A dead internet theory

The examination room smelled faintly of antiseptic and medicine, a scent that never really left the walls no matter how often the windows were opened.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while rain tapped against the glass nearby, leaving thin streaks beneath the dull gray sky.

You sat quietly in the wheelchair near the doctor’s desk, hands resting limply over your lap while the older man adjusted his glasses with a tired sigh, flipping through the thick file that had become far too familiar over the past months.

“Well…” He exhaled slowly, glancing up at you before kneeling slightly in front of your chair. “Can you open your mouth for me?”

Your gaze remained dull for a moment before slowly obeying.

The doctor carefully pressed the wooden tongue depressor down, shining the small light inside your mouth. “Your tonsils are still inflamed,” he muttered quietly. “Not as severe as last time, thankfully, but the irritation hasn’t fully settled yet.”

A pause.

“You’ll need to continue the antibiotics for another week.” The sound of paper shifting filled the room again as he straightened himself back up, expression growing noticeably heavier when his eyes dropped toward your legs beneath the blanket draped over them.

“As for the lower body condition…” His voice softened carefully, almost cautiously. “There’s still minimal response around the nerves. We’ve seen slight improvement compared to the previous scans, but…” He hesitated briefly, clearly choosing his words. “There’s no certainty yet regarding when mobility may return.”

Silence followed immediately after.

Behind your wheelchair stood Yuji Itadori, his hands loosely wrapped around the handles while listening quietly the entire time. Dark circles sat visibly beneath his eyes despite the soft lighting, exhaustion practically etched into his face no matter how much he tried hiding it.

At the doctor’s words, Yuji simply gave a small nod. “I understand,” he answered softly.

The doctor looked toward him then, brows furrowing slightly. “And you need to sleep,” he added, his tone turning more stern. “At this point you look worse than the patient.”

Yuji blinked once before lowering his gaze with a faint, almost sheepish smile that never fully reached his eyes. “I’m okay.”

“I’ll rest later.”

The doctor looked unconvinced, though eventually sighed in defeat while closing the file. “Stress and exhaustion won’t help either of you. Try taking care of yourself too.”

Yuji thanked him politely before carefully turning the wheelchair around, movements gentle and practiced like muscle memory by now.

The corridor outside remained crowded despite the gloomy weather outside. Nurses moved quickly between rooms while distant monitor beeps echoed endlessly through the halls.

Yet the moment he appeared pushing your wheelchair forward, several familiar faces immediately softened in recognition.

“Oh—Itadori-kun.” One of the reception nurses looked up from her desk with a warm smile. “How is she doing today?”

Yuji slowed his steps slightly. “She still needs rest,” he replied quietly, the exact same answer he always gave.

The nurse’s smile faded into pity almost instantly as her eyes drifted toward you. “Poor thing…” she murmured sympathetically. “This is so unfortunate.”

Another staff member passing nearby paused as well, offering Yuji a small nod. “You’ve been taking very good care of her.”

Yuji smiled politely at that. Small. Tired. “Just doing what I can.”

The staff watched the two of you disappear slowly down the long hospital corridor, sympathy lingering in their eyes while the rain outside continued pouring endlessly against the windows.

—

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft metallic sound, sealing the two of you inside the small quiet space as it slowly began descending floor by floor.

Yuji stood behind your wheelchair as always, one hand loosely resting on the handle while the other adjusted the strap of the bag hanging over his shoulder.

“We should head home quickly today,” he said after a moment, voice calm and gentle enough to fill the silence without overwhelming it. “It’s raining harder now.”

The corner of his sleeve brushed lightly against your shoulder as he leaned slightly forward to glance outside through the narrow glass panel beside the elevator doors.

“Maybe I’ll make something warm tonight.” His tone softened faintly, almost thoughtful. “Soup sounds good, right? Something easy for you to eat.”

You remained quiet. Still. Yet Yuji continued speaking naturally anyway, like he always did.

“And tomorrow…” A small pause followed while he thought for a second. “If the weather gets better maybe we can go outside for a little while. Just nearby.”

The elevator reached the first floor with a quiet ding.

By the time the two of you stepped outside the hospital entrance, rain had already begun pouring much heavier than before.

Water splashed against the pavement in restless waves while cold wind pushed damp air beneath the covered waiting area.

Yuji immediately pulled your blanket up a little higher around your legs before hurrying to stop a taxi nearby.

The ride home remained quiet aside from the steady sound of rain hitting the windows. Every now and then, Yuji glanced toward you, checking for any sign of discomfort.

By the time you reached the apartment building, the ends of his whitish-pink hair had already become slightly damp from running through the rain while helping you inside.

“Sorry,” he murmured softly while unlocking the door. “It got colder than I thought.”

Warm air immediately greeted the two of you the moment the apartment door closed behind you.

Yuji quickly crouched in front of your wheelchair, gently wiping away the scattered raindrops that had soaked into your sleeves and blanket with a dry towel he’d prepared earlier near the entrance.

“There…” he said quietly after pulling the blanket more securely around you. “Better.”

The living room lights glowed warmly against the dim evening outside while rainwater continued sliding endlessly down the balcony windows nearby.

Yuji wheeled you toward the couch before turning on the television, letting the soft chatter of some random program fill the apartment with noise. “So you won’t get bored while I cook.”

You sat facing the television quietly while Yuji moved around the kitchen only a few steps away, occasionally speaking over the sound of running water and clinking dishes.

“The doctor seemed happier about your condition today,” he mentioned while washing vegetables beneath the sink. “That’s good, right?”

“And maybe tomorrow…” he continued, glancing briefly toward you, “we could stop by the bakery downstairs if the rain settles.”

“Sounds good, right?”

—

The apartment smelled faintly warm after a while, filled with the scent of soup and rice.

Eventually Yuji carried the food over carefully, setting everything down on the small table in front of you along with a few medicine strips placed neatly beside the bowl.

“You need to take these after eating,” he reminded softly while organizing them in order. “This one first. Then the smaller one after thirty minutes.”

Pulling a chair closer, Yuji sat down beside you before picking up the spoon. “Careful, it’s still hot.”

He blew lightly against the food before bringing it toward your lips slowly, patient as always while feeding you little by little.

Between pauses, he’d take quick bites from his own meal before returning his attention right back to you again.

The television continued murmuring quietly in the background. Everything felt strangely calm.

Until you suddenly pulled away slightly from the fork with a small sound. “Mm—”

Yuji blinked in confusion immediately. “What’s wrong?”

He lowered the fork a little, watching your face carefully. “Full already?”

His eyes drifted toward the bowl. There was still quite a bit left untouched. A quiet sigh escaped him after a moment.

“…You barely ate.”

Worry slowly crept into his expression while he looked down at the food sitting between the two of you.

“Maybe I should talk to the doctor again about your appetite,” he murmured. “It’s not good.” His voice sounded genuinely concerned.

Carefully setting the fork down, Yuji reached over to wipe the corner of your mouth gently with a napkin before standing up from his seat.

He gathered the dishes afterward, including his own plate despite having barely touched half of it. The sound of running water soon filled the apartment while you remained sitting quietly in front of the television.

From where you sat, you could hear everything clearly. Then eventually the sink turned silent.

A moment later Yuji returned.

His sleeves remained rolled up near his elbows, exposing damp skin still covered in scattered droplets of water from washing the dishes.

Standing in front of your wheelchair again, he looked down at you for a second before offering a small, tired smile.

“Time to clean up…”

—

He reached for the chair’s brakes, releasing them with a soft click, then slipped his hands beneath your arms. His grip was firm yet gentle, the calluses on his palms catching lightly on your skin as he lifted you.

The motion was smooth, his shoulders bearing your weight without strain. He carried you a few steps to the edge of the bathtub, the porcelain cool against his forearms as he set you down gently onto the folded towel he’d placed there.

The water in the tub was already running, a steady stream of warm liquid cascading over the rim and filling the basin with a soft, murmuring sound.

Yuji turned the faucet to a comfortable temperature, testing it with the back of his hand before nodding to himself.

He began with your clothes, his fingers working slowly at the buttons of your shirt. Each button slipped free with a quiet pop, the fabric parting to reveal the soft curve of your collarbone and the faint rise of your breasts beneath the thin material.

He eased the shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap beside the tub, then moved to the waistband of your skirt.

His thumbs pressed into the elastic, pulling it down over your hips and thighs until the garment pooled at your ankles.

He lifted each leg, guiding your feet out of the skirt, and set them aside with the same quiet efficiency.

Now you sat naked, the cool air of the bathroom brushing against your skin. Yuji’s eyes traced the lines of your body, his expression serious, focused.

He reached for the handheld showerhead, adjusting the spray to a gentle cascade, and began to rinse you off.

Warm water sluiced over your shoulders, tracing paths down your arms, over your chest, and along your sides.

He let the water linger on your breasts, watching as droplets clung to the peaks of your nipples before sliding down the soft swell.

He set the showerhead aside and picked up a small bottle of mild, unscented soap. Squeezing a modest amount into his palm, he rubbed his hands together until a light lather formed.

Starting at your neck, he worked the soap in slow, circular motions, his fingertips pressing just enough to feel the texture of your skin without causing any discomfort.

His hands traveled to your breasts, cupping them gently. He massaged the soap into the flesh, his thumbs rolling over the areolas, feeling the nipples tighten slightly under his touch.

He lingered there, the pressure increasing just enough to stimulate, his palms squeezing and releasing in a slow rhythm that made your breath hitch ever so slightly.

The soap slicked your skin, making his fingers glide easily as he traced the underside of each breast, then slid his hands lower, over your ribs, and down to your abdomen.

He continued the motion, his palms flattening against your belly, feeling the subtle rise and fall of your breath with each exhale.

His fingers lingered at the navel, circling it slowly before moving to the hips, where he pressed a little firmer, working the soap into the soft curve of your waist.

When he was satisfied that your upper body was clean, Yuji set the soap aside and reached for the showerhead again.

He adjusted the spray to a softer, more diffuse mist, letting it rain over your shoulders and chest. He let the water run over your breasts for a moment longer, watching as it streamed over the nipples, then trailed down your stomach.

He lowered the showerhead, letting the warm spray cascade directly onto your mound.

The water struck your slick folds with a steady pressure, making you twitch and your upper body shudder while your legs remained still, unable to move.

Yuji watched the droplets bead on your labia before setting the shower aside and gently parting your folds with his thumbs, exposing the inner lips.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your swollen lips, warm and faintly tinged with the scent of soap. He dragged a slow, hot lick from your entrance up to your clit, tasting your arousal.

You jerked, a sharp cry escaping your throat as the contact sent electric spikes through your belly. He licked again, this time circling the hood, his tongue flattening and pressing, sucking gently as he drew out the moisture that had gathered.

His fingers followed, slick with your own arousal and the lingering water. He slipped one digit inside, feeling the tight, velvety walls clench around him.

He moved slowly, curling his fingertip to stroke the front wall, then added a second digit, stretching you just enough to make you gasp.

The combination of his tongue lapping at your clit and his fingers pumping in a steady rhythm drove you higher.

Your walls clamped around his fingers, milking them as waves of ecstasy washed over you. You could feel the pulse of your own release rippled through your body, your toes curling against the tub’s edge.

As the orgasm ebbed, he eased his fingers out, leaving you trembling, your chest heaving and your lips parted in a silent gasp.

Before you could fully catch your breath, his hand slid up your torso, gripping the back of your head with firm, possessive strength.

His other hand guided his cock to your mouth, the thick shaft glistening with precum and the faint sheen of your own wetness.

The head pressed against your lips, hot and demanding, and you opened instinctively, taking him in. The weight of his cock filled your mouth, the veins along its length pulsing against your tongue as he began to move.

He held your head steady, his grip unyielding, and began to fuck your face with slow, deliberate thrusts.

Each push drove him deeper, the tip kissing the back of your throat before he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, then plunged forward again.

His eyes never left yours, dark and focused, watching the way your cheeks hollowed with each suction and the way your throat worked around him.

He varied the pace—sometimes slow, letting you savor the girth, sometimes quick and sharp, making you choke slightly before he eased off, giving you a moment to recover before thrusting forward again.

When he felt the first tight pull in his balls, he didn’t slow. He gave one final, brutal thrust that buried himself to the hilt, holding you there as your throat convulsed around him.

“Mmhn—” He groaned low in his chest, a raw, guttural sound, before pulling back with a wet pop. Strands of saliva and precum stretched from his flushed tip to your swollen lips as he withdrew.

He released his grip on you, letting your head fall back against the tub’s edge with a soft thud. You lay there, panting, lips stretched and shiny, eyes half-lidded as the aftershocks still trembled through your limbs.

For several long seconds, Yuji said nothing.

He simply stared down at your naked body in silence, his gaze slowly traveling from the way your thighs trembled weakly against the porcelain to the water still glistening across your skin beneath the bathroom light.

“......”

His fists clenched tightly at his sides. The muscles along his jaw tightened visibly as though he were forcing himself to stop there—holding himself back from something worse, something far uglier still clawing beneath the surface.

A shaky breath left him through gritted teeth. Then eventually, slowly, his fingers loosened again.

Yuji looked away first.

Without a word, he adjusted himself back into his pants, tucking his still half-hard length away with tense, hurried movements before leaning over you once more.

Warm water continued running softly around the both of you as he reached up, wiping the mess from the corner of your mouth with careful fingertips.

“…Sorry,” he whispered quietly.

—

Afterward, Yuji carried you back to the bedroom with the same quiet care he handled everything else with now.

One arm remained securely beneath your knees while the other supported your back, holding you close against his chest as he walked through the dim apartment. The soft fabric of his shirt still felt slightly damp against your skin from the steam of the bathroom, carrying the faint scent of soap and clean laundry with it.

The bedroom lights were already low when he stepped inside. The sheets had already been turned down earlier that evening, slightly wrinkled from where he’d hurriedly prepared the bed before helping you bathe.

Yuji lowered you carefully onto the mattress first before adjusting the pillows behind your back. His hands moved slowly, smoothing the blanket over your legs, tucking the edges securely around your body to keep the warmth in.

“There…” he murmured softly, pulling the comforter a little higher near your chest. “More comfortable now.”

For a moment, he simply stayed there kneeling beside the bed, making sure you were settled properly before finally reaching to brush a few damp strands of hair away from your face. His touch lingered only briefly.

Then he suddenly paused.

“Oh.” His brows furrowed faintly as his gaze shifted toward the nightstand. “You still need the last medicine before sleeping.”

He reached for the glass sitting beside the medicine strip, only to stop halfway. Empty.

He blinked once before looking back at you with a tired little sigh. “Wait here for a second, okay? I forgot to refill the water.”

You watched him stand, taking the empty glass with him before heading toward the bedroom door. A second later, his footsteps began fading down the apartment hallway, quiet against the wooden floorboards before eventually disappearing downstairs.

The room felt strangely still without him…

Your gaze slowly lowered toward your own hands resting limply in your lap beneath the blanket.

Nothing crossed your mind anymore. Not even sadness the way it used to ache inside your chest during the beginning.

There was just… nothing. A hollow stillness that sat quietly inside you no matter how much time passed.

You simply existed like this now. Breathing, Eating when he fed you, Sleeping when he told you to rest.

Your fingers twitched faintly against the blanket. Sometimes it felt worse than dying. The thought entered quietly—so quietly it barely even felt like your own anymore.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly at that, a small shuddering breath slipping past your lips as your eyes drifted away from your hands.

That was when you noticed it.

A phone resting near the edge of the bed. Yuji’s phone.

You stared at it blankly for several long seconds, blinking slowly as if your mind struggled to process what you were even looking at.

The device remained untouched beside the pillow where he must’ve forgotten it in his exhaustion.

Your eyes stayed fixed on it. And, in what felt like forever, something stirred faintly beneath the numbness sitting inside your chest.

You leaned forward slowly.

Your upper body strained immediately from the movement, arms trembling slightly as you tried dragging yourself toward the edge of the mattress little by little. The blanket tangled around your legs uselessly while your fingers reached weakly across the sheets.

Closer. Just a little closer—

Then footsteps.

Your entire body froze.

“[Name]?”

Yuji’s voice carried softly from the doorway alongside the faint sound of rain and clinking glass.

You stopped immediately, still awkwardly bent forward toward the edge of the bed.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything at all. You heard the glass being set carefully onto the nightstand.

Then his footsteps approached slower this time. Warm hands gently touched your shoulders before carefully guiding you upright again.

Yuji eased you back against the pillows exactly where you’d been sitting before, adjusting the blanket over your lap once more.

His brows had drawn together now, concern settling visibly across his tired face. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, crouching slightly so he could look at you properly.

“Were you trying to reach something?”

Yuji glanced briefly toward the side of the bed before noticing the phone. “…My phone?” His expression shifted with confusion more than suspicion.

“Do you need to call someone?” he asked gently. “The doctor maybe?”

When you quickly shook your head, he continued anyway, voice remaining patient and careful.

“Is something hurting?”

Another small shake of your head.

“…Do you want music?” he asked after a pause. “Or the television back on?”

Your eyes finally met his for only a second before you looked away again, shoulders tensing faintly beneath the blanket.

Yuji stayed quiet. Then his expression softened almost immediately with understanding—or maybe simply concern.

“You seem tired,” he murmured.

Carefully, he reached up to move the loose strands of hair away from your face again, tucking them gently behind your ear. “You should sleep.”

He handed you the medicine afterward along with the fresh glass of water, watching patiently until you swallowed everything properly before setting the cup back down.

Only then did he help lower you carefully against the mattress. The blankets were tucked securely around your body once more while Yuji adjusted the pillow beneath your head with slow, practiced movements.

