more. He asks every single time, when you wake up in the morning, when he circles your waist at the stove, when you part ways to go to work, when he comes back and finds you curled up on the sofa, reading or plucking at the strings of the guitar of the day. It’s a routine that settles into a type of comfort that eggs him softer and softer into an edge he’s not sure he’s bordering until it’s too late.

The desire slams into him all at once, like a brute force pressing from every direction into his very soul. He has just returned home, to your apartment that had somehow morphed into your shared quarters, and you are just standing there in the kitchen, spoon in hand, and your work clothes draped over the back of the counter stool, messy as always, one of his T-shirts so old it probably predates you, hugging your figure, logo dry and faded. You’re doing some shenanigans with the stove, fire too high, he can already tell from the doorway, and you look so… cosy.

The desire hits hard. The need to act on it hits even harder. He barely shrugs his coat off, throwing his briefcase to the side and marching toward you. The sound slightly startles you, your shoulder jumping slightly, but you turn lazily, eyes focusing on him. «Shoot, I didn’t even notice yo—» He doesn’t let you finish, he just really wants to put his hands on you and grip tight enough to convince himself you’re real. This time, he doesn’t ask for permission; he still thinks he should have, but the want is too much. The kiss is hard and full, one hand flying to the back of your head and the other finding something to grip on your waist, skin, clothes, whatever he can put his hands on. He holds you there, gripping you tight and kissing you deeply. The room fills with smacks, you open up like a flower to sunlight, initially shocked, then melting to his touch. The hand on your waist flies to the knob turned to the highest setting and shuts it off. Something simmers in the background, finally cooling down. Your lips part with a wet sound, a strand of saliva still connecting you. You look at him sheepishly, still panting, still wide-eyed, lips red and glistening; something mischievous bubbles deeper. «You’re gonna burn down the whole building.» his own voice sounds strained. Desire is on a rampage inside him. Your eyes narrow, focused and predatory. «What can I say, fire must be in the air tonight.» Cocky. He still snorts. «Dinner’s busted by the way. In case you haven’t noticed. Beyond salvageable.» He noticed. It’s alright. He’s not hungry. Well, he isn’t for food. «We’ll survive.»

The moment stays charged, or at least he thinks it does; it has been a while since he had been comfortable enough with somebody to let the passion bubble. He had been an awkward teen, a lifetime ago now, a somewhat clumsy rookie, and then he had been a traumatised recruit. Not the best state of mind to let loose.

Sure, he had overcompensated at some point in his youth; when he had been younger and prettier, when the girls in bars had found his scars attractive and not concerning. But even that had gone stale quite early, and the shame of lying had outweighed the brief relief of a one-night stand. And Leon had gotten older, and the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, his eyes had darkened, and the worry on his forehead had settled into deep lines. He had started to frequent the bars solely for the booze, and the pretty girls had started to steer clear of him. Leon’s not a saint, but it has also been a long time since he deemed himself worthy of such comfort.

Panic seizes him once more, and the urge to ask for permission flutters agitatedly in his chest. «You okay with this?» You’re not even doing anything. Your hand falls to his, slid from the back of your neck to your cheek, and it just rests. «Are you?» He knows you well enough to know this is not a throwaway line; you actually expect a response. «I am.» «Good, then I’ve been okay with this for months.» This time it’s your turn to jump him. Quite literally, filling the inches separating you two with thrown arms around his shoulders and on tiptoes that barely makes you tall enough.

The fire lights back up. And it’s with such ease that you kiss him that his brain doesn’t even go into performance mode. It just lingers in a blissful state of want and warmth. He’s pretty sure he’s the one who hoisted you up, but you might as well have been the one who decided to climb him like a fucking tree. He’s not sure anymore; he just knows his hands are suddenly full of you, and he’s pressing your body on the kitchen counter, mouth on yours and your soft noises buzzing in his head.

God, you sound divine, wrapped around him and kissing him like that.

There is a certain abandonment in you that urges him on, the way you cling to his shoulders, hands raking through his hair, kissing his worries away, one soft lick at a time. «Can we— bed… Now… please—» You don’t even let him finish, nodding against his lips, awkward and hurried, bumping your nose on his. He lifts you higher, tossing you up without really thinking of it, simply wanting a better grip on your body. Your leg clenches, your arm tenses up, and an almost- squeal flees your lips. «Jesus Christ, Leon, how strong are you?» What? For having caught you mid-air? «We can test it.» It’s so fucking stupid the way you mouth “Oh my God” as if he wasn’t there to judge you, sliding your hands from clasped behind his neck to his biceps, softly squeezing over the oversized sweater. You’re so odd, so silly and stupidly you.