When he finished, though, he didn’t move away immediately. Instead, his eyes drifted downward toward your legs beneath the blanket.

His hand rested there quietly. Then slowly began caressing them through the fabric. Back and forth.

His thumb pressed faintly into your knee before sliding lower again, expression tightening almost painfully as exhaustion finally cracked through the calmness he usually carried.

“…Why did this happen?” he whispered so quietly it almost blended into the sound of rain outside.

The words didn’t seem meant for you. More like something spoken helplessly into the silence itself.

A long, shuddering breath left him afterward. Then Yuji looked back up at you again, exhaustion still visible beneath his eyes before forcing a small tired smile onto his face.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. His hand remained resting over your legs. “We’ll get through it together.”

Another gentle stroke across the blanket.

“I’m always here for you.” His voice stayed calm, warm, and kind. Maybe it was the medicine slowly pulling at your consciousness.

Or maybe it was simply the quiet sound of rain mixed with his soft voice beside you. Either way, your eyes gradually became heavier beneath the dim bedroom light.

The last thing you saw before sleep finally dragged you under was Yuji still sitting there beside the bed, watching over you in silence.

—

The next day passed no differently from the ones before it.

Rain continued pouring outside since early morning. The entire apartment smelled faintly of medicine, laundry detergent, and the warm steam drifting out from the kitchen where Yuji moved around quietly preparing breakfast.

Everything followed the same routine. The same careful movements. The same soft reminders. The same silence from you.

Yuji had helped you wash up earlier that morning, gently drying your hair afterward with a towel before changing you into warmer clothes because the weather had gotten colder overnight.

He had spoken here and there throughout it all—small things, meaningless things, trying to fill the quiet space between you both the way he always did.

But today you looked even further away somehow. Like your mind had drifted somewhere he couldn’t reach.

And it was slowly driving him insane.

By afternoon the two of you sat near the small dining table while the television played quietly in the background, its flickering lights reflecting faintly across the apartment walls. Steam still rose from the food Yuji had prepared, though most of it remained untouched.

Yuji sat beside you for a while before finally letting out a tired sigh.

“…What’s wrong?” His voice sounded careful at first.

When you didn’t respond, his brows pulled together slightly. “You’ve been like this since morning.”

Yuji stared at you for another moment before abruptly pushing his chair back and kneeling down in front of your wheelchair instead, completely forgetting about the food left cooling on the table behind him.

His hands gently reached for yours resting in your lap. Cold…

“You’re really trying to kill me at this point…” he murmured weakly, attempting a small smile that disappeared almost immediately.

Carefully intertwining his fingers with yours, Yuji looked up at your face searchingly. “Are you feeling bored?” he asked softly. “Is that it?”

“But we can’t really go outside in this weather right now, you know?” His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. “What if you get wet and end up sick again? What if things get worse?”

His voice carried genuine worry beneath every word. He lowered his head afterward, resting it gently against your lap with a quiet exhale.

“Don’t be like this…” he whispered tiredly. “I’m trying my best to—”

The words suddenly stopped as slowly, your head turned away from him. Your chest rose and fell with a long quiet sigh.

Yuji froze instantly.

The room fell painfully silent aside from the rain outside and the distant sound of the television still talking to itself in the background.

“…Don’t do that.”

His voice came out smaller this time. Almost fragile. Yuji lifted his head from your lap and stared up at you carefully.

“Look at me, please?”

One of his hands slowly lifted as if to touch your chin and turn your face back toward him, though midway through the movement he suddenly stopped himself.

His fingers curled tightly instead. Then slowly he stood back up and looked away first. “It’s all my fault, I know.”

A humorless laugh escaped him quietly. “I know.” His shoulders looked tense beneath the loose gray sweater clinging slightly against his skin.

“I’m sorry…” he continued softly. “I’m still guilty, but… at least don’t push me away like this.”

He swallowed hard before beginning to walk slowly around your wheelchair, circling you carefully while speaking in a voice that no longer sounded as calm as before.

“I know I did something wrong,” he muttered. “I know I really crossed the line this time…”

His footsteps slowed behind you.

“But [Name]…” His voice wavered faintly. “You have to understand. You have to forgive me.”

He leaned slightly forward from behind your chair, trying to catch your gaze again. “I…” A shaky breath left him.

“I was only scared.”

His fingers tightened around the back of the wheelchair. “I’ve gone through enough already. I can’t…” He swallowed harshly. “Not anymore.”

Still, you refused to look at him. And something inside him just snapped—

Suddenly a sharp violent force struck the back of the wheelchair. Your body lurched forward instantly before crashing hard against the floor.

A broken gasp escaped your throat from the impact. Pain shot through your arms as your body struggled helplessly against the ground while panic surged violently through your chest so fast it almost felt suffocating.

For a moment you couldn’t even process what had happened. Then slowly—Slowly—You looked back.

Yuji stood behind the overturned wheelchair breathing unevenly, his foot still near the back of it from the forceful kick that had sent you crashing onto the floor. His expression looked frighteningly calm as he stared down at you without moving.

“Fine…” His voice came out low and firm. “You want to leave?”

Another step forward.

“You’re free to go.” His eyes dropped toward your unmoving legs sprawled helplessly beneath you before lifting back to your face again.

“…Move.”

A pause.

Then quieter.

“Go, walk away.”

“MOVE!” The yell cracked violently through the apartment, rough and unstable enough to make your entire body flinch.

Your hands trembled against the floor. And eventually—Slowly—You tried.

Your arms strained weakly as you forced your body forward little by little across the hardwood floor, dragging yourself away from him with uneven breaths.

Every movement hurt. Your elbows slipped against the floor while your useless legs dragged limply behind you, too heavy, too slow.

It was humiliating. Painful. Yet you still tried. A shaky gasp escaped your throat as your fingers clawed weakly toward the hallway.

Behind you, Yuji had gone quiet.

You could hear his footsteps fade slightly toward the kitchen before the sound of glass scraping against the counter reached your ears. Water poured quickly afterward.

He was drinking. Fast. Desperate gulps one after another. Like he couldn’t breathe.

When you glanced back slightly through blurred vision, you could see him standing near the sink with one hand gripping the counter tightly while the other held the glass against his mouth.

Sweat clung visibly to his skin despite the cold weather, dampening the collar of his shirt while his chest rose and fell unevenly.

Then another painful gasp left your throat as your arms nearly gave out beneath you. And suddenly—Something flew across the room.

The glass shattered violently beside your body.

Water exploded across your shoulder and face alongside sharp fragments that scattered against the floor.

A stinging pain immediately dug into your skin where several tiny pieces sliced into you from the force.

You jerked violently. Fear surged through your chest so fast it almost made you choke. Your body began shaking uncontrollably as tears blurred your vision completely now because—

This wasn’t the first time…

Before you could react, rough hands suddenly grabbed your ankles and dragged you backward across the floor.

A broken sound escaped you immediately.

Yuji pulled you onto your back before climbing over you, pinning your body beneath him as his breathing came out harsh and uneven above your face.

He looked insane.

“Can’t you see yourself?” he snapped, voice trembling violently. “Your condition?” his fingers dug harshly into your arms. “You can’t do anything without me.”

“Can’t you see that?” His voice cracked harder now. “You can’t function without me just like I don’t—”

He stopped himself abruptly, breathing shaking.

“Only I can take care of you,” he whispered harshly. “Because I understand you.”

His expression twisted painfully. “You’re just like me…”

You could see tears beginning to gather in his eyes now. His hands slowly moved upward, cupping both sides of your face almost gently compared to the violence from moments earlier.

“Pathetic…” he whispered shakily. His thumb trembled against your cheek. “We’re the same.”

“Because…” His voice nearly broke. “Because I made you this way.”

“And I know you won’t hate me.”

A weak shudder ran through him before he suddenly lowered his face into the crook of your neck, clinging there desperately as if trying to hide from his own confession.

“Because you understand me too…” he whispered. His breathing felt hot against your skin. Then quietly—Almost lovingly—

“Which is why…” He swallowed.

“You still haven’t opened your mouth and told anyone that I’m the one who broke your legs.”

“And… that—you can still speak but are too scared to do so…”

A long pause followed. Then:

“Right, [Name]?”

You sit in the corner of the classroom, as always. The same old desk near the window that no one fights to claim, the one that has become your spot-not because you chose it, but because nobody else bothered to. The sunlight spills across your notebook, making the empty lines look brighter than your day ever feels. You keep your head low, scribbling meaningless doodles on the page, pretending you're busy so no one notices how alone you are.

Around you, chatter fills the room. High-pitched laughter, voices that bounce like glitter in the air. You hear them-your classmates-laughing about their latest conquests.

"Oh my God, he literally liked three of my pictures in a row. That's basically a confession," one girl squeals, her friends gasping dramatically.

"Please, that's nothing," another chimes in, flipping her shiny hair over her shoulder. "He actually DM'd me last night. Said he couldn't stop thinking about me."

The group bursts into laughter, leaning over each other's desks, shoving their phones in each other's faces, comparing chats, likes, and compliments.

You don't join them. You never do. Instead, you glance at the side of your empty desk, your hand gripping your pen tighter than necessary. It's not like you want to be them. At least, that's what you tell yourself. But deep down, somewhere under the quiet layers of your chest, there's this ache-a low, gnawing envy. Not of the boys they brag about. No. But of how easily they shine, how naturally they demand attention, how the world just seems to revolve toward them like they're holding invisible strings.

Your gaze flicks up, meeting your reflection faintly in the classroom window. Same plain you. Same silence. You wonder what it feels like to have someone lean close to you just to whisper a secret, or laugh so hard you'd have to clutch their arm. You've never had that. Not really.

"Ugh, imagine her trying to flirt," one of the girls suddenly giggles, and though they don't say your name, you feel the arrow hit home. Laughter follows, muffled whispers. You force yourself to look back at your notebook as if it doesn't matter, as if your ears aren't burning.

But it matters. It matters so much you can taste the bitterness of it on your tongue.

You swallow, then press your pen harder onto the paper until the tip nearly breaks. I'll do it too, you think. I'll show them I can be like that. I'll have someone too. I'm not that invisible.

The bell rings, freeing you from the cage of voices. You pack your bag slowly, making sure you're the last to leave, because slipping out unnoticed has always been easier than bumping into anyone.

At home, your room greets you like a sigh of relief. Four walls, the faint hum of the ceiling fan, the bed that carries your secrets. You sit down, pulling your phone into your hands. The screen reflects your hesitant face back at you, but your heart drums with a strange new determination.

You scroll past apps, and then, with a shaky breath, you download one. A social platform. A place where no one has to know the quiet you. Where you can build a new version of yourself.

The sign-up screen blinks. Username? you think for a long time, then type something playful, bold-something you'd never dare say out loud in class.

When the account is made, it feels unreal, like slipping into a costume. You upload a picture-not your face, but something aesthetic enough to pass. You type your first post, fingers trembling, trying to sound casual, charming even.

Minutes tick by. Nothing happens. Then, a small ping-your first follower. You stare at it, wide-eyed, warmth spreading across your chest like sunlight through clouds.

It doesn't take long before the screen becomes your second home.

At first, it was just about posting here and there, trying to sound funny, dropping captions you'd never dare say aloud. But then the notifications started rolling in-likes, follows, comments. Each one hits like sugar, dissolving on your tongue, sweet and addictive. The quiet ache in your chest doesn't ache as much anymore, not when you've got numbers proving you exist.

It's gotten to the point where even when your mother calls for dinner, you're still hunched over your phone.

"Dinner's ready!" her voice floats from the kitchen.

"Coming!" you call back, but your thumbs are busy tapping out a reply to a comment. Just a few more seconds. Just one more post before you leave the comfort of your glowing screen. You add another witty caption to a picture, tilt your head, smirk at your own daring words. It feels good-better than it should-to pretend you're this fearless person who knows how to catch attention.

You're not the girl sitting silently by the window anymore. Not here.

Online, you flirt shamelessly in threads, tease strangers with casual remarks, even reply with emojis that in real life would make your face burn. You laugh at your own boldness, covering your mouth when a giggle slips out. This side of you-it's like slipping into someone else's skin, and you don't want to take it off.

Days pass this way, one blurring into the next, and it feels good. In class, when those girls start blabbering about their little victories-likes, messages, attention-you no longer feel that sting. Their laughter no longer gnaws at you, because you have your own world now. Your own secrets. You hug them quietly, smiling at your desk, because they'll never know.

And then-one night-it happens.

Another follower.

You glance at the notification, expecting another pastel profile picture or someone flaunting their selfies. But no. This one is different. Just a plain username: _nocturne. No picture, no bio, nothing else. Just blank.

You frown, thumb hovering over the profile. "Bruh," you mutter under your breath. "At least put a cat picture or something."

Still, a follower's a follower. You shrug, tapping follow back halfheartedly, already thinking about the pile of homework you're supposed to finish before tomorrow. The screen lights your face as you sigh, muttering, "Okay, ten minutes of math. Then food."

You leave your phone on the bed, slip away for dinner, pretending like you aren't thinking about the comments waiting for you. Your mother nags about vegetables, your father asks if you've been studying, and you nod along, secretly counting the seconds until you can run back upstairs.

Finally, back in your room, you drop onto your bed, homework messily half-done, and unlock your phone. Notifications blink like fireflies. Your chest swells with a rush of excitement as you scroll through them.

That's when you see it.

A new message.

From _nocturne.

It's not long. Just a single word.

"Hi."

You narrow your eyes at the glowing message on your screen.

"Hmph," you mutter, tossing your hair back even though no one's around to see it. "It's definitely a scammer. Who even makes an account like that? No profile picture, no bio, and that username-what was it again?"

You tap the screen with mock seriousness, reading it out loud: "_nocturne." You snort. "What kinda name is that, huh? Sounds like a vampire trying too hard."

For a moment, you consider blocking him. But then a spark lights up in your mind. Your lips curl into a grin as you hug your pillow close. "Or," you murmur, eyes gleaming, "why not mess with them a little? See how far they can keep up."

Your thumbs hover before you finally type back:

You: Hiii mysterious stranger 👀 Who even are you?

It doesn't take long for the three dots to appear. Your pulse quickens, irrationally excited.

_nocturne: Just someone who followed you.

You bite back a laugh. "Wow. Cryptic." Then you type again:

You: Okay but at least tell me... are you a Mr or a Ms?

You pause, frowning. "Wait, was that even the right way to ask? Ugh, whatever." You hit send before you can overthink it.

Seconds later, the reply comes.

_nocturne: I'm a guy.

You blink at the screen, then smirk. "Aha. A guy. Perfect." You lean back against your headboard, the mischievous energy bubbling up in your chest.

This is exactly how your classmates talk, isn't it? Bold, flirty, casual. Time to try it yourself.

You: Ohhh, a guy huh? Guess that makes you my knight in shining armor 🫶

Your face heats up the moment you send it, but you cover your mouth, stifling a squeal. "I can't believe I actually typed that cringey shi...!!!"

The typing bubble appears. You clutch your pillow tighter.

_nocturne: You're funny.

That's it. Two words. And yet your chest swells like you've just won something. You grin so wide it makes your cheeks hurt, feeling ridiculously proud of yourself. "Funny. He thinks I'm funny."

Emboldened, you type more silly lines-cheesy jokes you've overheard, exaggerated little flirts you would never say in person. And every time, he answers calmly. Sometimes it's just a sticker, sometimes a short reply, but never rude. Always steady.

The minutes stretch into hours. Your laughter fills the quiet of your room as you hide under your blanket, fingers flying across the screen. You don't even notice how heavy your eyes are getting until the phone slips slightly from your hand, screen dimming.

The last thing you remember before sleep takes you is the little thrill in your chest.

-

It doesn't stop at just one night.

It becomes a rhythm, as natural as brushing your teeth or packing your school bag.

Daytime is the same-the chatter in class, the girls showing off, the teacher scolding someone for forgetting homework. But in the back of your mind, you're always waiting for nightfall. Because that's when the real part of your day begins.

As soon as you're home, you toss your bag aside, dragging yourself through homework, dinner, chores-everything just to reach the moment you can crawl into bed with your phone glowing in your hands.

And every night, without fail, he's there.

_nocturne: You're late today.

You: What are you, my attendance monitor?

_nocturne: Just noticing.

The way he texts-it's never too much, never pushy. Short replies, calm stickers, little acknowledgments. But somehow, they always feel enough. Maybe because you're not used to anyone listening. Maybe because he doesn't interrupt you when you rant, or roll his eyes like classmates do.

One night, after a particularly exhausting day, you find yourself venting without even planning to.

You: You won't believe what happened today. That girl-ugh, the one who thinks she owns the whole classroom-decided to tell me how "quiet people are boring." Like??? Shut up???

A moment later, his reply arrives.

_nocturne: Hmm... Sounds annoying.

You laugh out loud at how blunt he sounds, the sound muffled against your blanket.

You: Right?? I wanted to throw my pen at her. Honestly I wish she'd just disappear and give us all some peace.

_nocturne: Lol [a sticker of a cat chuckling]

You grin, hugging your pillow tight. Somehow his tiny responses feel like validation, like someone finally siding with you.

And so, little by little, you begin to tell him everything. About how the math teacher scolded you for doodling again. About how the cafeteria curry was watery. About how sometimes you hate the sound of your own voice when you try to speak up in class.

He never says much. But he's there.

It becomes a secret ritual: late-night whispers into your phone, muffled laughter into your pillow, your screen lighting up your face long after the rest of the house has gone dark.

And every morning, though your eyes sting from lack of sleep, you walk into class with a little smile tucked into your lips. Because even if no one notices you here, there's someone waiting for you out there-someone who knows you in a way no one else does.

-

The next morning begins like any other: you drag yourself out of bed, bleary-eyed from another night of giggling under the covers with your phone, and shuffle into the kitchen expecting toast, maybe your mother's gentle nagging about how late you slept.

But instead, her words stop you cold.

"You should start packing a few of your things today," she says, almost too calmly, setting a plate on the table.

You pause mid-step, frowning. "Packing? For what?"

She hesitates, her hands stilling for a second before she smooths her apron. "Your father's assignment came through suddenly. He has to go away for a while, and... he doesn't want to be apart from us. So we'll all be going with him. Just temporarily."

The fork in your hand clinks against the plate. "Wait-what? Moving? That fast?"

She offers you a small smile, the kind meant to reassure. "I know it's sudden, sweetheart. But it's for the best. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning, so after breakfast, help me with the packing. There's a lot to do before then."

Tomorrow. The word rattles around your skull. Your chest tightens with disbelief. "But... my school is here. My friends-" You stop, biting your lip. What friends? Sitting at the back of class, listening to their laugh? Even so, the thought of being uprooted so quickly makes your stomach twist.

Your mother reaches across the table, giving your hand a squeeze. "It won't be forever. Just for a while, until your father finishes what he needs to do."

You nod faintly, not trusting your voice. The rest of the day blurs into a haze of folding clothes, taping boxes, running back and forth. You barely touch your phone, too busy hauling books, wrapping dishes, helping your mother decide what can fit in the car. The hours bleed away, and before you know it, night has crept in.

At dinner, you finally sit down, exhausted, staring at the half-empty plates between your parents. The silence stretches until you blurt, "Dad... what kind of work is it this time?"

He looks up from his food, thoughtful, but doesn't answer right away. "It's... complicated," he says finally. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just something I need to look into."

You chew slowly, unsatisfied. He never tells you much, not about these assignments. Always vague, always brushing it off. Why him? Why always him? Out of everyone, it's always your father sent away on these strange tasks.

You glance at him across the table, his calm, steady face as he eats like it's just another meal.

A sigh escapes you. You don't like it-not the suddenness, not the secrets-but at least this time, you think, he's not going alone. You'll be there too.

That night, after a full day of rushing around with boxes and bags, you collapse onto your bed like a stone. Your arms ache, your head feels heavy, and even your fingers protest when you finally reach for your phone on the nightstand. Still, the glow of the screen pulls you in like a magnet.

Sure enough, there's a message waiting for you.

_nocturne: You disappeared today.

You chuckle weakly, thumbs already moving.

You: Yeah... my parents dropped a bomb on me this morning 😵

You: We're moving. Tomorrow.

The typing bubble appears quickly.

_nocturne: That's sudden.

You: Tell me about it. I didn't even get time to complain properly lol. I've been packing all day like a donkey.

You bury your face in your pillow, giggling softly despite your exhaustion. It feels good to vent, even if it's only through a screen.

_nocturne: Where to?

You hesitate for half a second. Your parents didn't say much-no details, no clear name. You only know it's some nearly-abandoned place you've never even heard of before. So you shrug and type:

You: Idk, some quiet area dad's work dragged us to. Probably nothing fun there.

His reply comes faster than you expect.

_nocturne: I live close by.

Your brows lift. "Huh."

You: Wait really? Woahh... what are the odds 😳

You: Guess that means we can actually meet up sometime then, haha!

You laugh, a little giddy at the thought. Meeting an online friend in real life-it's the kind of thing you always heard those loud girls bragging about in class. Maybe, for once, you could have a story of your own.

What you don't notice-not in your half-dreaming state, not with your eyes drooping heavy-is the way your words never actually mentioned where you were moving.

But he knew.

_nocturne: Maybe.

You smile at the short reply, clutching your phone to your chest like a secret. Within minutes, sleep tugs you under, the glow of the screen fading to black.

-

The next morning comes too soon. You wake to the sound of tape ripping, your mother's hurried footsteps in the hall, and the low rumble of your father loading boxes into the car. Before you can even rub the sleep from your eyes, you're whisked into a whirlwind of bags, folded blankets, and last-minute shouting about what got left behind.

By the time the car pulls out of your street, the house you grew up in shrinks in the rearview mirror-your bedroom window nothing but a square of glass catching the morning light.

The drive feels endless, a stretch of gray road and dull scenery sliding past. You doze off, wake up, doze again. By the time the car finally slows, you're groggy, your back stiff from leaning against the door.

"Here we are," your father announces.

You peer out the window, and your first thought is how... quiet it is.

The neighborhood looks like a ghost town. Houses stand far apart, not in neat rows like back home. One is a penthouse, its windows shuttered, ivy crawling along the side. Thirty steps down the street, another small house squats in silence, its paint peeling, curtains drawn. Then, nothing again-just a stretch of cracked road, until another lonely house appears further away.

The air feels still, too still. Not even the chatter of birds fills the space.

You climb out of the car, stretching your sore legs, and catch yourself whispering under your breath: "It's so... empty."

Your mother is already fussing over luggage. "Don't just stand there, dear. Come help carry these in."

You nod, but your eyes keep darting around. There are neighbors, technically, but no one comes out. No children playing, no doors opening, no voices drifting from open windows. Just houses, lined like shells, with no proof that anyone lives inside.

The house assigned to your family sits squarely between two others, its yard overgrown but not unbearable. The inside smells faintly of dust, as though no one has lived here for a long time.

You run a finger along the wall as you follow your mother through the narrow hallway. The wallpaper curls at the edges. The wooden floor creaks beneath your sneakers.

It doesn't feel like home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

That night, after dinner eaten among half-unpacked boxes, you sit on your new bed, staring at the silence pressing against your window. Even your phone feels like a lifeline, glowing in your palm, the only familiar thing.

And sure enough-your screen lights up.

_nocturne: Settled in already?

You blink at it, then smile despite yourself. How does he always know? You tap quickly.

You: Yeahhh... it's so weird though. This place is nothing like home. The houses are so far apart, like one here, then thirty steps later another. And omg there's this huge penthouse right across the road-it looks so scary, like the kind of house you'd dare someone to go into at midnight. Probably haunted lol.

Once you start, you don't stop. Fingers flying across the keyboard, you babble every detail the way your brain processes it-out loud, messy, like narrating a diary.

You: And everything's so quiet. Like... too quiet. No kids, no dogs barking, no nothing. Even the air feels heavy. Honestly if I didn't know people still live here, I'd think it's abandoned. Creepy, right?

You pause, staring at the screen until his reply comes.

_nocturne: Sounds about right. Maybe we can meet then.

Your heart stutters, eyes widening. "Meet?" you whisper aloud, then hurriedly type back.

You: Wait reallyyy? Like-actually meet??

The dots appear, then vanish, then appear again.

_nocturne: I live close by, remember? So maybe.

You laugh, a little too loud in the silence of your half-unpacked room. The idea of it is ridiculous, obviously. He doesn't even have a profile picture, no posts, nothing. He's just a screen name, a stranger on the other side of glowing text bubbles.

You: Yeah yeah whaaaatever, Mr. Nocturne! You're so full of it.

You add a dramatic eye-roll emoji for effect, still grinning like an idiot at your phone.

From the kitchen, your mother calls, "Dinner's ready!"

You frown at the message box, thumbs hesitating.

You: Okayyy I gotta go now. Dinner time. Ttyl!

You hit send, hop off the bed, and rush downstairs. The smell of food fills the air, and you sink into your chair, already reaching for your plate.

When you come back later, belly full and eyes heavy with exhaustion, the screen of your phone glows faintly on your nightstand. You grab it, expecting his usual quick reply.

But your message sits there.

Read.

No answer.

-

The next morning, you drag yourself out of bed with the weight of unfamiliar walls pressing in. The ride to your new school is short, but when you step through the gates, your chest tightens.

It isn't like your old school at all. The courtyard feels too large, too empty, the chatter you're used to hearing reduced to little more than a murmur. You count barely twenty students hurrying into classrooms, their footsteps echoing against the cracked cement.

Inside, the silence is heavier. Desks stand in neat rows, but only half of them are filled. The students sit hunched over their notebooks, whispering only when absolutely necessary, as though words cost something here. No squeals, no laughter, no showing off like back home-just a strange, reserved atmosphere.

At first, it unnerves you. Then, slowly, you realize... you like it.

No one stares too long. No one makes jokes at your expense. No one expects you to force yourself into conversations you don't know how to start. It's quiet. Quiet in a way that feels almost unnatural, yes-but still, better than the suffocating chaos of your old school.

During lunch, you muster the courage to ask a boy beside you why the school is like this-so empty, so silent. He only shrugs, poking at his food.

"I don't know. People just... left. My parents said something happened, but they don't know what. We don't have money to move, so..." He trails off, his gaze slipping to the floor. "Guess we're stuck."

Others say the same-"Don't know," "Not sure," "It just happened." Their voices lack curiosity, like they've already accepted it as normal.

The rest of the day passes quietly. You finish your classes without interruption, without the weight of whispers or mocking laughter, and when the final bell rings, you step out into the afternoon light almost... at peace. For once, you walk home alone, no noise in your head, no one to impress. Just the crunch of your shoes on the uneven sidewalk, the cool breeze tugging at your hair.

The street stretches ahead, quiet like everything else here. Houses spaced far apart, empty windows watching you as you go. You're humming softly, letting yourself enjoy the calm-until movement catches your eye.

Someone is standing at the corner.

Tall. Too tall, his figure shadowed by the sinking sun. He wears a long, oversized jacket, the hood pulled low over his head, hiding most of his face. Something about him makes your pace falter.

As you draw closer, he shifts, stepping toward you. His voice is smooth but strangely distant.

"Excuse me. Do you know the way to-" He names a place you've never heard of.

You clutch your bag strap tighter, shaking your head. "S-sorry... I don't know. I just moved here yesterday."

For a moment, he's silent. Just... standing there, towering over you, the shadows stretching long around his feet. His head tilts slightly, and though you can't see his eyes, you feel the weight of his stare.

Then-soft, low, unmistakable-you hear it. A chuckle.

It slips past his lips, not cruel, not mocking-just... knowing.

"I know," he murmurs. "Just wanted to meet you in person."

The words sink like stones in your stomach. The air thickens, heavy in your chest. For one heartbeat, the whole street holds its breath.

Dead silence.

-

You don't remember when your legs started moving, only that you're running. Running so hard your lungs feel like they're tearing apart, the world blurring into streaks of cracked pavement and lonely houses. The heavy thud of your shoes echoes in your ears, drowning out every thought except home, home, home.

By the time you stumble through the front door, gasping like you've just escaped drowning, your mother is already there. She looks up from the kitchen, startled.

"Sweetheart?!" Her hands are instantly on your shoulders, steadying you as you double over, wheezing. "What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."

You shake your head, trying to find words between the ragged breaths. "Some-" you gulp down air, "stranger... it was weird, Mom... he-he just-"

Her eyes widen, her grip tightening. "What stranger? Did he follow you? Did he touch you?"

"No, no-nothing like that." You straighten, still shaking, forcing your voice to calm. "He just... asked me something. Directions, but... I don't know. It didn't feel right. He was just... staring."

For a moment, her face is all worry, lines creasing at the edges of her mouth. Then she exhales, brushing a hand through your hair, trying to soothe. "My poor girl. You're safe now, alright? That's what matters. Just promise me-you won't talk to strangers again in this place. Not even a word."

You nod mutely, the knot in your chest easing only slightly. The couch feels like it swallows you when you sink down onto it, body heavy, legs still trembling from the run.

"Where's Dad?" you ask softly, looking around the quiet house.

"He went to get a few things from the shop. You know how far apart everything is here..." She trails off, her voice dipping into that resigned note you've been hearing since the move. Her hand lingers on your arm. "If it wasn't for his work, we wouldn't be here. But... we couldn't leave you behind, sweetheart. We'd never do that."

Something inside you tugs painfully, and you find yourself nodding. "I know. I understand." Your voice is steadier now, though your throat feels dry. You push yourself up with a small smile. "I'll be in my room for a bit."

"Alright," she says gently. "Oh-before I forget, we're having your favorite steak tonight."

That earns her a genuine grin from you, and for a fleeting second, everything feels normal. "Thanks, Mom."

You climb the stairs, every step slower than the last, and when you finally close your bedroom door, you let yourself fall onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath you, soft and familiar, but your chest still aches from running.

It takes you a while to notice how dim the room has grown. The sun has slipped away without you realizing, painting the ceiling in faint shadows. You rub your eyes, forcing your mind away from the stranger, the heavy jacket, the low chuckle that still echoes at the back of your skull.

Distraction. That's what you need.

You reach for your phone, thumbing it awake, and start scrolling through your feed. Random posts. Memes. People from your old school complaining about assignments, weekend plans, selfies. All so ordinary, so harmless.

Until one post freezes you.

You don't even breathe as your eyes lock on the picture. It's her. That girl from your previous school-the one who always showed off, who never shut up in class, who made you roll your eyes a hundred times.

Her smile beams in the photo, but the caption burns colder than ice:

Rest in peace, my dear. Mom and Dad will miss you forever.

The phone trembles in your hand. Your stomach flips violently, your chest hollowing out. Dead silence fills the room, a silence so loud it roars in your ears.

"No..." The word barely escapes your lips. Your mind screams against it. "No, no, it's just-just a coincidence. That's all. Nothing else. Nothing..."

But your hands won't stop shaking. The screen blurs as your vision stings, your pulse hammering so hard it hurts.

Then, just as you force yourself to close the app-

A notification slides across the top of your screen.

From: _nocturne

you are so cute in person.

Your brows knit together, your thumbs tapping the screen almost faster than your brain can keep up.

You: what do you mean!?

The message shoots off, the little "delivered" checkmark appearing instantly. But nothing comes back. No reply. Not even the three dots of typing.

Just seen.

Your reflection stares back faintly in the glass of your phone, pale and stiff, as the seconds stretch too long. The air in your room feels heavy, pressing against your ribs. Your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears.

Then-

ding.

Another notification. A new message. This one with an image attached.

Your finger hovers above it, trembling. For a long moment, you can't bring yourself to tap. You don't want to see. You don't want to know.

But curiosity coils tighter than fear, and finally, you swipe it open.

Your stomach drops.

It's you. A photo of you, taken earlier today on your way home. The angle is wrong-low, distant, like from across the street, your figure small against the empty path. But there's no mistaking it. That's your bag. That's your hair. That's you.

You stare, frozen, as the world tilts sideways.

Then panic surges, burning your chest. Your thumbs fly.

You: what is this what the hell is this!! who are you!! how do you have this!!

Your messages stack one after another, desperate, messy.

Seen.

Silence.

Until, slowly, the typing bubble appears.

_nocturne: what do you mean by "this"? do you mean... this?

Another photo slides in. Your breath hitches. It's you again. This time at home, sitting on the couch, still pale from the run. Your mother's blurred shape is barely visible in the background.

Your throat closes.

_nocturne: ...or this?

Another photo. You, hunched over your dinner plate, spoon halfway to your mouth. Your hair falling slightly forward, your face caught mid-bite.

"No, no, no..." Your voice is cracking in the empty room. Your fingers shake so badly you almost drop the phone, but you can't stop typing.

You: STOP IT!! HOW-WHAT IS THIS!! STOP

The reply comes almost instantly.

_nocturne: or this?

A new picture. This one makes your blood run cold. You're in the bathroom, towel wrapped around you, steam still clinging to the mirror. Your hand is frozen mid-motion, just about to reach for the light switch.

You scream, the sound muffled by your hands, terror clawing up your throat.

And then-

_nocturne: ...or this?

Another photo. You, asleep. Hair spread across the pillow, lips slightly parted, breathing peacefully-completely unaware.

The phone almost slips from your hand, your vision swimming. You can't breathe. Your skin crawls, every nerve screaming that you're being watched. That someone has been here.

"No... no no no no no..."

Your hands shake as you hit the call button, thumb slamming down again and again, desperate. The line rings once. Twice. A third time.

But he never answers.

Instead, a final message slides onto your screen, cold as ice.

_nocturne: naive girl... you just made it easier for me to get you.

"......."

Your phone slips from your trembling hands, clattering against the wooden floor. The sound jolts you, snaps something inside you loose, and before you can even think, your legs are moving.

"Mom!" Your voice cracks, shrill, frantic. "Mom-!"

You burst into the kitchen, chest heaving. The smell hits you first-burning oil, sharp and bitter, mixed with something metallic, heavy, wrong. You stagger forward, eyes darting, searching-

And then you see it.

Your knees nearly give out. Your mind blanks, refusing to process. For a moment, you think it's a trick, a mask, some grotesque prank. But the longer you stare, the more the horror sets in.

On the stove, the pan hisses faintly. Inside it, nestled where dinner should be, is your... mother's head.

Her lips are parted as if she'd tried to call for you, but no sound came. Her glassy eyes reflect the dim kitchen light, unblinking, lifeless. Strands of her hair sizzle against the oil, burning into dark wisps of smoke that sting your nose.

A sound escapes you-not quite a scream, not quite a sob, but something raw and broken. You clutch your head, stumbling backward until your shoulder slams against the wall. "No... no, no, no, no-" Your words spill out fast, desperate, useless. "This isn't real, it's not real-it can't be-"

Tears stream hot down your face. You can't breathe, your chest collapsing under the weight of it all. "Mom... M-Mom, please... wake up... what should I do-?" Your voice cracks, shatters, the kitchen spinning around you.

You want to run to her, grab her, shake her awake, but your legs won't move. You're frozen, trembling, choking on your sobs. You press your hands against your mouth to muffle the scream clawing its way up your throat.

And then-footsteps.

Slow. Heavy. From somewhere deeper in the house.