The walk to the bedroom is quick; he’d throw you on the bed if he didn’t adore you the way he does. But for how much he wants to absolutely wreck you, he wants to appreciate you the way you deserve. So you get softly laid on your bed, tantalising exposed skin and mussed hair. And when he retreats, stalling just a second, he finally allows himself to fidget. The hem of his shirt being the closest thing he can put his hands on. «All good, Leon?» «Yeah. Just— a bit spooked, I guess.» It’s actually surprisingly easy being honest with you. It comes without a pricetag, just something he has filed under “normal” and has kept acting upon. «Okay. Nobody’s testing us; we can do what feels better. That includes stopping, Leon. For whatever reason.» He knows, he can feel the softness in the air. Still, your attentiveness pulls at his heartstrings. «You’re stealing my lines… You know it works both ways.» Your smile mirrors his, small, persistent, shared. «I know.» You do. He can see it in your eyes, the complete trust you put in him. And to look at you from so high up feels weird, so he puts his palms beside your thighs on the mattress and bends until he can kiss your lips once more.

When he’s back up, the shirt comes off almost instinctively. He’s ruined, he’s marred by scars, but he’s utterly yours, and the sudden feeling of belonging makes him think you can’t hate him all that much if you’re willing to keep him regardless.

You hiss, your eyes dart across his chest like magnets. «I know. It’s—» «Hot. Oh my God, Leon, you’re so fucking gorgeous.» Had he been younger, he’d be blushing. «You’re just humouring an old man.» Your eyes zero in on his, and it’s impossible not notice how dilated your pupil is. You look ready to devour him. «Am I? Do you wanna prove it?» It doesn’t land immediately. He’s still taken aback by such a blunt display of desire that his brain has to reload, then you part your legs slightly, and lift his old shirt enough to let the low light of the room catch a glint.

You’re soaking through your panties.

The knowledge lands like a slap, hard, physically painful, so devastating he falls on his knees. That’s for him. You’re like that because of him.

His hands are on you the second he can get his brain into motion, maybe even before, attracted by your flame like moths to fire. They look for your thighs, for the strap at your waist, tugging, begging. «Please— Can I—» «Yes.» It’s barely more than a hiss, sharp, breathy. His effect on you. His. «Please, you can do whatever you wan— please, Leon… Just touch me.» And he does. Gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, tearing your underwear, ripping them clean off. You have time for a single, soft yelp before his lips land square on your core, dead centre. He’s too damn old for teases. The air in your lungs hitches, his tongue darts out; a long, flat strip of spit gets dragged up. «Fuck—» The word stutter, his mouth gets to your clit, and he sucks. Your hand flies to his hair, and the other one lands on your mouth. Hiccups smouldered by your knuckles, as if you were biting down on them. He doesn’t know; he’s in too deep to check on your volume management.

It’s funny, actually. To your moans, he would have liked to be woken up.

The fact it has been a while since he had indulged in intimacy doesn’t mean he’s green. But the sensation is certainly new. It’s not a means to an end, eating you out. Be it taking the edge off or keeping you satisfied. It’s… really fucking hot. There are no other words for it. It’s just really turning him on.

His thumb hovers over your clit, not yet touching, not retreating either, a threat, a promise. His tongue dips lower. You’re so wet he can feel the slick running down his chin, soaking his short beard. Fuck that’s hot, and that’s for him. Because of him. Your moans turn higher, squeals bordering on high-pitched yelps. The perfect moment to add his fingers to the mix. And see what other pretty sounds he can drag out of you. His tongue flattens and swipes between your folds. Then his thumb settles over your clit and circles it with precision. The sound you make should be recorded— no, engraved in his head forever; they should play it in his ears instead of the rush of his blood every time he stands too fast. Just to make his ageing softer. Better.

He’ll have to settle for branding it to memory, trying to capture every dip and high in your cries. Your fingers clench; he didn’t even know it was possible. The soft sting of pulled hair a constant reminder of your grip. «Fuck, Leon, I’m close.»

Your warning means nothing; the absolute abandon with which your orgasm hit you renders it useless. Your legs lock, keeping him there, the hand in his hair tightens, and loosens in spasms that scream of barely held together concern, and your whole body shakes. The moment your body snaps over the edge is loud. Your back arches in a delicious curve, creaking ominously, as if threatening to break. A gush of slick wetness suddenly rushes down his chin as he desperately tries to swallow as much of it as he can. Greedy. It lasts minutes, and when you finally slump back, he’s tempted to follow you for a second round. He almost does, succeeding only in one good kitten lick over your pussy, but the tug in his hair stills him. «God, please, up— I want you inside.» The need to just ignore you and just keep feeding his own wants is strong; it shows its ugly head in a low growl, and very poorly disguised self-control. He’s so hard in his pants. It hadn’t even occurred to him. «Talk to me.» Your voice is a lifeline, a life jacket thrown into the abyss of his desire. «I- I just really fucking want you.» He does, he really does. With all his heart and all his body. «You have me. Up now. I wanna see you naked.» The hand in his hair, that had just been resting at this point, slithers out of its previous grasp. You regain a surprising amount of grace for someone who had just had an orgasm as you shimmy upward into the still-too-small bed and settle against the headboard, throwing his old shirt over your head and sideways. Remaining starkly naked. Ah, the joys of youth.