Every hair on your body stands on end. The sound crawls down your spine, cold and deliberate. Your breath hitches, and your tears stop mid-fall as your body locks up. Your mind goes completely blank.

He's here.

Without thinking, without remembering the horror still sizzling on that stove, you bolt.

The chair topples behind you as your legs finally listen, propelling you toward the door. You don't know where you're running, only that you have to get away-away from those footsteps, away from that suffocating darkness.

Your bare feet slap against the dirt, the grass tearing at your ankles, trees looming like shadows with no faces.

Your lungs burn, legs weak, when finally-blinding headlights wash over you.

You stumble into the road, shielding your face with your hands, heart stopping. But the car brakes hard, halting just before you. Through the glare, you see the driver's face.

"Dad!"

Your sob bursts out of you as the door swings open. He's out in seconds, arms around you before you collapse fully.

"Sweetheart-what happened? What's wrong?" His voice is sharp, urgent, but warm, grounding you for just a heartbeat.

"Dad-it-it's mom-" you stammer, choking on your own words, every syllable a tremor. "She's-she's-" The image floods back, and you gag, pressing your face into his chest, unable to say it. "Her head... in the pan-please, Dad, it's not a joke, it's not-I saw it, I saw it!"

Your father stiffens, gripping you tighter. His own heartbeat pounds against your ear, faster than you've ever felt. "It's alright. It's alright," he says, though his voice wavers. He pulls you toward the car. "Get in. We'll go. Now."

You scramble inside, your hands trembling as you clutch at the seatbelt, eyes darting to every shadow outside. Your father slams the driver's door shut, turns the key-

Nothing.

The engine sputters once, then dies.

"No-no no no-" he mutters, trying again, but the car remains stubbornly silent. He slams his hand against the wheel, jaw tight.

Your panic spikes. "Dad-please! Let's just go on foot, let's just go! Please-!"

"Calm down, sweetheart." He exhales shakily, then presses a hand to your shoulder. "I'll check what's wrong. Don't move from here, alright? Stay inside. Don't open the door."

You grab his sleeve, sobbing. "No, don't go! Please, Dad, don't stay out-it's dangerous!"

But he forces a small, steady smile. "It'll be quick. I promise."

And before you can stop him, he's outside, circling to the front of the car. You watch through the window, your palms pressed to the glass, as he crouches down with a flashlight. His voice carries faintly.

"What...? The tire's slashed." He runs his hand over it, disbelief sharpening his tone. "It was fine a minute ago..."

Your chest constricts. The night is too still again, too silent.

"Dad!" you cry from inside, banging the window with your fists. "Please come back! Please!"

He stands, giving you another small wave meant to calm you. "It's alright! I'll call backup, just-just stay put, okay? Don't move!"

You see him pull out his phone, his brows furrowed as he lifts it to his ear. But even from where you sit, you hear it-the faint, hollow static of a dead connection.

Of course. In this place.

You curl into the seat, hugging your knees to your chest, every muscle trembling.

Your father returns to the car, his phone still in his hand, voice clipped and urgent. "They're on their way. The department will be here soon." He crouches down to meet your wide eyes, placing both hands on your shoulders. "Listen to me, don't worry. Just... stay put here. Don't move, don't make a sound, do you understand?"

Your lips part, your words trembling. "Dad... what do you mean? Where are you going?"

His jaw clenches. He looks toward the trees, the unending blackness beyond. "It's impossible for them to find us in here. That's why I have to get to the road. Then I'll lead them back here and we'll come for you."

You shake your head rapidly, grabbing at his sleeve with trembling fingers. "No-no, I'm not staying here alone! Please, I'll come with you, I'll be quiet, I swear-"

"Sweetheart." His voice softens, though urgency sharpens every word. "I can't let you walk into danger with me. Not you." He cups your face, his hands warm despite the cold night air. "Please... trust me. Everything will be fine."

Tears blur your vision. "Dad... promise. Promise me-"

"I promise." He presses his forehead to yours, lingering for a moment that feels both too long and not nearly enough. "I'll be right back. Stay hidden. No matter what you hear-don't come out. Alright?"

You nod through your sobs, choking on the word, "Okay..."

And then, he's gone. The driver's door slams quietly, his footsteps fading into the rustling leaves.

The silence that follows is unbearable. You curl into the seat, hugging your knees, the weight of every shadow pressing closer. Only the faint rustle of bushes breaks the stillness.

Knock.

You jolt so hard your head hits the seat behind you. A sharp, deliberate tapping on the window.

You slap both hands over your mouth, muffling the scream that claws its way out. Dad's voice echoes in your head: Don't move. Don't make a sound.

The knock comes again, louder this time. You press yourself down, sliding lower on the seat, heart thundering so violently you swear it'll give you away. Then... silence.

A silence so long, so heavy, you almost convince yourself they're gone.

Until-

CRASH—!

A blade tears through the glass, shards spraying across the seat. You bite down on your hand, tears spilling as you choke back a scream. Slowly, impossibly slow, two eyes peer through the jagged hole. Pale, unblinking. Watching.

Your whole body trembles, sweat dampening your palms as you hold your breath until your chest aches. The face lingers, then the sound of retreating footsteps drifts into the night.

You don't move. You can't. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, until-

Light.

Blinding, white beams slicing through the trees. More than one. Dozens. Voices-urgent, steady, human.

"Over here!" one calls. "Find the girl-quick!"

Your head snaps up, tears still streaking your cheeks. The flash of uniforms, the crunch of boots on leaves-officers.

A figure leans down by the broken window, torch in hand. His eyes soften when he spots you, crouched low, shivering. He kneels carefully, voice gentler now. "It's alright. You're safe. We've got you."

You blink rapidly, trying to form words, but only stutters come out. "M-My... dad... he-he went... to get y-you... that way-" Your trembling hand lifts, pointing toward the dark stretch of forest your father disappeared into.

The officer's gaze follows your finger, his jaw tightening. He rises immediately, voice firm, commanding. "Move now! That direction!"

Several officers rush into the shadows while two stay behind. One carefully opens the car door, extending a hand. "Come on, sweetheart. You're safe with us."

Your body resists at first, locked in fear, but the warmth of his hand and the steadiness in his voice pull you out. You stumble into his arms, your legs nearly giving out, your tears soaking into his jacket.

They guide you out of the devastated car, into the pool of torchlight where the darkness feels just a little less suffocating.

-

The house feels different now. The warmth of its walls has vanished, leaving only cold corners and long shadows. Police boots scuff against the wooden floors, flashlights beam into every room, every crevice. The air smells faintly of iron, smoke from the kitchen lingering.

You're curled on the couch, a heavy blanket draped around your shoulders. It doesn't stop your trembling. The fabric feels foreign, not comforting. You clutch it tighter anyway, as if holding it harder might keep you from falling apart.

From the corner of your eye, you see a figure step inside. The officer from before - the one who found you in the car. His expression is calm but heavy, like he's carrying words he doesn't want to say. He crouches to your level, lowering his voice.

"Anyone else from your family?"

Your lips part, but nothing comes. The question echoes in your head, and all you can think is no one. Not anymore. Not really. But the word won't leave your mouth.

Silence stretches between you, and then you force out a sound - broken, fragile.

"D... dad..." Your throat tightens, voice muffling beneath the blanket. "D-did you find... dad yet?"

The officer's face stills. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, another officer approaches from behind, holding something carefully in gloved hands. A plastic evidence bag. Inside... a gun.

The first officer glances at it, jaw tightening, then takes it slowly. He lingers in silence before turning it toward you, crouching closer. His tone is steady, deliberate, as if trying not to shake you.

"...Is this your dad's?"

Your eyes fix on the weapon. At first it's just metal, strange, distant. But then your breath catches. On the grip - faint, carved into the handle - a familiar design. You know it like you know your own name. A childish little mark your dad once showed you, laughing softly as he lifted the gun and tapped the design with his finger.

"See this? Means it's mine. Means I'll always protect you from bad people."

The memory crashes over you, so vivid it almost hurts. Your hands tighten on the blanket until your knuckles ache.

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

You don't answer. You don't need to. Your wide, glassy eyes say everything.

The officer studies you for a long moment. He understands. Quietly, he lowers the gun, passing it back behind him. His expression softens, but it's laced with the weight of knowing what you don't want to admit.

"Suguru," he says over his shoulder, his voice low but firm, "call me if you need anything."

Then he rises, giving you one last glance before walking toward the other side of the house, leaving you with nothing but the blanket, the walls that no longer feel like home.

The clock ticks past eleven, but you haven't moved. You're still on the couch, cocooned in the blanket like it's the only shield you have left. Your body aches from being curled so long, yet you can't unfold yourself. Every sound of boots on the floor, every creak of the house, makes you flinch inside.

Someone lowers themselves beside you, the cushion dipping softly under their weight. A faint clink of glass touches your ear before it slides into view. You turn your head just a fraction. A woman sits there - a white shirt beneath her jacket, the polished gleam of a badge catching the dim light on her side. Her voice is warm, hushed, as if she doesn't want to scare you.

"Drink this," she says gently, pressing the glass of milk toward your hands. "It'll help you feel stronger."

You stare at it blankly, lips parted but dry, still trembling faintly from hours of silent tears. Your throat burns too raw to speak.

"It's alright," she coaxes, nudging it closer until your fingers hesitantly curl around the glass. "Slow sips. Just enough to settle you, sweetheart."

The warmth of the milk seeps faintly through the cool glass as you lift it, shaky, and taste the first swallow. It's strange, almost foreign against your sore throat, but her hand lingers steady on your back, guiding you until you manage more.

"That's it," she whispers, her smile soft, though her eyes seem to be studying you. "You're doing so well. You're safe now."

When you lower the glass, your chest is still heavy, your breath uneven. The woman shifts, turning toward you fully, and without warning her hand rises. Gently, her palm cups your cheek. Her thumb brushes against the wetness still clinging there.

Your body tenses in confusion. You blink up at her, dazed, unable to find words. Your throat is too raw, your voice too broken. All you can do is stare as she tilts your face a little, her expression unreadable while her touch lingers.

Then - a voice from above.

"...What are you doing."

You both look up. On the staircase stands Suguru, his figure looming against the dim hallway light. His tone isn't harsh, but it carries a sharp edge.

The woman releases you slowly, smoothing her hand down her lap before answering with perfect calm. "Just checking for any injuries," she says lightly, as if it's nothing at all.

She turns back to you, her smile soft again. "You need some sleep, dear. Don't worry. No one's here to hurt you."

You stare at her, the words hanging in the air like something you want to believe, but your chest twists. Sleep feels impossible. Not after... not after that.

Still, your body is heavy, pulled down by exhaustion. The blanket slips from your shoulders as you rise, legs stiff from sitting so long. You don't look at either of them for long - just enough to pass Suguru on the stairs, his dark eyes following you silently as you walk past.

Step by step, you climb until you reach your room. The door creaks as you push it open, shadows stretching across the walls. You lie down on the bed, pulling the covers tight, and shut your eyes.

And though your heart swears you'll never rest again... it doesn't take long for the weight of your exhaustion to drag you under.

Midnight-the hours tick by as you drift in and out of a fitful, drug-induced sleep. Your body feels heavy, weighted down, as if you're wading through a thick fog. Vague impressions and sensations reach you from a distant place - the soft rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the whisper of hushed voices. But they feel hazy, muted, like echoes from a dream.

Sometime in the early hours, a warm hand gently brushes your hair back from your forehead. Your brows furrow slightly at the unfamiliar touch, but you can't bring yourself to open your eyes. You feel the hand cup your cheek, thumb stroking your skin in a slow, soothing rhythm. It feels nice, almost comforting. And yet, there's a flicker of uncertainty in the pit of your stomach, a nagging feeling that you shouldn't be this vulnerable, this exposed.

The hand trails down, tracing the line of your neck, your collarbone, the gentle swell of your breast. Your body stirs under the covers, skin prickling with goosebumps at the ghost of a touch. You feel the blanket shift as someone sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under their weight. A warm breath tickles your ear as they lean in close, lips brushing the sensitive shell in a whisper of movement.

"Shh, just relax," a voice murmurs, low and soft, almost a purr. "Let yourself drift. Let me take care of you..."

You feel a sensation of something smooth and silky gliding over your skin, trailing down your arm, your side, your hip. It feels cool against your heated skin, leaving a path of tingling flesh in its wake. Your body arches slightly, instinctively seeking more of that soothing touch.

The hand slides under the hem of your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach. Your core tightens, a strange mix of anxiety and anticipation swirling in your gut. You're not sure why you feel this way, but something about this intimate touch feels... Dangerous.

You try to speak, to protest, but your tongue feels thick and heavy in your mouth. All you can manage is a faint, garbled murmur that dies on your lips. The hand pauses, fingers splayed across your belly, as if considering. You feel the weight of their gaze on you, intense and appraising.

"Don't fight it," they whisper, voice low and insistent. "Just let it happen. You need this. You. Need. Me."

-

Your eyes snap open, your skull pounding dully as though someone pressed weights against your temples. The room is dim, bathed in a strange orange glow that spills through the curtains. Blinking, you turn your head toward the window.

The sky is streaked with fire-sunset.

"Huh...?" you murmur hoarsely, dragging yourself up on your elbows. Your eyes slide to the clock on the nightstand.

5:02 p.m.

Your heart skips. "Wait... what-?" You whisper it aloud, disbelief coating your tongue. "Was I... sleeping that long?"

The weight of the hours you can't remember sits heavy in your chest. You shift to sit up, but pause halfway, your gaze dropping to your lap. A strange discomfort coils there. You murmur under your breath, the sound cracked and uneasy.

"Why... do I feel... weird down here...?"

Your face tightens in confusion, in shame at even voicing it. Shaking your head as if to clear it, you push yourself to your feet and stagger to the bathroom. The cold tiles jolt you awake, your reflection pale and hollow-eyed in the mirror. Hands trembling, you check-quickly, nervously, desperate to reassure yourself. But nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Still... the wrongness lingers. A whisper in your skin.

You splash water onto your face, rub it harshly against your cheeks until they sting, and straighten. "It's fine," you mutter. "I'm fine."

But the moment you step out into the hall, you know you're not.

The house is silent. Too silent.

Your footsteps echo faintly as you descend the stairs, heart knocking harder with every step. No muffled voices. No officers pacing, no radio crackle, no comfort of bodies filling the air.

"...Where is everyone?" you whisper to yourself, your voice trembling. "They were here... they were-"

A voice cuts the silence clean.

"You're awake."

You jolt, spinning on your heel.

Suguru stands just behind you, tall and calm, as if he's been waiting all along. His brows lift at your sharp reaction, and his lips twitch in something that almost looks like amusement.

"How are you feeling now?" he asks, voice smooth, low.

Your chest heaves. You stare at him, then force a breath in, lowering your shoulders slowly. For a moment-just a moment-you let yourself believe safety sits in his presence. You nod weakly. "...Good."

Suguru hums, the sound deep in his chest. He moves past you, steps unhurried, until he's by the wide window. The orange sunlight streams across his face, painting his sharp features in fire and shadow. He stands there for a moment, hand in his pocket, watching the horizon.

"It's full moon tonight," he says quietly, almost like he's talking to himself.

You blink. The words hit you strangely, out of place, heavy in the silence. Your lips part, but nothing comes out-just a dumbfounded stare.

He glances back over his shoulder, catching your look. His mouth curves into a low, deep chuckle.

"What's on your mind right now?" he asks, turning fully, eyes fixed on you.

You hesitate, thoughts clawing at you, pressing down until your heart aches. Your gaze drops to the floor. It takes everything to push the words out, barely more than a muffled breath.

"I... wanna... go..."

"Go where exactly?" His tone is calm, but there's something sharp tucked into the edges of it.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fists trembling. "I... I don't know... I don't like this place... please... Mom... and Dad.. they-"

"They're gone."

The words slice through you, merciless. Your breath shudders, your head snapping up to him in shock.

Suguru holds your gaze without flinching. "And you'll have to get used to this place."

"H-huh...?" The sound breaks from you, fragile, disbelieving.

For a moment, neither of you move. The air is thick, oppressive, the silence heavier than any scream.

Then, slowly, Suguru lifts his arm. His fingers tug up the sleeve of his shirt, deliberate, steady, as if unveiling a secret he's been waiting to share. His wrist turns, pale skin catching the light.

Your stomach drops.

There-inked deep into his skin-your name.

He scratches idly at the mark, his eyes never leaving yours. A low laugh rolls out of him, quiet but unhinged, the sound making the hairs on your neck stand.

"Couldn't have you having a heart attack now," he murmurs, voice dripping with mockery, "so... I played it easy, my dear YN."

"Y-you... n..nocturne-"

Suguru tilts his head, utterly calm, as though your panic is a song he's already memorized. His lips curve, the faintest smirk tugging.

"Panicking again?" His voice drips with amusement, low and coaxing. "Ah... how cute."

He takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, reaching out his hand toward yours. "Come. Let's get you ready for tonight's ritual."

The word ritual slices through you, cold and sharp. Your chest squeezes tight.

"N-no!" you choke out, slapping his hand away with all the strength left in your trembling body. "S-stay away from me!"

The sound of your palm hitting his skin echoes in the suffocating silence.

Suguru pauses, his eyes narrowing only slightly, before a low hum slips from his throat. "Now... that's not good behavior from you." He straightens, his presence looming, gaze dark but still calm, too calm. "Listen to me, YN. And come."

"I-I won't!" Your voice cracks as you shove against his chest, hard, before he can grab you again. The move surprises him, just enough for you to bolt past him.

His arm snaps out, fingers brushing the fabric of your sleeve, but you rip yourself free.

And then you run.

Barefoot against the wooden floors, past the living room where the lamp still flickers dim, past the door you once begged for safety inside. You fling it open and crash into the night air, lungs burning as you sprint.

The rain comes down hard, heavy drops soaking into your hair, sliding down your face until you can't tell if it's rain or tears. The sky is darkening fast, clouds swallowing the last threads of orange.

Your chest heaves as you run, but something prickles at your back.

A sound. Footsteps. More than one.

You dare a glance over your shoulder-

Your blood runs cold.

They're there. Not just Suguru. A group of them, spilling out of the house, silhouettes merging with the dark. Each figure carries something-cutlasses, axes, long rusted tools that gleam wet under the rain. Their faces... no, not faces. Masks. Different skulls, stretched leather, hollowed eyes staring at you from the storm.

A scream claws at your throat, but you swallow it down and whip your head forward again, legs pumping faster.

Run. Just run.

Your breath shreds, your throat burns, but you don't stop. Mud splashes against your ankles, rain blinds your vision, your chest pounds against your ribs as if your heart is breaking free.

Somewhere in the chaos, you see it-metal rails cutting across the ground. And beyond, the faint shadow of a station. Broken lights flicker against cracked concrete, a derelict place long forgotten.

But right now, it's your only chance.

Hope explodes in your chest like fire. "Please... please..." you sob between gasps, forcing your legs to move faster.

The station looms closer. Old signs hang by one bolt, rust streaking the walls. It looks abandoned, lifeless-but maybe... maybe someone's there.

Your shoes slap against the wet ground as you stumble down the steps into the platform, lungs searing. And then-your eyes widen.

A train.

Not sleek, not clean-this one is old, industrial, its paint chipped and peeling. It looks more like it was built to haul crates, not people. The metal is streaked with grime, the windows clouded. But it's there, sitting still, doors half-open.

Your legs nearly give out from the relief. "God-"

Without thinking, you leap inside, slamming the door behind you.

The interior smells of rust and damp, empty benches stretching into shadow. Your shoes squeak against the wet floor as you rush through, from one lobby to the next, past hanging chains and scattered boxes. Each echo of your step feels like it will give you away, but you don't dare slow down.

Another lobby. Another.

And finally-you reach the driver's cabin.

The door is locked.

You slam your fists against it, desperation clawing up your throat. "H-hello?! Please-please, open-!"

You press your ear to the door, shaking, breath fogging against the glass. No sound. No answer. But maybe... maybe someone's inside. Maybe they're keeping quiet.

You can only pray.

Then, outside the window, you see it-

Flickers of light.

Torches. Lanterns. Dozens of them. Shadows moving across the platform.

They've found you.

Your fists slam against the metal door again and again, every strike louder, more frantic, your voice breaking into shrill cries.

"Please! Somebody-open up! I-I need help! Please, please, let me in!"

Your palms sting, knuckles raw from pounding. Tears blur your vision until the driver's window is nothing but a watery smear of light and shadow. You slam harder, harder, the desperation in your chest threatening to shatter your ribs.

Then-

Click.

The lock slides.

Your breath stutters.

The door creaks open a few inches. For a single, fleeting second, hope surges in you so violently you nearly collapse with relief.

But what comes through is not salvation.

A thud-wet, sickening-echoes in the narrow space.

Something heavy lurches out, swinging down past your shoulder and crashing against the floor with a dull bounce. You freeze, wide-eyed, as the shape tilts in the dim light.

It's a head.

The driver's head. His eyes glassy, mouth slack in an eternal scream, blood matting the grey hair to his skin.

Your scream tears out of you raw and broken, your body jerking backward until your spine slams against the cold wall of the train.

And then the door is forced wider.

Suguru steps through.

Not the calm, measured man from the house. Not the pretending officer who spoke softly to you. No-this Suguru is drenched in red, his dark uniform soaked, his hands slick and dripping. Blood stains his face like war paint, streaking down his neck, the metallic stench filling the tiny cabin.

His eyes, once sharp and composed, burn with something feral. Predatory.

You can't breathe. You can't scream again. Your body refuses to obey as he looms in the doorway, tall and unyielding, blocking every shred of escape.

Your lips tremble, throat convulsing with air you can't swallow. Tears stream down your face, mixing with the rainwater still clinging to your cheeks. Every part of you screams to run, to fight, but you're rooted to the floor, paralyzed.

Suguru watches you break. His mouth curves, slow and cruel, into something that could never be mistaken for a smile.

Then, with a brutal grip, his blood-slick hand shoots out and seizes your wrist. The force of it rips a cry out of you as he yanks you forward, dragging your small frame into the cabin.

Your heels scrape against the floor, hands clawing uselessly at the doorway.

He leans close, his breath hot against your ear, and in a voice dripping with venom, he hisses:

"You've pissed me enough, you naive girl."

The door slammed shut behind you...

When you first got the call from your realtor, and you finagled your way out of your twelve month lease, you made a very detailed, very organized plan to move. You purchased the boxes, the storage containers, the tape, and the packing peanuts, and made a list of what items were going where, planning to label each one with a strip of blue painter’s tape and a thick sharpie. You made it through two of your kitchen cabinets, gingerly wrapping each dish and mug, branding the side of each box with the details of its contents. Then, you gave up  and decided that if the stuff ends up in a box, it’s a win. That’s how you got here, carrying loads of junk into your new home, without any idea where to put them. 

You justified your laziness by thinking it will be like opening presents on Christmas morning. 

He chuckles, the sound deep and baritone. “Just through here, then?” He nudges the box like it weighs nothing, gesturing to the front door, propped open by a plastic storage container filled to the brim with random household articles. You really should have labeled them. 

“I’m (Y/N), by the way.” 

“Nice to meet you, (Y/N),” he says, scanning the empty living room, eyes trickling down from the bare walls to the polished hardwood planks. “Where would you like me to put this?” 

“On the floor is fine…with the other hundred boxes,” you say, pointing to the sea of beige cardboard littering the otherwise sparse floor. “You never realize just how much crap you have until it’s time to move.”

He doesn’t respond to your comment, just stares past you, through the open front door. 

“How much is left in the truck?” 

Your old place was by no means big, just a two-bedroom you shared with an old college friend, but in the last year, you had taken up a penchant for antique shopping, fueled by the home improvement channel and your new Pinterest account. In planning and saving up for this next step, you started collecting pieces for your new home, having to rent an external unit to store it all in because you ran out of square footage in your apartment. 

Crazy enough, you didn’t think to pick up any actual furniture, just decorations that go on top of furniture.

“Nothing crazy. Just a bunch of boxes. My old place was already furnished when I got it so I don’t have any big pieces to move.” 

He nods, placing his hands on his hips, taking a look around the space. The house beside his hadn’t been on the market for very long, and with the charm it holds in its historic walls, he knew it would get snatched up quickly. He expected a newly married couple or a small family to move in, maybe even a single guy with a dog. Not…you. 

Your new home was one of the smaller houses in the neighborhood: a one-story cottage with whitewashed wood siding and a pillared front porch with a bench swing. It was cozy and within your price range. You don’t care that it is completely smurfed by the other homes that sprawl up and down the avenue, especially Leon’s old colonial next door. It’s tiny and perfect and yours. No more roommates. No more bad landlords. 

“I’ll help you bring the rest inside.” 

“No, you don’t have to do that, Leon. There’s not that much left, I swear. I can do it. Thank you, though.”  

The man shakes his head, dismissing your bashful refusal of his assistance, and grins. “Come on, show me what I’m up against.” 

“Fine. If you insist.” 

“I insist.”

He follows you out to the moving truck parked in your driveway, the metal wall at the back slid all the way up to reveal a cab nearly full of boxes. You bite your lip as Leon’s eyes grow wide. 

How much crap did this chick have, he thinks to himself. 

“Not that much left, huh?” 

The buttery afternoon slowly simmered into night before you knew it, and you and Leon had unloaded the entirety of the boxes left in the truck, until your living room resembled the back room of a post office, cardboard stacked from floor to ceiling. 

Leon was sitting on one of the larger boxes, his legs stretched out before him, dark wash denim clinging to thick quads. His shoulders are sunken, previously impeccable posture now faltering. The man is probably worn out. You know you are. 

“I should really treat you to a drink or something,” you say, sliding your hands into the back pockets of your cutoffs. “Thank you for helping, I really appreciate it.” 

He nods one and the corner of his mouth twitches as he presses himself up to standing. “You’re welcome. Is it just you?” 

“Yep, just me.” 

“ It would have taken twice as long if not longer if you did all that by yourself. Aren't you glad you let me help?” 

“Yes, I’m glad I let you help. Thank you again.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

As he moves toward the door, your eyes can’t help but fall across his wide back, the shoulders so large they almost seem inhuman, more like the concoction of a sculpture chiseling the ideal man into marble. Your chest tightens and you feel an impending flush threatening to rise to your cheeks.

“I owe you a drink,” you say, taking a few steps in his tracks toward the door, not totally ready for him to leave you alone in your home yet. You’ve never lived on your own before, and as excited and ready as you thought you were, the reality that you will be by yourself once Leon shuts that door is a little daunting. 

Over one of those massive shoulders, Leon steals a glance at you. He tries to keep his eyes locked on yours, not wanting to come across as the pervy, old neighbor who stares at your body, but fuck, if he doesn’t want to, especially when it is so visible to him. 

You seem so kind, so genuine. So eager. 

“I said don’t mention it.” 

There’s a little more heat to his voice as he shuts down your proposal. “Oh, okay. Sure,” is all you’re able to muster. 

He stalls by the door, giving you a moment to think about what to say next, if anything at all. That moment is cut short by Leon’s voice, taking over the conversation for you.

"Do you have a security system?" He asks, turning around to study your face as your head tilts to the side. "Like an alarm, or a camera you could put on your front door?" 

"No, but I have pepper spray in my purse."  

He shakes his head as a deep huff is pushed from his chest. You watch it rise and fall, the taut muscles stretching the fabric pulled tight over them. 

"What? It’s a safe neighborhood,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. 

“You should get one.”

“I wouldn’t know how to install it if I did.” 

“I’ll do it.”

September

The last time you saw Leon was last month, when he came over to set up the security alarm, a little speck of metal that he drilled into the threshold that chirps every time you open the door. A sensor connected to a keypad installed on the wall beside the frame. He told you to pick out a four-digit code that you had to enter into it every night to activate the alarm, every morning to deactivate. 

“(MM/YY).” You told him your birthday, the month and year, and he made a face, nose crinkling, eyes narrowed. He told you to pick another one, not tell him, and enter it into the keypad. He looked away when you did.

His car wasn’t in his driveway when you woke up this morning. You would assume he went to work, like you were getting ready to do, but you saw him load it up with a black duffel bag last night. It wasn’t like you were looking out for him, necessarily. It just so happens that your living room window looks out to his driveway, and while you were folding your laundry, eyes unfocused on the television playing in front of you, you heard a card door open. Right after that is when you saw him, a dark figure chopped up by the wooden slats of the blinds, putting a bag into the backseat of his SUV. He slammed the door shut and sulked back into his house. 

His car didn’t return for days after that. 

But when it did, wheels turning over gravel, you peered through that same window, and studied the figure behind the tinted driver’s side window as it stalled long after the ignition cut out, just waiting and waiting. He tipped his neck back until his head hit the headrest, the shadowy silhouette of his profile stagnant as he waited and waited.

Your eyes flicker to the kitchen counter, where a batch of freshly baked cookies rests beneath a glass cloche. Hands moving without any conscious direction, you place the cookies in a plastic container, slip into your sandals, and make a break for the front door. As it closes behind you, Leon’s car door slams shut, the two sounds creating a symphony loud enough to alert you of one another’s presence. 

“Hi there,” he says with a wave. You hold up the container of cookies, stepping toward his house, an old Georgian. 

“A thank-you. For helping me…stay safe, I guess.” 

“It hasn’t been giving you any trouble, has it?” 

As you draw closer to him, still standing by his car door, bag in hand, you notice the exhaustion awash across his face. Lines seem deeper. The purple moons under his eyes have darkened. 

“No sir.”

The look on your face. Those words coming from your mouth. Leon’s jaw tenses as he looks down at you, wearing cotton pajama shorts and a ratty t-shirt, holding a box of treats.  

“Thank you, again, really. It’s made me feel a lot better about living alone.” 

“Anytime. I’ll–uh–see you around.” He flashes you a quick smile, taking the tupperware from the hands that offered them, and turns around to walk toward his front door. 

October

The doorbell rang twice and your stupid hairdryer was too damn loud in your ear for you to have heard it. It was only when you switched it off that the lingering echo of the twinkling sound bounced off the hallway walls and into your ears. 

Leon? 

It’s not always Leon. Sometimes it’s the mailman, asking for a signature. Other times, it’s a salesperson asking if you’re interested in a new air conditioning unit. But you always, always hope it’s Leon. 

Freshly-showered body clad in nothing but a haphazardly tied robe, you pad down the hall and into the living room, opening the front door just in time to see Leon’s black SUV pull out of his driveway and head down the road, passing right in front of your house. You barely have time to raise your arm, let alone wave your hand at him. 

The tupperware container you gave him the cookies in, now empty and clean, rests on your doormat. Stuck to it, a note with a smiling doodle and Leon’s name in black ink. 

November

For the past two months, you and Leon found yourselves talking more. Sometimes, in the warmth of your own home. Other times, standing in his driveway or yours, until he bitches about his back or his knee and the two of you move to your front porch, sitting on the swing or the steps.

He would ask about your job, your friends, your family, and you would happily tell him stories about college and your crazy, old roommate who you still keep in touch with, and silly reiterations of your younger brother’s shenanigans. He still lives at home, not yet graduated from high school, and takes every opportunity to drive your parents crazy. 

“He sounds like a handful,” Leon confesses with a laugh. Gosh, you love his laugh, it’s addictive. If you could, you would bottle it up and huff it to get high. That along with his scent. What a rush you would get if you could grind it into a powder and snort it up your nose. 

Good grief.

“He is. They’re counting down the days until he moves out for his first year of school. Geez,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose at the thought of Ethan going off to college. Does he even know how to turn on the dishwasher? “I can’t believe he’ll be a freshman in college. I worry about him. The kid is such a mess.” 

“He’ll be fine. If he’s anything like his…like you, I’m sure he’ll be fine. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders.” 

“Ha,” you huff, flattered. The two of you are sitting on the brick step of his stoop, feet flat on the blacktop driveway. It’s warm outside, even for a late autumn afternoon in the DMV. Seventy degrees and still bright. Sunlight wanes, the butterball dipping behind near-naked trees. 

It casts you in a glow that Leon cannot deny. You’re breathtaking, practically disheveled from a hectic day in the office. Your hair tousled, makeup nearly worn off, lips swollen from constant torture at the hands of your two front teeth. Strands billow down the back of your jacket as you lean to place your folded arms over bent knees, hugging yourself. He wishes he was the one with his arms around your legs. He could hit himself for letting that thought slip past the guard in his mind that guns down any inappropriate thought about his young neighbor. He’s distracted, eyelids heavy from weeks of interrupted sleep, body sore from eighty hours of back-breaking work. 

“You seem to know a lot about me,” you say, your soft voice luring Leon back into the conversation, away from his mental self-flaggelation. “But I don't know that much about you.”

“Really?” He scoffs. “I’m an open book.” 

That’s funny. “No you’re not,” you quip back and he nods beneath the fair assessment. 

“So, can I ask you a question?” 

“Shoot.”

“What do you do for work?” 

It’s a simple enough question, right?

“Why that question?” 

“I don’t know. You said you travel for work a lot and you always seem…” What’s the word you’re searching for? Different? Sad? Burdened? “...distracted when you come back.”

He hates that you’ve noticed that. “I work for the government. Security work.” 

“Are you a spy or something?” 

He chuckles, his baritone laugh filling the car and you with a warm buzz. “No, nothing like that. I work for the DSO.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

Good. That’s good. 

“Like I said, security work.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Does he like it? What a loaded question spoken in so few words. He wishes you had asked him his favorite color instead. He had a much simpler, cut-and-dry response to give.

“No. Sometimes.” 

“No? Sometimes?” You parrot him in the hope that he will hear the duplicity in his words and will elaborate further. 

“I can’t give you a straight answer to that, I’m sorry. You’ll just have to believe me when I say that it’s complicated.” He sucks in a breath, then leans back to recline on his palms. The dark blue quarter-zip he’s sporting looks as though it’s just one size too small and the seams might rip beneath the tension of his bulging muscles. “I like saving lives,” he continues. “That’s why I got into this mess in the first place. But it’s tough work and it hasn’t left me with much room to do anything else with my life.” 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” He does know. “Having a family, hobbies, traveling.” 

“Really? I feel like you’re always gone somewhere.” 

“I should have clarified. Traveling, not for work purposes.” 

“If you could go anywhere–not for work–where would you go?” 

He takes a moment to really ponder your question. “I wouldn’t want to go anywhere I’ve had to go for work, that’s for sure.” Your eyebrows crease as you look up at him. You make a mental note to research what exactly employees of the DSO do when you get back home. “How about Japan? Or Greece? I think I’d like Greece. All those blue and white buildings overlooking the Mediterranean.” 

“I’ve always wanted to go to Greece, too,” you squeak, face aglow. “You’ll have to let me tag along when you go.” 

January

“He’s taking you to a ballet?” 

“Yep,” you chirp into the receiver, placing the phone between your cheek and your shoulder so your two hands are free to hold up the dresses to your frame. Option one is a strong contender, a black tea-length fit-and-flare with an Old Hollywood silhouette à la Audrey Hepburn that shows off your waist. Option two is a bit edgier. Strapless with a square neckline that doesn’t give too much away, the red satin clings to your waist, your hips, all the way down to your calves. The only con is you can barely walk in it, the skirt is so restricted, straight as a pencil. But it looks great. 