Your eyes glisten playfully, a tug on your lips betrays renewed vitality. «Come on, chop chop.» The belt clinks; it all comes so naturally.

«You’re gorgeous.» You murmur when he’s as naked as you are, and he believes you, it’s very hard not to, with your pupils blown and your breath shallow. «You are.» he still replies, because you are and because you deserve to know.

The edge of desperation has faded, or better, it’s still there, pulsing in his temples, but it’s background noise. You’re the centre of it. He’s present enough to remember to prepare you. An orgasm is great, but it does not work wonders; gently, slowly, until you’re begging for it and shoving the condom wrap in his hands.

Then, when he’s sinking into you. Kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He thinks this might be the only time he has fully felt himself in the last decade.

You flinch at every inch he feeds you, muttering about beard burns on your inner thighs, and hitching your breath at every less-than-perfectly-controlled thrust. It’s agonising and slow. But it’s so tenderly vulnerable that he’d rather soon cut his own hand off than speed it all up.

It makes for a perfect moment to hold you. To bury his face in the crook of your neck and inhale your perfume. You smell safe. Like the coffee you keep sharing with him and the metal of your guitar’s string. But that has to be his imagination. The lingering feeling of knowing you deeply and fully.

When you finally start to urge him further, nudging him closer and deeper. He has half a mind to deny you. Just to hear your soft whimpers once more. But he doesn’t. Because he adores you and you deserve better than a prick that likes your whining.

So he speeds up, thrusts deeper, harder, throws you around a bit to make sure to hit all your sweet spots.

«Leon— close.» Fuck, he’s too, your vicious grip really leaving him no respite. «I know—» your walls flutter tighter around him. «Fuck, me too… me too, love.» His arm hooks your leg back up, calf resting into the crook of his elbow; he hopes he’s not crushing your leg in his grasp, but the line between squishing, gripping and smashing has gone blurry a few minutes ago. He hoists you higher, thrusting deeper still, your punched-out moans filling the room. «Fu—» You come first, hard, throwing your head back, crying out the tension building in your lower belly. The sight of you is what tips him over the edge. Plain as that. His heart squeezes painfully, his leg cramps slightly and then he comes. The light coming through your curtains hits softer than the one coming through his. Leon wonders why it is so. «Good morning, sunshine.» Your voice lulls him out of sleep. It’s the first time in ages he woke up before 1 pm. «Morning, princess.» Your room smells like coffee and the faint traces of last night’s sex. Your hips sway playfully as you close the gap between where you stand and where he lies. This is a life worth living.

Your lips fall to his temple, softly, cradling his face in the cups of your hands. «To think better.» You murmur on his skin, lower, gentler still, on his right eye. A barely-there kiss. «To see better» then his left «to aim better.» The letter sits on the counter, DSO, confidential. Black skin marrying his body. You love him. You have told him so countless times, even like this, even this broken, infected version of him. But he can't stand the infection, not the idea of it, not the sight. Another nest of scars, another mark. Something that takes and takes and gives nothing back. A life he has chosen.

His lips must taste of regret and shame; it looks like you’ll have none of it, not if you can kiss that away. He doesn’t deserve you. «What is that for?» Your shoulder shakes, a shrug, normality, domesticity. Nothing is changing. He holds onto your confidence like a lifeline. «That one is for me. To keep you close.»

He’ll get back to you. To the three-room apartment, and he’ll tell you of his idea to knock down the wall separating your units and merge your lives once and for all. He’ll tell you he wants to adopt a cat and settle into your life; like he belongs. Because he’s starting to think he does. Here, with you. He will when he comes back from this “yet another” mission. His last one. He promise. «I’ll come back.» «I know.»

«I love you.» Your gaze falls softly on his. He knows you know. «I love you too.» He does come home. Worse for wear, too old to recover in a couple of weeks, but he does come back. He promised you.

You make a mess of your apartments, and the cat gets named Chad. It never fails to make you laugh, so he just relents to the name. It’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s odd, but most importantly, it’s you. And in your existence, there is that damned space you have made for him.

Ao3 Link Let me know what you think <3 <3

“But sister,” Anna-Maria pondered, passing on a piece of clothing to be pinned. “What is the Spirit of the Forest?”

The flower gazed down, the midday light framing her visage like that of an angel. “The Spirit is a caring being,” she answered as softly as the plush green that grew from trees. “It watches over us and protects all that lives.”

Beyond the wood, within his refuge, the Creature pressed his face closer through the open space. Aching somewhere in his chest to draw nearer to her. This woman of fairest vision was akin to the dawn that broke over desolation. Soft, radiant, and utterly beyond his reach.

He had seen light before, cruel and scorching, as the fire consumed his Maker’s laboratory. It raged and burned, leaving him half-born amidst the ruin as he made his narrow escape into a world that would only fear him. Yes, he had seen light before, but never like this. This was gentle, living, as it poured through her hair as though the heavens bowed to crown her.