Standing in front of the mirror in just your bra and panties as a blank slate, you hold up the first option against your body. It’s pretty and conservative. The shiny taffeta can easily be paired with your mother’s strand of pearls and a pair of kitten heels. But option two is sexy. It’s provocative. 

Would Jackson like it? He seems so reserved and straightlaced, you think it might scare him off. 

But he is a man…

“I didn’t know people still went to those,” Diana huffs on the other end. Poor thing thinks guys only take girls out to sports bars and football games. She needs to get out of your hometown. “Is he old?”

“People do still go to those, especially in D.C. The company here is incredible, or so I’ve heard.” 

“The company? He’s got you talking like an old person. Wait. Is he old?” 

You giggle. “No, he’s my age.”

“Is he rich?” 

“Who?”

“The man who’s taking you out on a date, tonight. Who else would we be talking about?”

“Oh, right, duh. Um, getting there. He’s still just a junior associate at the firm. His parents are, though. They have, like, two houses.” 

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue. “That’ll do it. Well, in that case, you have my approval.” 

“Heads or tails?” You ask, changing the subject, heads being option one. 

“Eenie meenie–”

“Just pick one,” you groan. 

“Okay, fine. Tails.” 

Of course the dress Diane psychically picked is the more daring of the two. 

“Okay, thanks for picking out a dress for me. I’ll send you a pic when I’m all dressed up.” 

“Wait, I didn’t know that’s what I was choosing for you. I want to see the options. Not fair.”

“Perfectly fair, that’s kind of the point of flipping a coin. Plus, I don’t have time. He’s picking me up in T-minus…” you glance at the glowing alarm clock on your bedside table. “Ten minutes.” 

She groans dramatically. “Okay, fine, but I want to see the fit and you’ll have to tell me all the details after, okay? And I mean all the details, you hear me? Not the PG version either. Got it? Got it?” 

“Yes, yes, yes. Photo and details. Copy that. Now, I really do have to go.” 

The two of you spit out rushed “goodbyes” and “I love you’s” and you hang up the call and throw option one onto your bed, shimmying option two’s hanger straps off the wooden arms of the hanger, and toss that aside too. 

It takes you a minute to shimmy into the unforgiving satin, but once you do, you begin the fight with the zipper. You get the tiny metal piece pulled all the way up your hips and half-way up your spine until it begins to rub a blister on the pads of your fingers and you feel yourself start to sweat. 

And the doorbell rings. Ten minutes before he’s supposed to get here and he’s already at the door. 

You hiss out a swear, slide into the heels you bought especially for the occasion, and grab the clutch that barely holds your phone and a tube of lipstick. 

Swinging the door open, you whole-heartedly expect to see Jackson standing, a bouquet of flowers in tow, with the big, toothy grin he always wears warming up his face. 

“You’re ear—” 

It’s not your date, but your next door neighbor. Leon stands on your front porch, hands in the front pockets of his dark jeans, sporting the orthopedic sneakers he always has on, along with a sweet grin that slowly melts off his face once he sees you. 

He can’t control it. His jaw went completely slack when he saw you standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim backlight of the glowing kitchen behind you. You’re wearing a dress that is far too flattering, looking like a Barbie doll behind the plastic sheen of a display case. 

“Oh, Leon,” you say, not expecting to see him on your doorstep. “Hi. What are you doing here?” 

He was there to ask you to go out to dinner with him, but it looks like someone already beat him to the chase. You certainly aren’t wearing a dress like that to lounge around in your living room. You didn’t spend all that time tying up your hair just to get pizza with a friend. 

“I–uh–came by to–uh–”

“Oh wait, hold that thought. Do you mind zipping me up all the way? I can’t reach.” You turn around and put your hands on your hips, not giving him time to refuse. 

He wants to say “no”. A sick, jealous part of him wants to refuse having any part in readying you for another man, helping you into a dress he would never get the chance to take off. But, the hero in him wants to save the day, to come to your rescue. 

“Going out?” He asks shortly, the timbre of his voice reaching a new low as he steps toward you. The top half of the dress is open, revealing a soft swatch of skin beneath the gaping fabric. With the grip of a man whose job description is to be dexterous with small, moving parts like the ribbed safety of a handgun or the inner walls of a rifle, he locates the coated metal of the zipper. As he pulls it upward, the knuckle of his pointer finger grazes the warmth of your back, the patch just across your spine. He pretends not to notice the bumps that rise across your skin, and you pretend not to feel the heat stirring in your lower belly. 

How can the feather-light touch of a man you hardly know bring on such a strong physical reaction? You feel as if your limbs might turn to jelly, your heart being so fast you can hear it reverberating against the cavern of your ear canal. 

“Thank you,” you squeak, turning around so Leon can take in the sight of you once more. 

“Anytime.” 

“I’m sorry I interrupted before. Did you say you needed something?” 

“No.” He doesn’t even bother to spin a lie or make up an excuse, just wanting to get out before your date shows up and he has to come face-to-face with the man who will reflect all of his own shortcomings. He’s probably your age, still sprite and wide-eyed like you. Enthusiastic with a lust for life Leon lost a long time ago. “Have fun tonight. You look great.” 

That’s all he says before he dips out of your door and you don’t see him for weeks.

March

“What in the world are you doing out there? It’s raining cats and dogs.” His voice is nearly shouting, carried across the few feet of grass between the sides of your homes, through the wet slosh of the downpour, and onto your porch. 

You shudder, wholly unsure if it was from the giggle in your throat or the shiver creeping up across your skin. Either way, you’re practically buzzing, watching as Leon peers down at you from beneath the cover of his own porch. The concern on his face is borderline amusing. He’s looking at you from beneath furrowed brows, frowning with such worry as though you’re caught in the crossfire of a battlefield, not curled up, taking refuge from a thunderstorm. 

“I like the sound of the rain,” you lie. “Just came out—to hear it—better.” Your teeth are chattering, and you didn’t realize just how cold you were until you needed to muster up enough warmth to oil up your pipes. 

Before you know it, you hear footsteps sinking into the soggy grass of your front yard. Leon has walked over, in the rain, to your front porch. He was tired of yelling through the downpour, and decided it wasn’t going to let up any time soon so why wait? Plus your well-being is worth getting drenched. 

Blonde strands, streaked with gray, cling to his temples, and with them are raindrops that trail down the skin there. 

“You’re completely soaked.” 

You blush only because you imagine him saying that under different circumstances. His hand down your pants, for example. 

He’s right. Your dress is drenched through, the thin chiffon clinging to your goose-pimpled skin, sopping wet and—you look down at the black fabric molded to your thighs—incredibly sheer. If only you could dip into your house and grab your robe. 

“And you’re shivering.” He holds out two open palms for you to take. You do, and he pulls you up to meet him, realizing how close he brought you to his own face, and he takes a step back, not sure he could control himself if he was so close to you. 

Maybe having you farther away was a mistake, because now he can see the entirety of your body, clad in what he assumes was once a flowy dress, now completely soaked through and clinging to your every dip and curve. He can tell that you’re not wearing a bra, maybe one without much padding…or any underwear? No, you’re definitely wearing underwear because he sees the outline of the fabric jutting beneath your dress. It must be very thin, however, because it doesn’t do much to hide the outline of your—

Stop, Leon, he says internally. Do not look at her…there.

“Was the date so bad you had to wash it off in the rain?” He asks to distract himself, clearing his throat. It’s a futile attempt because the idea of you having dinner with another man does little to calm his nerves. The boy picked you up earlier, gave you his elbow as he walked you down from your front porch to his car, a sporty BMW. The kid held the door open as you sunk down into the seat, and he made sure the skirt of your dress was out of the way before he gently shut you inside. 

He knows you went on a date. That means he saw you with Jackson, either when he picked you up, when the sky was still clear of the rumbling clouds that made an appearance during dinner. Or when he dropped you off, sheets of rain already tumbling down, when he spun you around in his arms and kissed you in the middle of the torrential deluge. At that moment, you thought it was romantic. Kissing the boy you like as the rain soaked you both, tangled in a wet embrace. It was romantic. Jackson was romantic. But he sure as hell wasn’t Leon, who saw the bookends of your night out on the town with another man. Now the memory makes your stomach sour. 

“No, nothing like that,” you say with a sigh, holding up the small beaded clutch in your hand for him to see. “I changed out my purse for tonight, and forgot my keys in my other bag like an idiot.” You shake your head again. “Didn’t forget three different tubes of lipgloss though. Priorities, I guess.” 

You even open up the lips of the bag to show Leon your collection of shimmering makeup products. He doesn’t quite know what he’s looking at but he chuckles anyway because you find it amusing. It snaps to a close and you place it under your arm. An arm glistening with crystal droplets. 

Damp strands that once fell loose from your low bun now stick to your temples. One thick clump worms its way to the corner of your mouth. You use the tip of your tongue to push it away in an obscenely childish maneuver. What are you going to do next? Rub your runny nose with your sleeve? As much as you want to chide yourself for such a grossly immature act, Leon finds it utterly endearing. He doesn’t comment on it, though, compliment or not, because he sees the look in your eyes as you realize what you did and the immediate flush of your cheeks that followed. He’d rather not cause you any further embarrassment. 

“You didn’t want to call your boyfriend?” 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you answer quickly, chomping at the bit to shut down Leon’s accusation. 

“Ah.” He looks past you to the doormat shedding scratchy fibers onto the terracotta tiles beneath it. Then to the potted plants on either side of the door, the dry leaves soaking up the mist that the wind thrusts at them. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare key hidden somewhere, would you?”

“No,” you say, and he looks at you before shaking his head in disappointment. “But I gave one to my friend when I moved in. I called her thirty minutes ago and she said she’ll be by in the next hour or two when she gets off work.” 

“So you just plan on waiting out here?”

“I guess,” you say, uncommitted to an answer. 

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Come on, you can dry off at my place.” 

Your arm brushes against his once on the short walk over to his front door, and your skin is still burning when he opens it, letting you in for the first time. 

The space is a lot cozier than you imagined it would be. You’re not sure why, but you pictured Leon living in a more sterile environment, void of warmth and comfort—something utilitarian, shred of all the frills so that only the absolute necessities remain. He seems very Spartan in that way. But this—his home puts all of those prejudiced assumptions to shame, showing you a completely different side of the man. 

Across from the crackling fireplace, there is an overstuffed couch, upholstered in a smooth linen fabric that peeks out beneath a couple blankets thrown haphazardly over the back. It looks inviting and for a moment, the image of you and Leon curled up on the seat cushions flashes across your mind. Your knees are tucked into your chest, his body is turned toward yours, close enough for him to read out and touch your knee. The still is so vivid that you can almost feel the warmth of his palm on your flesh. 

The image disappears, leaving you, once again, to take in the details of the room around you. Tucked into a corner of two tall bookcases, is a brown leather wing-back chair that looks well-loved, worn at the arms and the seat. It stands regally, tucked between the fireplace and a wooden side table that holds a tall lamp and a stack of paperback books. 

“Nice place,” you say sweetly, kicking off your shoes by the door. He smirks down at you, suddenly shorter than the man without your heels on to bolster you up to his height. He’s not spectacularly tall by any means, standing at five-foot-eleven.

“Thanks,” is all he says as he shuts the front door behind you, turning not one but three different locks. The metal of each one clinks. If he were any other man, that might be creepy, but after you heard snippets about his work, the paranoia makes sense. “Let me go get you a towel.” 

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the hem of your dress. It’s dripping. Actual drops fall from the fabric onto the floor, pooling around your bare feet. 

“Oh, Leon, I’m sorry. I’m dripping everywhere.” 

He’s not looking at the puddle now dampening his floor. No, he’s looking at the dress. The one that is so damp, it clings to your thighs. Your pretty, fleshy thighs. Yeah, you’re dripping alright. 

Get a grip, Leon. 

“Do you want to change? I’ll get you some clothes and you can get ready in the guest bedroom. I can even hang up your dress in the shower, so it’ll dry.” 

“Sure,” you oblige, and you follow him up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway, careful not to drip too much onto the polished hardwood. “Your house is really nice. Kind of big for just a single guy.” Why did you say that? You idiot freak. “Sorry, that came out wrong.” 

He just shrugs, stopping you in front of a closed door before taking a few more steps down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he promises, opening the door to what you assume is his bedroom, giving you just a peek into the suite before shutting it behind him. All you were able to see is a headboard and an unmade bed. Crisp, white sheets crumpled across the mattress. A grey comforter sliding off the foot of the bed. He must thrash in his sleep for the dressings to be strewn about like that. Or he’s had someone over. 

You imagine sleeping there with him, your naked bodies tangled together, twisted up in those sheets. His hands roaming your bare flesh, kneading and grabbing your hips as he had his way with you. 

He returns quickly and you avert your gaze from the door, hoping he isn’t a vampire or alien that can read your mind and learns that you’ve been fantasizing about him.

“Here,” he says, holding a stack of folded clothing: black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. It seems to be his uniform. 

Both of you linger silently in the hallway, just standing opposite of one another. Leon’s hands are in the pockets of his lounge pants, the t-shirt he’s wearing doing all but hiding the muscles of his chest and abdomen, not to mention the veiny biceps outstretched from the sleeves. You’re just standing there, dumb, waiting on him to say something. 

He’s just so handsome, you’re completely caught up in the beauty of his face, his form. Those eyes that stare so intently. The dimple of his chin. The softness of his jaw, marked with stubble that is patchy in some places, gray in most. You want to kiss him there, feel the hair tickling your lips. You need to stop thinking about him in that way. It’s not going to happen. 

“The guest bedroom is behind you.” He cuts his eyes to the side, then immediately back to you, waiting. 

Duh. 

“Oh, right,” you cough up a nervous breath. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll change in here.” You just keep pumping out weightless words to combat the awkwardness of the last few seconds. You hope you weren’t staring or doing anything weird with your face.

“Hand me your dress when you're changed and I can hang it up, like I said.” 

“Yeah, of course,” you repeat, as if it’s the only phrase you know. 

The guest bedroom is small and neat, but relatively unadorned, housing only a queen-sized mattress, two nightstands on either side of the made bed, and a dresser opposing the wooden headboard. In the corner, there is a standing mirror, also wooden, definitely old. 

Your fingers struggle with the zipper, huffing and puffing until you find the right angle and grab onto the miniscule metal tongue with one hand, yanking it down with the other. Sliding the sleeves down your arms, the fabric unglued itself from your body. The tiny bra you were wearing is damp in some spots, but you’d rather not pass that on to Leon for him to hang up in his bathroom, so you keep it on, alongside the lace panties on your hips. With the towel he gave you, you dry off, starting with your neck, shuffling the cloth down to your feet, drying off every inch of skin.

Before redressing, you patter toward the door with your dress in hand and open it just a crack. 

Leon turns around at the sound of the door creaking open, and he approaches to grab the garment from you as you slide it through the opening. He notices the bra strap on your shoulder and behind that, the mirror angled toward the door, giving him a perfectly good view of your bare thighs, and lace-clad cheeks. 

He nearly chokes on air. 

“You okay?” You ask. 

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’ll go hang this up.” he skidattles before you can notice the erection straining the thin pajama pants he’s wearing. 

Back in the guest room, you throw on the t-shirt and pants he provided, pattering to the hallway. 

“Leon?” 

He hears your voice through the bathroom door, busying himself with an empty hanger he grabbed from his closet, sliding the capped sleeves of your dress onto the wood before hanging it on the curtain rod. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, looking down to see how stiff he had gotten. He didn’t think he had it in him anymore, and if it were any other time, he would be pleasantly surprised to see that his body still somewhat functions in that department. But now? He needs it to go away. 

His hand reaches into his pants. He palms the stiff shaft, praying the touch brings him some relief. 

“I’ll just wait in the living room.” Your voice clears as he opens the door half-way through the sentence that comes from those pretty lips. Don’t think about her pretty lips, Leon, he commands himself. 

“Hi,” you chirp as Leon’s bare feet bring him down the stairs and into the living room. You’re standing near the fireplace. 

“Hey. Do you want anything to drink?” He asks, lingering in the portal between the living room and the kitchen, his hand resting on the painted wood frame. “I have water and whiskey, and maybe a beer or two, but that’s about it.”  

There is an unidentifiable tone in his voice that weakens it. He sounds disappointed or ashamed of himself. 

“Water is fine, thank you, Leon.”

You’re such a sweet girl, he thinks before dipping into the kitchen, leaving you to your own devices in his living room. You take the opportunity to give yourself a tour of the space, padding onto a red oriental rug that spans nearly the entirety of the hardwood slats making up the floor. Each vibrant, colored thread is woven into geometric shapes and motifs beneath your bare feet. 

You turn back around to the fireplace. The mantle is dripping with mis-matched frames, each one filled with pictures of Leon of all different ages, of scenic landscapes that portray him as a well-traveled man. 

One photo in particular stands out to you. A younger version of your neighbor in his late twenties, early thirties at most, stands between a girl around the same age and a man with similar features to hers. Their arms are all interwoven behind each other’s backs, all flashing bright, genuine smiles at the camera. He looks less…burdened here.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon standing once more in the doorway, watching you intently. His piercing blue eyes scan your body, stopping at the photo in your hands. He smirks when he realizes which picture rests inside the painted wood frame. 

“Those are the Redfields.” Leon’s voice draws closer as he meets you at the fireplace. His footsteps are light, graceful, which is funny considering they belong to a man with such an obscene amount of muscle. A glass of ice water in his hand, he looks again at the frame in yours. “Claire and Chris. I met Claire when I was a rookie cop in Racoon City. She was there when everything went to shit.” He waits to see the look of recognition come across your face, but it never does. God, you are young, he thinks. Sweet summer child, so innocent and unaware of the kinds of horrors he has seen. “Before your time, I guess,” he shuckles deeply. “And that’s Chris, her brother. We go way back.” He points to the brunette man beside him. 

“You look so young in this picture.” It’s just an observation on your part, nothing more, and Leon knows that, but the remark hits him where it hurts. He was probably your age, maybe a little bit older, when that photo was taken. It was captured during a time when he truly thought his life would amount to something, that among the smoke and blood and gunpowder, he would still be able to have it all, despite the job, despite the world he was so hastily thrown into. Oh, how wrong he was. You still get to have what he couldn’t. Maybe you’ll get married one day and have a family. Maybe you’ll get a dog. Maybe, in ten years, you’ll still be living in that house next door and he’ll get to watch you enjoy the life you created for yourself. 

He’s not sure he could stick around and see you build the life he never got to have with someone else. He’d have to move if he even lived long enough to see the day. 

If only he met you then, maybe things could have worked out for him. He shakes that thought out of his head, distracting himself from the idea of being with you by reverting back to the photo. 

“We took a trip up to the mountains one summer with a couple other friends.” 

You nod, still looking at the picture. “You never told me that you were so handsome.” 

He has the same haircut, the same dimple in his chin. He just looks more weathered now, fine lines across his forehead, around his eyes and mouth. Deeper ones cut across the pebbled skin of his neck. He’s still breathtakingly beautiful. 

“Maybe I forgot. That was a long time ago.” 

“Sorry,” you apologize quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re still very handsome.” 

You blush, so pretty and pink beneath the low light. “Sorry,” you repeat. “Was that a weird thing to say?” 

Is she flirting with me, he thinks. No, of course not, he’s too old. She’s just being polite because she thought he had offended him. 

“No, not weird at all.” He smirks and it goes straight to your clit, now throbbing so hard you have to cinch your thighs together to keep yourself from becoming a pile of jelly on the floor. 

You’re not sure how to fill the silence that falls over the room. Leon’s smile falters and he’s just staring down at you, the rise and fall of his chest struggling to keep up with his now labored breath. 

“You know you’re good-looking.” Fuel to the fire. “Not sure why you look so surprised.” 

You’ve caught him off guard. He doesn’t know how to respond to that assessment. 

“Maybe I just haven’t heard it in a while. Not from a beautiful woman like you.” 

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. You regroup, finding your bearings again. You need to sit down before your knees give out and you melt into a puddle of nerves on the floor, staining his run. Stepping over toward the couch, Leon follows you, taking a seat on the cushion at the opposite end of the one you chose to settle on, criss-crossing your legs.

Gosh, he’s so gorgeous. Rugged and weathered, sure, that comes with his age, but gorgeous is still the first word you’d use to describe him. The slight bump at the bridge of his knows. Pretty lips that part slightly whenever you’re in his presence. 

He could say the same thing about you, the absolutely stunning woman who can’t seem to leave him alone no matter how awkward, tense, or avoidant he seems. You’re always there with a smile or an offering of beer or cookies, trying to drag him out of the hole he’s created for himself. 

“Can I ask you a question, Leon?”

“Sure.” 

“Why do you have such a big house if it’s just you living here?” 

You’re not accusing him of anything, you just want to know why a single, older man lives in such a large home all by himself. Heavy-lidded and low, his eyes flicker upward from the comfort of his lap to meet yours. The contact sends a tittering chill down your spine and lightning bolts between your thighs. 

As soon as you think he’s about to answer through parted lips, Leon closes his mouth and chooses a physical response instead of a verbal one. He shrugs the shoulder not dug into the back of the sofa. 

“I bought it a couple years back, thinking I might get married and have a family. Never happened.”

What do you say to that? 

Oh, damn.

Woof, that sucks. 

Sorry for the loss of your imaginary family. 

“You still have time,” is what you settle on instead, instantly regretting it. Leon is obviously not getting any younger, and you might have just stuck the knife in deeper with that comment. He really doesn’t still have time, and he knows it. 

“No,” is all he says, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t. ‘Ts why I’m selling the place.” 

Like a slap to the face. Saliva pools beneath your stupefied tongue as your jaw drops open in awe. 

“What? You’re moving?” 

“Yeah, ‘gonna put it on the market soon. Just need to talk to a realtor.” 

“Wha—where are you going to go? Are you leaving town?” 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles deeply. “I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. My job is here. I just want to close this chapter and get something smaller, less work to keep up. I don’t need all this space and I’m getting older. I don’t want to have to maintain it all. Plus, someone else will need it more than I do anyway.” Someone else with a family to care for, a dog that can run around in the backyard, children that can fill the rooms with toys and laughter. 

He wanted to have that more than anything. He wanted colorful letter magnets on the fridge, ballet lessons, soccer practices. He wanted to trip over toy cars left out on the floor, and begrudgingly (but not really) play house with dolls. He wanted to be chased around with sticky, syrup-coated fingers and attend school plays. 

Maybe if he was twenty-eight again, just like he was in that photo, and if you were his neighbor, as sweet and willing as you are now, he would have asked you to do it all with him. 

Okay, he’s not leaving town. That knowledge calms your nerves, but the pit in your stomach is still gaping wide like a canyon. 

“I’m going to miss seeing you, though,” he admits quietly, regretting the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, especially when he sees the look on your face beneath them. You’re wearing an expression he can’t quite decipher. Did he frighten you? Did he disgust you by saying such a perverse thing? 

It’s borderline uncomfortable being in Leon’s presence. He’s older and stronger and could easily pounce and have his way with you in a split second. That idea should probably scare you, but no, the discomfort comes from the desire you feel pooling in your belly, the rope you feel pulling you to him as your seat comes unglued from the sofa cushion. You raise yourself slowly so as not to scare him off, and before his reflexes can react and tug him away, you move into his space and plant a kiss on his cheek.

His face is warm and soft under your pursed lips as they linger for a second too long. In those moments, you debate cupping his face, running your fingers through his hair, planting a palm or two on his chest. He backs up an inch, pulling himself from your touch before you can do any of those things. 

“Leon, I’m sorry. Was that too much?” 

He closes his eyes, putting up a hand between the two of you. 

“You–I–we can’t do this, (Y/N).” The words feel like a kick in the face. The flame of embarrassment rises to the apples of your cheeks, lighting them up with a fierce blush. “My job is dangerous. It takes me away all the time, and I rarely know how long I’ll be gone or if I’m coming back. Sometimes, I don’t think I will. It’s part of the reason why I’m selling this place, why I never got to share it with anyone. I’m not going to drag you into that.”

Throat dry and scratchy, you swallow the lump stuck behind your tongue. “You’re not dragging me into anything, Leon.” 

He gives you a weak smile and huffs. “You say that now, kid.” They all do. When the courtship is still in its beginning phases, Leon introduces the woman to his lifestyle, piece by piece, softly bringing up the intricacies of his job. While she’s still entranced by his heroic position or his good looks or the money or the car, she’s all on board. She promises to stay with him, come hell or high water, but once the threads are worn thin and she’s tired of the waiting, the worrying, she leaves. He hasn’t known you for very long, so he trusts that you will be no different. Plus, you’re young and naive. Even if you seemed one-hundred percent confident in what you wanted, Leon doubts he’d believe you enough to open up his heart to destruction again. 

“I mean it–”

“No, stop. Shh,” he says, tilting his head, eyes squinted as he cuts them around the sofa. “Is that your phone vibrating?” 

You almost missed it beneath the ringing in your ears, but sure enough, Cecilia is calling. 

“It’s the friend I have my key to,” is all you have time to say before picking up the phone and answering. The conversation doesn’t last long. She’s parked outside, in your driveway. 

“She’s here to unlock my door.” Your voice trails off into a hum as you stand up and collect your purse from the table behind the sofa. His bright blue eyes look up at you, awash with an expression you can’t quite name. “Can we finish this conversation tomorrow?” 

He nods, bringing himself to standing so he can walk you to the door. Though he led you to believe tomorrow’s planned conversation would be possible, Leon knew he would be long gone to Rio before you woke up. 

That night, when he’s lying in bed, on the second hour of trying to force himself to sleep, Leon thinks about you. He thinks about what you’re doing. He wonders if you’re awake like he is, if you’re thinking about him like he’s thinking about you. Of course, you’re not awake. You’re normal, probably fast asleep for hours by now. Maybe you’re dreaming about him. He wants to dream about you. 

That photo. Why did you have to look at that photo?

He pictures himself at twenty-eight, around your age. His skin, smooth and mostly unscarred, untainted by twenty years of fighting. He isn’t graying. No wrinkles or joint pain. His back doesn’t yell out at him when he bends the wrong way, or lifts something heavy without first laying into his knees. You said he was handsome, so maybe you would have accepted the proposition of a date if he had asked. He would have made a reservation at a fancy restaurant and put on a suit, slicked his hair back so it didn’t flop in your face when he tried to kiss you. Would you have let him kiss you then? Would you let him now? The old, wrinkled, tired version of the boy you saw in that picture?  

Leon knows the answer to that already. You tried to kiss him tonight and he didn’t let you. Why was he so stupid as to not let you kiss him? It’s one of the only things he’s been able to think about when he has a spare moment to himself. The smooth curve of your lips on his. 

He hasn’t gotten hard in a while. He hasn’t tried. But the images his brain is conjuring up right now send a twinge between his thighs and he feels the fabric of his briefs stretch across his growing arousal.

“Stop it,” he berates himself aloud, rolling over to stuff his face in the pillow. He shouldn’t think of you in that way. He has to let you go. 

May

The doorbell rings, and there’s only one person you hope to see on your doorstep. You say a quick prayer that it’s not Jackson, come to try and convince you to take him back after your break-up. It wasn’t messy, per se, but it was your idea, and Jackson isn’t the type of guy who just gives up on things he wants. Hopefully he doesn’t want you badly enough to show up unsolicited at your front door. 

Thankfully, your prayer was answered and then some. Leon is on your front porch, standing with his shoulders rolled back, his hands clasped behind him. 

“Hi,” is all he says when you swing open the door and lay eyes on him. He never fails to steep your breath, whether it’s his face or the mass of muscle that seems to be one flex away from bursting out of his clothing. The way his chest presses against the fabric of his compression shirt is enough to make your vision go blurry. “I’ve been holding your dress hostage, apparently. Totally forgot I had it.” 

Both of those things are technically true. Once the dress had somewhat dried hanging up in his bathroom, the night before he left for South America, Leon had held it in his arms as he tried to go to sleep. He also might have smelled it. A few times.  

After he returned from the mission, he did forget about it, the dress just hanging in his closet to only be remembered when he was looking for that shirt you once said looked good on him. He wanted to wear it when he randomly stopped by your house today, and then, to his surprise, he found the dress and a perfectly good excuse to see you along with it.

He brings an arm forward, a folded square of chiffon in his grasp. Leon’s large hand makes the dress look like a handkerchief. The sight of the thick, blue veins beneath his knuckles makes your knees weak. 

“Oh right,” is all you say, the smile plastered on your face not allowing for any other words to be formed. “Thanks, Leon.” 

He nearly groans when he hears his name so sweet on your lips. A quick clearing of his throat covers it up. “Yeah, of course.” 

“Would you like to come in? I made cookies earlier, if you’d like one.” You open the door slightly, gesturing for him to come inside.

He saunters inside, a large arm brushing past yours as he walks past you. 

“I give you permission to shoot me if I ever say ‘no’ to that invitation.” 

That makes you giggle. Either the goofy quips he constantly pulls out of his pocket are actually funny, or he’s just so ridiculously handsome that anything he says can make you laugh. The latter is probably true. 

He’s just so damn handsome. Is he even real? Maybe you should reach out and touch him just to make sure. 

You grab a plate from the cabinet and serve Leon one of your signature chocolate chip cookies, just shy of fresh from the oven. 

“Seriously, I think you put crack in these, they’re so good.” He takes another bite. You’re both leaning over your kitchen counter, across from one another. 

His wide smile dwindles slightly, but he’s still looking at you with those sharp blue eyes as they flicker to each feature on your face, lingering on your mouth, your cheeks, your eyes. 

“Thank you. Glad to know I’ve perfected the recipe. My grandmother would be very proud.”

June

Leon had been gone for over a month. He left the morning after he returned your dress to you. The one you wore the night you tried to lunge at him and plant your mouth all over his face. The night after he told you things would never work between you both. When he stopped by, he didn’t mention it once, which somehow made it worse. 

You gave him one hour between hearing his car pull into his driveway and stomping across the patch of grass separating your homes to knock on his door. Apparently, that was more than enough time for him to clean up and start drinking. 

“You’re back.” Then, “What happened?” 

He’s fresh from a shower, still somewhat damp and smelling like the soap he uses, citrus and pine. The scent radiates from the warm skin exposed beneath his black v-neck t-shirt: strong, pale arms and a collarbone peppered with hair. He holds himself up with a crooked arm resting on the door frame, displaying a bulging bicep and shallow cuts across his skin. In his other hand, a sweating beer. 

Staying silent, Leon just glares at you before backing out of the doorway to step aside, gesturing for you to enter his home. You kick off your shoes and pad into the living room. He follows sluggishly, catching up with you. 

You hiss when the cold bottle is pressed to the bare flesh of your upper arm, snapping around to see Leon smirking down at you. He just wanted to hear you squeal. He regretted the act as soon as he did it, but your little yelp was gratifying nonetheless. 

“Want a drink?” That’s all he says. You’ve been worried out of your mind for the past month and all he does is ask if you want some alcohol. Truly, you want to be mad at him, but you can’t find the anger under the relief you feel. The sight of him, living and breathing, glides over your skin like a salve. 

“No, thanks. I’m so sorry to intrude.” You look around the living room, eyes immediately finding a gaggle of empty beer bottles at the foot of his chair. “I just–I saw your car in the driveway. I figured you got back from work finally, and thought I’d come by to check up on you.” 

“That’s very sweet of you,” he says, stepping across you to the leather wingback chain in the corner of the living room. He sinks into it, groaning on his way down, stretching out his legs onto the rug. Bare feet splay across the geometric pattern. 

You wait, still only a couple feet from the door where he left you, watching as he does nothing but drink his beer and gaze back at you. 

“So how was it?” You just want to hear his voice. You want to know that he’s alright. A month is a long time for things to go awry, and from what little information you were able to glean about the work the DSO does, you’re sure a month is far too long for him to have gotten away without taking some sort of damage. Whether it’s above or below the surface, you’d like to find out so you can make it better. 

“Fine.” He grunts at you. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You were gone for a long–”

“I’m fine. If you’re going to keep asking silly questions, you can go.” 

His heartless words are like suckerpunch to the gut, leaving your stomach contorting itself into a knot–a raggedy nest made from twine and rags and discarded trash. You’re not even sure which emotion is at the forefront of the battle marching on inside of you. Maybe it’s sorrow for the mean, old man in front of you. Regret for ever putting your lips on him and letting him feel the softness you have for him through your skin. Shame for mentally labeling him as “mean” and “old”, because he truly is neither. Sympathy for a human being who is obviously being worked to death, the life milked out of him by the greedy fist of a vengeful, uncaring government. Maybe it’s a concoction of all those ugly, festering diseases. Or maybe it’s something altogether more primal and unwavering, something that has clawed its way into your skin like a tick, burrowing deeper and deeper until it latches itself to you, its host, and never lets go. 

You might love the man. Why else would a perfectly rational grown woman have worried herself sick over her neighbor who she has spent a collective twenty hours in the presence of?

“What? I wanted to see if you were alright–”

“I said you can go. I don’t need a nurse or some woman hovering over me right now. Just leave me alone.” 

You must love him. Why else would you let yourself be spoken to with such disgust and condescension and still want to kiss and caress and take care of the inductor of the pain now simmering in your chest?

Eyes stinging and tears threatening to fall, you bite your lip to keep the messy emotions at bay, fully confident that a wet tantrum would not help your case. Some woman.

He sees your face fall and sighs deeply, his shoulders drooping. “Shit, I’m sorry, (Y/N). My assignment was shitty and I’m tired and I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry. Don’t let me be an ass to you, okay?” He sets his beer down on the table beside him. 

“It’s okay, really. I get it. I should have waited until you settled in–I shouldn’t have–” 

Even though he has already apologized, the tears come anyway, welling up on your lashes, stringing as they drip down your cheeks ruthlessly. He jumps up like the seat is on fire, lunging toward you, tugging your body into his arms. Booze and wood strong on his neck as he pulls you closer, rocking you gently from side to side. 

“Fuck,” he swears with a bite, moving to lock his jaw on the crown of your head. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I don’t feel like myself today.” 

Baby. He just called you ‘baby’. He doesn’t notice, but you do. 

You cry out into his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso, hiccuping. Gosh, you probably look so pathetic and childish right now, sobbing into this man’s shirt, but you can’t help it. 

“I’m just glad you’re alive, Leon. You scared me. You said you might not come back one day, and I was so worried when I didn’t see you for so long.” 

“I know, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” 

But he is. He’s moving, and soon at that. One day in the near future, you’ll be separated by a lot more than a patch of grass and a retaining wall that does nothing but help you step into his yard. 

Maybe you can convince him to stay. Maybe your love will convince him that he is worthy of a home, of space, of beauty in his life. That’s why you kiss him, because you think your touch will keep him here. 

His lips are softer than you had imagined, and his mouth tastes like the bitter tang of liquor. The touch riles up a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. 