Each day thereafter, the Creature lingered in his dim sanctuary, the scent of straw and dirt clinging to his stitched-together skin. And he listened for her voice. When she sang, it carried through the cracks of old wood. A melody as sweet and cruel as longing, trembling through him until even his monstrous heart dared to quicken. He dared to hope for her light to shine on him even for a moment.

But he told himself revealing his presence would be unwanted. He told himself such beauty was not for him. Forces beyond his control and understanding seemed to conspire for something different, though. For on the fifth evening, while the moon hung silver and splendid in the sky, she unknowingly came to him.

The night air was crisp, and his breath came in pale clouds as he trudged through the copse. In his immense hands he carried another colossal bundle of kindling gathered from the forest floor. It was but a humble offering he gave the family, one of the many benevolences he bestowed upon them. He knew not why they coveted the wood so greatly, but the smiles that graced them the following mornings compelled him to keep acting.

So he crept to the front of the cottage, taking care to be as silent as his large stature would permit. The windows were dark save for a single glow that glimmered faintly like the pulse of a living thing. He dared not draw near enough to be seen. Not thinking himself able to bear seeing the terror he inspired in every soul who glimpsed his face.

He bent low, placing his offering by the door, arranging it with care. His great, marred fingers trembled as they brushed away dirt from the threshold. He put his back to the cottage, meaning to retreat once more to his sanctum.

And then—

“Wait.”

The voice froze him in place. Soft, uncertain, but unafraid.

He turned, slow as the turning of the world. She stood there—the flower, wrapped in a woolen shawl, the moonlight making her seem carved from milk and mist. Her eyes darted from the wood to the hulking figure before her. She should have screamed. His brief experience in the world had taught him to expect nothing else. But instead she took a hesitant step closer.

“It’s you,” she murmured, realization blooming in her voice. “You have been helping us.”

He shook his head—a clumsy, desperate motion—for he had no words. No tongue or ability fit to answer her grace. But she saw the denial as humility; her lips softened into something that pierced him more than fear ever could.

“Spirit of the Forest,” she whispered. “You are real.”

The title struck him like a benediction and a curse in one. The flame light from the candle she held flickered over his discolored skin, the seams of his creation, the ruin of his hands. Yet still she looked at him with reverence. Awe.

He tried to speak, to tell her he was no spirit, no savior, only a wretch born of a man’s folly. But all that left his throat was a rasp, broken and low.

Still, she seemed to understand him even though no words were uttered. Some gentle intuition stirred within her eyes, and she stepped nearer, the leaves crunching softly beneath her bare feet.

The air trembled between them, a fragile bridge that might have carried something transcendental had he only been brave enough to cross it.

But the Creature knew what he was. What his Marker had forged him to be. Not a spirit, not a guardian, but a grotesque parody of man. Her nearness felt like light falling upon decay, a warmth meant only for those truly living.

So when she stepped closer, he recoiled. 

A low sound escaped him, neither a growl nor a word, but the guttural cry of something wounded by grace. He staggered back, the candlelight dancing wildly across his face, revealing for the briefest instant the horror of his scars. The flower gasped, still not in fear, but in startled pity. And it was that pity, not terror, that drove him into flight.

He turned and fled into the dark.

HE DID NOT VENTURE NEAR THE COTTAGE FOR MANY DAYS AFTER. The shame of his flight burned through him like a sickness. Not that of fire or gushing wounds, but something quietly crueler. He remained within the barn in the lightened hours, and once the sun sank on the horizon, he wandered the edges of the forest. Where lush green clung to trees like velvet, where no light reached save for the twinkling glow of the stars.

Yet still, his gaze was drawn each night towards the small house beyond the trees. The faint chimney smoke rose like morning mist, and he wondered if she still thought of him. The monster who had fled her mercy.

When he crept back to the barn, hunger gnawed at him. The wind carried the scent of the family’s hearth and bread, and with it the ache of longing not wholly born of the body. Near the doors of his refuge, something new awaited him. 

A bundle wrapped in cloth.

He approached it warily, the night air holding its breath. Within the wrapping lay not scraps as before, but a meal: bread still soft, a wedge of cheese, and an apple with its skin polished by a careful hand. Beside it, folded neatly, was a shirt. It was plainly sewn yet made with care. He did not know then to realize that the sleeves had been remade to shroud his distorted limbs.

He touched it with reverent fingers. It smelled faintly of floral and woodsmoke. Of her, the flower that smelled of flowers. He smiled at the thought.

The Creature bowed on his knees beside the gifts. No soul had ever given him such a thing; not since his first moment of breath had anyone looked upon him as something worthy of gentleness.

In the days that followed more gifts appeared. A clean blanket one night, its edge freshly hemmed. A flask of some rich broth still warm when he found it. Each token bore her hand, her thoughts, her defiance of the fear she should have held for him.

She had dubbed him Spirit, and now she honored him as one.

But he dared not let her see him again. Each time her figure crossed the yard in the dawn light, his heart quaked with both yearning and dread. He hid deeper in the shadows of the barn or the folds of the forest, afraid he might unmake the kindness she had built between them.

Until the night she sought him out.

The forest was thick with mist, the air soft with the scent of dewed earth. He heard her before he saw her, her steps light, a lantern swinging from her hand like a captive sun.

“Spirit,” she called softly, voice trembling with the hush of anticipation. “I know you are near.”

He pressed himself against the rough trunk of a tree, scarcely daring to breathe. The light danced closer, golden through the fog.

“I only wish to thank you,” she said. “To see you. To know you are real.”

Her words struck through the night like the muffled chime of bells. Distant, but unbearably beautiful. He felt himself drawn toward her helplessly. 

And yet, something within him spoke of ruin. Of the evil that created him and the horror he carried.

Still, his foot moved. Just once, and then again, the twigs whisper crunches beneath his heel.

The flower turned.

The lantern brushed across his form, the broad shadow, the stitched hands, and the ruined face half hidden in the mist. Her eyes widened, but she did not flee.

“Please,” she breathed. “You need not hide from me.”

Slowly, he stepped forward through the veil of shadow. The ground seemed to groan beneath his weight, and she startled. Not out of fear, but from wonder. His figure, vast and terrible, emerged from the mist like something half remembered from a dream.

When it was clear he would not flee again, the flower smiled. A gentle trembling thing that exhibited her bravery. She held the lantern higher, its glow quivering over the ruin of his form.

“I… was not certain the shirt fit you,” she said, her tone uncertain but tender. “You are broader than I imagined. I did not know your measure.”

The Creature looked down at himself, at the coarse linen stretched across his chest, the seams simple yet sturdy under his fingers. The cloth was somewhat clean still, but no longer white like the moon’s glow. He wished to tell her it was perfect, that he had never worn anything so fine, but he struggled to find the right words.

“G-Good,” he managed, trying to articulate more, but he knew not how. When he tried again, all that escaped him was a deep sound of defeat. 

Her brows knit together in confusion. She took a tentative step nearer, the lantern’s light swaying between them like a fragile heartbeat.

“You have trouble speaking?” She whispered.

He was injured by the shame of that truth. He slowly bowed his head, a gesture of both apology and submission.

“Oh,” she breathed, and the sorrow in that single syllable was so pure it might have sanctified the night itself. “Forgive me. I did not know.”

He raised his head just enough to meet her gaze. Her expression was not of pity, but compassion. A quiet, human grief for what had been denied him.

Her stare lingered unwaveringly—curious and searching—as though she wished to piece together the mystery of his being by sight alone. The lantern light carried over his frame, tracing over the dark folds of the coat that cloaked his massive shoulders.

“That coat,” she murmured after a long pause, her tone softer still, touched by wonder. “It is of a soldier’s make, is it not?”

The Creature shifted beneath her gaze, his shoulders hunching instinctively as though to hide the garment. The fabric was old and singed in spots, the places where brass buttons would’ve been laid bare. He had taken it from the graveyard of bones below his Maker’s laboratory.

She mistook his silence for something gentler. “Were you wounded in battle?” She asked, her voice filled with sympathy. “Is that why you’re wandering these lands?”

He said nothing. His hands, those clumsy, ugly things, brushed at his sleeves as though to erase the question itself. How could he tell her that which he did not know? That his scars were born not of musket or blade, but of the creation of himself that he could not recall. 

When the silence grew too heavy, she filled it once again with her voice. “Why are you here?”

He opened his mouth. The first attempt of speech broke on his tongue, harsh and raw. He tried again, forcing air through his lungs that were never meant to breathe.

“Tr…avel,” he rasped. The word came slow, uncertain, like something newborn.

Her lips parted, a small sound escaping her. A sigh, or perhaps a breath of amazement that he had spoken at all. But before she could answer, a voice rang faintly through the trees.

It was a man’s voice, urgent and near, calling her name and coming from the direction of the cottage. Another cry followed it, an older woman this time. 

The flower’s eyes widened. She turned her head towards the sound, then looked back to him, torn between two worlds. “I must go,” she said quickly. “They will come searching if I linger.”

He straightened, his great form looming in the pale haze, and for a fleeting instant she looked up at him as though she beheld something sacred. She turned then and vanished into the fog, her light flickering between the trees until it was swallowed whole.

THE NEXT EVENING THE BARN BREATHED WITH STILLNESS. Moonlight spilled through the slats, pooling across the straw like silver dust. The Creature existed within that stillness, his broad back pressed against the worn beams. Each hour crept by as his mind remained caught between dread and longing.

He did not know if she would come searching for him again. He told himself it was unlikely. She had been drawn by mercy alone, and mercy was fleeting. Yet, as the night deepened, he heard once more the whisper of footsteps biting through the leaves.

And then came the glow.

Through the narrow crack of the door, a small light wavered, warm and golden. The latch lifted slowly, and she entered. 

The fair flower.

She moved carefully, shutting the door behind her so that the light would not betray them to the house. Her shawl clung to her shoulders, her cheeks faintly flushed from the night’s wind. In her arms she carried a small bundle, and as she crossed the threshold the faint scent of candle wax and parchment followed her.

“Hello again,” she kindly greeted, setting her lantern on a wooden crate. Its glow revealed her burden, two thin books bound it depleted leather, a stub of wax taper, and a small box of matches. “I waited until they all slept,” she said with a smile that seemed both proud and conspiratorial.

He stared, unsure of what to make of her presence, of her gentleness and empathy. Of how willing she was to be before him and all his inadequacy. 

“I brought these for you,” she continued, carefully arranging the books and candles between them. “I thought… Perhaps you’d like to learn your language again. And to read. If you wished it.”

The Creature’s gaze fell upon the books as though they were relics of a forgotten god. Their pages whispered faintly as she opened one. He had seen such things before—his Maker’s laboratory had been filled with them—but never had he been invited to touch them.

She hesitated. “Would you like me to teach you?”

He did not answer at once. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, his throat a grave of broken sounds. At last, he inclined his head in a slow, deliberate bow. “Y… yes.”

Her eyes brightened. “Then we shall begin.”

She sat upon a low stool, the hem of her dress brushing the straw. He remained kneeling before her, great and ungainly, his shadow engulfing hers against the far wall. She drew the candle nearer and turned the book toward him.

“See here,” she said gently, pointing to the first letter etched in ink. “This is A. It begins the word apple.”

Her voice was soft and patient in a way that made his chest ache. In a way that was so unlike that of his Maker. He leaned closer, his brow furrowed, tracing the shape of the letter with one big finger.

“A…” he murmured, the sound rough but clear.

She looked up at him, her smile luminous in the candlelight. “Yes, very good.”

Something delicate stirred within him, something like pride, but it was tampered down by disbelief. He dared to meet her eyes then, and for a moment he forgot the spoil of his face, forgot the monstrosity that he was.

Her light gilded his features in gentle gold, softening what nature had not.

“You learn quickly,” she said, turning the page. “There is no need to rush, though.”

He nodded once. The movement was awkward, almost childlike. His heart, that strange and stubborn organ, beat hard within his chest.

She turned another page, her fingertip gliding over the next letter. “This is B,” she said softly. “For bread… or barn.”

He repeated the word after her, the syllables rumbling like stones in his throat. Buh… arn. She smiled at the effort, at the way his voice tried to shape itself into gentleness.

Then came C. Then D. She took her time with each, her tone calm and warm, her laughter quiet when his clumsy pronunciation tangled the words. And though he did not quite understand her teasing, he knew the sound of her laughter was something worth earning again.

When they reached E, she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “E,” she said. “Like earth.”

“Earth,” he echoed, the word coming slowly. His gaze drifted toward the ground, toward the straw that cradled his knees. Earth, yes, he thought. He knew that, that which gave life to all things. Even him, though he was born of its corruption. 

She turned the page once more. “And this,” she continued, pointing to a letter that curved and crossed like a branch bent in the wind, “is F. Like for friend… or…” She trailed off, smiling faintly as though caught by a whim. “Flower.”

Her voice softened on the word and she did not know how it struck him. 

Flower.

He repeated it slowly, his tongue stumbling over the shape of it. “F…low…er.”

She nodded encouragingly. “Yes, very good.”

He said it again as the sound carried more meaning than she could know. Then he lifted one massive, scarred hand and, haltingly pointed toward her.

Her brows lifted in surprise, and then she laughed, a sound bright and startled. “Me?” she asked, eyes glinting like the lantern flame. “You think I’m a flower?”

The Creature did not answer, but his hand remained where it was for a single moment before he reached forward and touched the place where her life thundered under her skin. He let his hand linger for only a beat then he dropped it down once more to rest upon his knee.

Only the faintest breath of sound escaped her before she was smiling timidly. “You are kind to say so, Spirit,” she said softly. “But I am no flower.”

He watched her as she bent again over the book, her lashes shadowing her cheeks, her voice returning to its normal rhythm as she named the next letter. Yet, he no longer heard the words clearly. Instead he, for some inexplicable reason, solely focused on the shape of her mouth as she spoke.

DAYS FOLDED INTO NIGHTs, AND NIGHTS INTO A QUIET ETERNITY WITHIN THE BARN. There, by the soft flicker of candle light and the murmur of her patient voice, the Creature learned.

At first, words came haltingly, raw and jagged things that scraped against his throat. But the more she visited, the more he conquered them. Sounds that once betrayed him now obeyed. Sentences stumbled, then steadied, until at last he could speak with a fragile grace that astonished them both.

“You learn faster than any common man,” she confessed one evening, grinning over the open pages between them. 

“I am no… man,” he replied, and the ache he saw settle within her eyes nearly unmade him. Sweet flower.

“Then what are you, Spirit?”

He had no answer that did not sound like defamation.

Her lessons continued, gentle as wind songs. She came to visit him when the house slept, her shawl drawn tight around her, carrying books like offerings. He devoured them, tales of kings and creatures, of cities that rose and fell beneath divine wrath. He read of a man called Adam and a woman named Eve, and felt something stir deep within the marrow of his being, though he did not yet have a name for  it.

When she read aloud to him, her voice filled the hollow barn as though she were breathing life into its very bones. Sometimes she laughed softly when his pronunciation faltered, and he would find himself smiling. An act that still felt foreign upon his face.

She taught him the world through words. He, in turn, watched the world through her.

Her hands were small, but strong from labour. Her voice shook when she grew tired. When she smiled, the whole space seemed to glow, as if the moon bent low to touch her. He began to crave that gleam, though he did understand why.

What was this strange pull within him? This ache that made him linger in her space long after she had gone.

He thought it curiosity at first, admiration for her grace and goodness. But when she brushed his arm by accident and warmth thundered through his chest like fire reborn, he knew it was something else entirely.

And she, though she would not admit it even to herself, had grown to wait for the hours after dark when she could see him again. Her hands trembled not from the cold, but from the thrill of it. His eyes—dark, fathomless things that had once unnerved her—had come to hold an affection that unsettled her peace.

One night, when the wind howled through the eaves and the candle guttered low, she brought him a different kind of book.

“This one is mine,” she said, shyly, as though confessing a secret. “I thought perhaps you might like to read it too. Since you have finished all the others.”

He took it carefully from her hands, because anything in her possession was a sacred thing. Its leather cover was worn soft by years of touch, and inside were not words of God or burning cities. But of love. 

A tale of hearts that yearned and could not be.

He read by moonlight long after she had gone. Each page seared something new into him. He read of a man who would have crossed death itself for the warmth of his beloved’s hand. Of a woman whose name was whispered like a prayer. Of the kiss, this strange, holy act that seemed both promise and undoing.

When next she came, he spoke in a voice that was once again unsure. “This is a story… of lovers,” he began, his words cautious. “They… suffer for one another.”

Her gaze lifted, startled. “Yes, that is love.”

He tasted the word like it might poison him. “Love.”

“It is the greatest of joys,” she breathed, her eyes growing distant, “and the cruelest of pains.”

He studied her then, the way the candlelight lingered in her hair, the way her breath trembled in the still air between them. He wanted to ask if she had ever known such a thing, if her heart had ever burned for someone beyond reach. But he feared her answer, so instead he said, “Tell me, could one such as I—” He faltered, unable to finish.

She reached across the space between them, her fingers brushing his hand. “You are kinder than most people I’ve known,” she assured. “If such a one can love, then why not you?”

He looked down at their hands—hers perfect and delicate, his vast and marred—and felt the world narrow to that single point of touch. Her pulse leaped against his skin.

He could not name the look that passed between them, only that her eyes held such a heat that made his obstinate organ of a heart roar within his chest. The sensation felt forbidden like a secret the stars themselves turned away from so as to not overhear.

Long after she had gone that night, he whispered her name into the straw and felt it echo in the cavern of his ribs as surely as his polluted blood rushed in his veins.

PEACE WAS A HARD FOUGHT THING. The more he learned of her—the music of her laughter, the way her breath clouded in the night air, the soft cadence of her speech—the less rest he found. Reprieve fled him as though chased by some invisible hand. When he did close his eyes, she lingered behind his eyelids. The pretty curve of her cheek, the tremor of her lips when she read aloud, the stardust in her hair that caught the firelight like something celestial.

She haunted him. Not as a specter does, but as a dream too unattainable to reach.

Since reading the tale of the lovers, something had come alive within him. A fever that burned quietly, sweetly, and cruelly. He yearned not merely for her voice, but for her nearness. For the brush of her skin against his, the scent that clung to her, the sight of her lips that seemed to be made for uttering loveliness.

It felt as though the words on the page cursed him with knowing what he could never truly possess. Desire lodged itself in the seams of his flesh and the hollows of his heart. He thought himself driven mad by it.

Each night she came, he told himself he would not stare, that he would not linger upon her face. Yet the more he forbade it, the more his gaze betrayed him. He began to memorize her. The tilt of her chin when she smiled, the way her lashes quivered when she looked at him for too long.

In time, their lessons gave way to small walks through the woods when the moonlight was full enough to guide their path. She said the air there was lighter, that the stars seemed to breathe brighter beneath the branches. He always followed a step aside, his shadow large and silent against the golden glow of her lantern. 

It was on such a night that it happened.

The forest was alive with a thousand whispers. The sigh of leaves, the faint call of an owl, the quiet rhythm of her voice as she spoke about nothing in particular. Until her words broke upon a sudden sound: the soft tear of fabric.

Her skirt had caught on a thorn thicket.

“Ah— bother,” she murmured, half-laughing as she tried to free it, her slender fingers fumbling with the snare.

Before she could move further, he was already there. He bent low, his great form folding to the earth without even truly thinking. His hands, though monstrous, were careful, his touch reverent as he eased the fabric free from the clutching bramble. 

She watched him in silence, her breath held as though afraid the smallest sound might break the spell that had fallen over them. When at last he lifted his head, the torn hem fluttered free.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted, subtle, but vast as the rising and setting of the sun. The air thickened between them, charged with something he could neither name nor withstand.

He rose slowly to his full height, the motion drawing him unbearingly close to her. She tilted her head back to look up at him, and for the briefest of moments, she seemed afraid. Not of his form, nor of his ruin, but of what she herself was about to do.

She leaned forward—soft, trembling, and impossibly brave—and pressed her lips to his. 

It was no more than a fleeting touch, a breath’s worth of contact. But to him it was as though lightning had struck. His entire being shuddered with it, that single instant blooming through him in fire and light.

She pulled back at once, her face draining, her breath unsteady. “Oh,” she gasped. 

“Oh, forgive me,” she stammered, stepping away as if waking from enchantment. “That was terribly forward. I— I forgot myself entirely. I shouldn’t have—”

He could not speak. His hand lifted, ghost-like, to the place her lips had touched. 

He did not recoil. He did not curse the moment as sin or mistake. Only silence consumed him. Silence and the fierce, bewildering joy that raced through the vessel of his body.

She noticed it then, the slight tremor in his hand, the wonder dawning across the shamble of his face. Her voice softened, almost breaking.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He wished—how he wished—he could tell her that it was not unwelcomed. That her touch had not disgusted him, but redeemed him. That he would sooner choose to burn in her fire than to live again in shadow.

The only thing that came, soft and stunned in his throat was: “You gave me the lover’s kiss.”

The sweet flower froze, her hands twisting in the folds of her skirt. “I— it was foolish of me. I shouldn’t have—”

“May I return the favor?”

The words surprised them both. They seemed too bold, too human for him, yet they left his mouth with startling certainty. She looked up at him, her eyes wide in the lantern light. “You… you needn’t feel obliged,” she whispered, her voice catching. “You owe me nothing. It was only my lapse in—”

“I want nothing more,” he said, rough but clear. “Nothing more than you.”

Something fragile broke in her chest at that confession. She searched his face, the excrescence of it illuminated in the soft gold, and found no deceit there. Only awe, only hunger carefully bound in admiration.

“I’ve never…” she began, her voice trembling.

“Nor I,” he said, a shadow of humor touching his tone, almost shy. “You have taught me many things, flower. Perhaps… You can teach me this as well.”

She hesitated, but her breath betrayed her, coming quick and shallow. “If you wish it,” she finally murmured.

He nodded once, the motion slow, deliberate. Then, as though fearing he might wake from the respite of a dream, he bent toward her.

His lips met hers like a greeting first whispered, uncertain and aching. His breath was shaky, his hand hovering near her face but not quite daring to touch. For a heartbeat, there was only silence and the trembling brush of their mouths.

Encouraged by her hands coming to rest against the breadth of his chest, he deepens the kiss. She pressed the least bit closer, and that simple contact sent a shudder through him. When a soft sigh slipped past her, he drew back an inch, startled by the sound she’d made.

“Did I—” His voice faltered. “Was that wrong?”

Her cheeks warmed, her lips parted with a shy, breathless laugh. “No,” she said softly. “That was… a good sound.”

Something old stirred within him then. A pulse, deep and electric, thrumming through sinew and bone as if awakening some long buried remnant of a life not wholly his. He wanted to hear it again.

This time when he kissed her, it was changed. No longer so hesitant but certain, fervent, and alive. His hands, wavering with craving, found her waist. He felt her draw closer, her body fitting to his as though the space between them had never been meant to exist. Her fingers clutched tighter to the rough wool of his coat, anchoring herself to him as the world spun quietly out of time.

The kiss deepened, not hurried or unrestrained, but full of something that burned low and molten. When she sighed again, softer now almost like a small whine, he moved without thought. Instinct guided what reason could not. His arms enclosed her fully, pulling her against him as though to shield her from every cruel thing the world had ever known.

Her back met the rough bark of a tree before she realized he’d moved them. Still, she made no protest. The sound that escaped her was half gasp, half plea, and he answered it with a low growl that rumbled from somewhere cavernous in his chest.

For a moment—one suspended, rapturous moment—they were not woman and monster, nor spirit and supplicant, but two souls caught between creation and ruin. They were the lovers themselves. Adam and Eve. And their garden, the forest, seemed to still around them, holding its breath. As if to witness the impossibility of love blooming where light should not reach.

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