He pulls away, hands coming up to your upper arms. 

“I’ve had a few drinks.” 

August

“Leon, is that you?” 

You know it is. 

The sound of his sneaker-clad feet–the sound you have practically memorized–cut through the late summer sounds of chirping crickets and heat waves. The hot day melted into a swarthy evening, a bright yellow sun slowly dipping into the horizon, painting the sky with pink and purple clouds. The streetlamps have already turned on, and children have returned from dinner to continue their outdoor activities. A couple of kids from across the street play hopscotch on the sidewalk they painted with chalk earlier. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t say anything more as he takes a seat next to you on the porch swing, the wood creaking beneath the additional weight. It swings back and forth an inch.

“It’s been a while,” you admit, already blushing beneath his gaze. Regret blooms in your chest. You really could have gone without divulging to him that you’ve practically been marking the time he’s been gone like a prisoner counting down the days until his release by scratching chalky lines into the walls of his cell.  

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is low and rough, like he’s been sick or coughing a lot, at least. “I was gone for work.” 

“I assumed so.” 

The two of you share an understanding glance and he smirks at you. It’s a small tug at the corner of his lips, but you feel as though the ground has shifted beneath you. A tectonic shift. 

You’ve gotten used to Leon’s schedule. It’s predictably unpredictable. By now, you know that if you don’t see him for days–or weeks–on end, he’s saving the world from some nasty beast, and you will be at home, on your knees, praying to whichever god will listen that he returns home safely. Sometimes, he tells you. Sometimes, you just have to wait for his car to return by nightfall and if it doesn’t, you know he’s away. 

“Are you okay?” He looks particularly tortured today, shoulders heavy, the bags under his eyes more purple than normal 

He nods. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

“Where were you this time?” You shouldn’t have even said it, but it just slips out before you can stop yourself, knowing good and well he can rarely divulge details like where he was or what he did.

“Classified,” you both say in unison, and that earns you a chuckle. 

“Right. I know better than to ask.” 

Pivoting on the swing until your back meets the armrest, you bend your knees to bring your legs up to the wooden slats. Leon looks down at your bare feet, slender and soft, your toenails painted a pretty pink color. And then your shins, shiny. Smooth. You have a scar on your right knee, a translucent crescent in the skin just below the cap. 

“I missed you while you were gone. I had to start taking cookies over to the Anderson kids across the street.” 

“Bet they loved that.” 

“Yeah. Not sure their parents did, though. I put a lot of sugar in those things. They were probably bouncing off the walls.” 

He just smiles, flashing a set of imperfect teeth. Crows’ feet deepen, the lines around his mouth crease. You love how real he is, even if he seems damaged or burdened, even if he sometimes only gives you one-word responses, or sulks off when you feel like he’s starting to let you in, he’s real. 

“I want to be straight forward for a sec.” 

He crooks a brow, turning his face toward you, and clears his throat. “Okay.” He says it like it’s a question.

“What are we doing here?” 

A smile appears on his face, and you brace yourself for some joke to come slithering off his tongue. 

“We’re sitting on your porch, talking about you poisoning Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s kids with sugar.” 

You can tell he thought he’d get a laugh out of you, but you’re sorry to disappoint when your face stays still. 

“I’m serious.” You swing your legs around so you’re sitting up straight, toes grazing the clay tiles beneath you. He swallows, watching you adjust your hips on the wooden slats, the hips not covered nearly enough by your cotton shorts. “You’re so nice to me, and forgive me if I’m wrong and…I don’t know, maybe I’ll seem stupid and immature for saying this, but I thought you wanted something to come from this. I know I did. I–” 

He shuts you up with a kiss. A real one this time. Not on the cheek. Not blurred by the fuzz of liquor or sadness in need of comfort. His hands are on your upper arms, pulling you closer to him. He tastes even better than you imagined. His lips feel better. Everything is better because it’s actually happening. 

Leon Kennedy, your neighbor, the man you have been pining over like a schoolgirl for the past year, is kissing you, finally, and it’s electric. Shocks buzz beneath your skin, butterflies flutter in your low belly. Hot plasma runs through your veins. Nerve endings fire off on all cylinders. 

It’s magic, and as quickly as it happened, it ends. 

“Miss (Y/N)?” 

You and Leon pull away from each other at the sound of Richy Anderson approaching your porch with his little sister in tow not far behind him. One of Leon’s hands falls down until it’s flush to your back as you turn to look at the pair of hooligans. Richy’s shirt is covered in what you hope is chocolate ice cream. Mia’s white-blonde hair is sticking up in all directions, loose from the braid trailing down her back. Oh to be a child drinking up the last days of summer vacation.

“Hi there,” is all you say, a fat smile plastered on your face. 

“The chalk washed off and we don’t know how to draw it again.” 

You glance over at Leon, still touching the small of your back as you lean forward slightly to talk to the kids. His thumb draws circles there, felt through the thin fabric of your tank top. Warmth blossoms in your chest and your stomach wobbles. 

“Sure thing. Do you still have the chalk?”

“Yes ma’am,” Richy says. Mia nods in agreement behind him, the flesh beneath her jaw more pronounced as she tucks her chin into her neck, lips pressed into a pucker like she just took a bite out of a lemon wedge. 

“I’m being summoned,” you say, glancing back at Leon.

He smiles wide, removing his hand from the small of your back to place both palms on his knees. “Look, I have a meeting tomorrow that might run late, but the day after, I’m going to take you out for dinner. How does that sound?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Sounds amazing.” 

With a kiss to your temple, Leon retreats back into his house, leaving you with the Anderson kids as they drag you by the hand to their side of the street, leading you toward a patch of concrete left soaked by a nearby sprinkler. The phantom whisper of your mouth still tingles on his lips as he watches you through his living room window while you play hopscotch with the children, jumping from one sneaker-clad foot to the other, closing your legs then parting them as you make your way down the line of numbers you helped them redraw with chalk. 

The sight makes his heart swell with desire, his chest tighten with fear. For the first time in a while, Leon Kennedy is really, truly afraid. Before, he felt comfortable admiring you from a distance. He would catch himself daydreaming about you when he was stuck in the office, writing reports under buzzing fluorescence. 

He would think about the warmth of the cozy home you made yours with decorative lamps and artwork clung to the walls, the warmth of your smile, your hands. In meetings, when the lights were turned down low and the hum of the projector harmonized with the drone of whoever was presenting, he would let his mind drift to make-believe images of you in his bed next to him or sitting in his chair, on his lap as he read out loud to you from whichever book was first on the rotation. He could conjure up the smell of your hair if he focused hard enough. Jasmine and honeysuckle, like the first day of spring after a dry, decrepit winter. You smelled like the break of dawn and hope and the promise of a rainbow after a storm. 

When on missions, when faced with death and all sorts of rotten things, he would picture your face–a pinprick of beauty amid the tumult and destruction–and it reinvigorated in him the desire to keep pressing forward. Your eyes, your lips, the little bump of your nose, all the light at the end of the dark, lonely tunnel that has been his life. 

But now? Now, he has touched you. Even worse, he has kissed you. He felt the same electricity you did when your mouths finally collided, a testament to the chemistry between you both. He’s tried so hard to ignore it, to distance himself from the feelings that keep scratching their way to the surface, because for things to work out leaves him a lot more vulnerable to hurt than if nothing came of it, than if the kiss meant nothing.

You’ve changed him. Even Sherry had noticed a difference. She had heard him humming in his office one day. It stopped her in the tracks of her clicky high heels, but she didn’t prod or poke at him. She didn’t have to ask. She just knew. Leon was happy. Happier. 

But he was also scared out of his mind. It had happened so many times before. He would find someone, open his heart to them, build with them a trust that they wouldn’t abandon him, even if things got hard. Even if he had to leave for an indefinite amount of time. Even if he got hurt. Even if he retreated so far within himself it was hard to crawl back up to the surface. They would promise him patience, promise him undying affection, long-enduring love. But those promises always ended up broken, shattered, and it would leave him hollow once more. 

That’s why he has given up. That’s why he’s selling his house. That’s why he’s been taking on more missions, fully prepared for one to be his last, waiting for the final blow. That is, before he met you. Now, he’s counting down the days until he can retire. He’d do that for you. They probably won’t let him, not for another ten years, but he’d try. For you. 

Leon thinks about you for the rest of the evening as he scurries around, a newfound pep in his step, as he showers, as he cracks open a chilled beer, as he settles into his chair and opens the next book in his queue. 

He’s barely two pages in when there’s a knock at his door. God, he hopes it’s you. 

“Leon,” you say as he opens the door, letting in a warm swath of air. It smells sweet, or maybe that’s just you. 

“Hi.” Your heart is racing. You can practically hear it thumping in your ears. It only speeds up when you see Leon, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants low on his hips. There’s a pair of wiry reading glasses sitting on the straight line of his nose. His hair is damp. 

If you weren’t originally planning on jumping him when he opened the door, you definitely are now. 

He is perfectly sculpted, nothing to hide the peaks and valleys of his abdomen, feathered with a light dusting of hair. Scars run up and down his chest, some translucent, blending into the shimmering paleness of his skin. Others are red and angry, fresh. Your fingertips ache to touch them, to run up and down the vein that bulges beneath the skin of his arm, his broad chest and even broader shoulders. You’ve always been a tactile being, but seeing so much of Leon’s uncharted body has you chomping at the bit to get your hands on him. 

He can see that you’re flustered. Inflamed cheeks. Your hands are shaking. Breath unsteady.

“Hey. Everything alright?” He looks out at the street behind you, eyes surveilling the darkness that had fallen over the neighborhood since he lips had last been on yours. 

He’s so sweet. You’re so horny your skin is itching and your ears are ringing and he’s asking if you’re okay. Fuck, you might actually love the man. No, you’re sure you do. Head over heels type of love. That’s what you feel, all the way from your feet to the top of your head. 

“Yeah, I–I’m okay,” you choke. You’re tweaking like an addict on the side of the road waiting for the next hit. Withdrawal. You’re going through withdrawal. “I just…you kissed me earlier and we didn’t really get to talk about it, and I–I–we didn’t get to finish…I wanna finish–ugh, not like that. Geez, I’m so sorry. I sound like such a pervert, but I…” Leon just smiles down at you, chuckling, amused at the blubbering girl in front of him. “I just want you to kiss me again. Please.” 

Leon has always been good at following orders. He pulls you into the house by your wrist, gently closing the door behind you until it clicks shut. His hands come to cup your cheeks and he presses you against the wall, but he doesn’t make a move yet. He just looks at you. 

“Can I?” 

You open your mouth to speak but no sound comes out, and the only response you’re able to muster is a nod. A very eager nod. With his finger still crooked beneath your chin, Leon pulls your lips up to his and the instant your mouths collide, your world is thrown upside down. It’s a chaste kiss, but it rocked you regardless. When he pulls away, you feel empty, needy for his lips to return to yours.

“I–I want—”

“What is it you want? Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything,” he promises in a whisper that tickles the sensitive skin at your ear. 

“I want you, Leon, in any way you’ll give yourself to me. I just want you.” Your palm presses against his bare chest, his skin hot to the touch. Fingertips trail down his abdomen, to the waistband of his sweatpants. He grabs your wrist, stopping your hand in its tracks. “I want you to make love to me.” 

Not fuck. Not screw. You want him to make love to you. And suddenly, this seems like less of a hook-up and more of…a promise of something more. He wants something more than taking you up against the wall of his foyer. 

He pulls away, hands retreating from your body. Your hips scream at the sudden withdrawal of his touch. “We should stop. I should take you out on a proper date before we do this.” 

“Leon?” 

He sobers up at his name short and curt on your tongue, looking down at you with wide eyes. 

“Do you know how long I’ve been thinking about this?” You don’t give him time to answer that question, taking his hands in yours, leading them back to your body where they belong. “Since you helped me move in last year. It’s been that long, I am not stopping now. And I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about being too young for you or too happy or innocent. I know what I’m doing.” 

Leon sighs, relenting. It isn’t hard to convince him to take things further with the girl he has been dreaming about…also for a year. “But not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.” He takes your hand in his and guides you toward the stairs, glancing back to take a look at you every couple of steps as if he’s scared you’ll disappear or run away from him. 

His bedroom. 

You pull off your tank top and tug down your shorts, leaving yourself in nothing but a pair of white lace panties and a matching bra. He nearly chokes on air, bringing a cupped hand to his mouth as he takes in the sight of you. The sight of his beautiful, sweet, young neighbor who is standing two steps from bare in front of him—in front of the bed the two of you are about to share.  

With your hair tied up at the nape of your neck, your lacquered lips, the white lingerie hugging your body…you look almost bridal and the thought of you as his wife steals the breath from his lungs. 

“Please take them off,” you say in a low, hushed voice, taking a step back until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the mattress. “I wore them for you, but I want them off now.” 

“You wore these for me?” His eyes are sharp with incredulity. He can’t believe that you wore these for him, that you thought ahead. That you thought about doing this with him and you dressed up for it. That you want him as badly as he wants you. 

“Yes,” you say with a shy nod, taking your lower lip between your teeth. “I changed into them before I came over. I thought you might like them.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, sinking down to his knees right before you without a second thought. For a moment, you worry about his poor joints on the wood planks, but from the very few details he has told you about his job, you’re sure it requires him to go up against bigger enemies than a hard floor. “I do. I really do.”

“Good.”

“Can I taste you?” He looks up into your eyes with such yearning, you could never refuse him. He could ask you to bite your own hand off and you sink your teeth in, eagerly. 

“You don’t have to ask, Leon. Take whatever you want from me. It’s yours to have.” 

He mewls deep in his throat, eyes flickering back down to your panties. His fingers stay drilled into your thighs. Thick, calloused pads dig into your flesh, holding you still as he presses his nose into the drenched crotch of the garment, inhaling the scent of your arousal. A groan reverberates against your clit, sending shock waves through your veins. His lips begin kissing you through the lace. Your name is repeated on his tongue like a holy prayer. 

“Will you lie back for me, baby?” He pats your thighs like a jockey giving a horse a command. You shouldn’t find that as hot as you do, but you’ll have to reschedule that psychoanalysis for another time. “And lift your hips.”

You happily oblige under his command, scooting your seat onto the mattress until you’re in the perfect position for him to guide the scratchy lace underwear down your thighs. The sudden chill of the air conditioned room slaps your wet, bare clit and it makes you shiver. 

“Can I have these?” He asks, holding up the crumpled lump of lace in his fist, sincerity glassy in his eyes. No man has ever asked to keep your panties before. Then again, no other man has been like Leon. “I’ll buy you more.”

“Um, sure,” you reply with a stifled giggle and he just nods, once, with all the seriousness in the world, and stuffs the underwear into the pocket of his sweatpants before flickering his eyes back up at you. 

“Thank you.” He has a ravenous look in his eyes as he stares at the flesh between your legs. “Beautiful,” he murmurs to himself before gazing back up at you. “You’re perfect, you know that? Absolutely perfect.” 

He begins by kissing your clit sweetly, gradually building the tempo, licking and lapping up your wetness like he’s been wandering in the desert for days, starved and thirsty, and you’re a well of water with his name carved into it. The tip of his tongue enters you and it sends your back off the mattress as if you’ve been possessed. You instinctively try to close your legs, but the heels of his palms keep them open.

“Leon,” you whine, digging your fingers in his hair, then working your way down to his clothed shoulders.  

He grins smugly against your pussy, continuing his movements in the same combination and rhythm that elicited that sound from you. If he ever fell deaf, that is the only sound he would miss, that moan and the way you say his name, so sweet and sincere. Like the song of a heavenly being. 

“Don’t stop,” you beg with the most strength you can muster. It still comes out weakly, carried by a hitched breath.

He wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, he is so caught up in the way you feel on his face, your pussy wet and warm on his chin, that he doesn’t think he could stop if the house was burning around him. 

“Leon, I’m so close. Please.” 

You peel yourself off the mattress, pushing up onto your elbows to get a better view at the man between your thighs. His dark blonde hair, streaked with a few strands of sand and salt, flops down his temples as he worships your clit with his tongue, licking and sucking. The sounds coming from below are disgustingly explicit. Your fingers find his hair, pressing his head further into your pussy. He groans beneath the commanding touch, the vibration pushing you closer toward the edge. 

A coil tightens in your belly. The muscles of your abdomen begin to tense and release. The walls of your cunt pulsate, contracting around nothing. 

“I–I’m–fuck.”

The sound of his muffled groans harmonizes with your obscene cries as you huff and puff and yelp through your orgasm. 

He leans back from between your legs, wiping your glistening arousal off his mouth and chin before he jumps up onto the bed, pulling you further onto the mattress on his way to you. 

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, the taste of you still pungent on his tongue, sweet and wet. His hand dances down between your bodies to cup your sullied cunt, to grab what he has now branded as his. 

“You want me here?” His eyes flicker down to where his hand has latched onto his cock as he strokes himself to fill stiffness, then glances back up at you. “Tell me if you don’t, and I’ll stop.”

You want him everywhere, but you don’t say that aloud. You don’t say anything, too dumb to speak. 

“Tell me if this is okay.” 

Finding the strength to speak, you finally mumble a confirmation. “Yes, yes, it’s okay, Leon. Please. I want to feel you inside.” You sound so desperate. It’s jarring hearing your own voice bending into such an indecent prayer. 

He lines himself up with your entrance, which is now throbbing in anticipation of the impending stretch, and with your additional permission, this time in the form of a gasping plea, he trusts inside, not wasting another moment of not feeling you around him. Cursing under his breath, he pulls out just an inch before pumping back into you, the sound of your sappy arousal sloshing against him with every slap of his pelvis against yours, is lewd and borderline pornographic against the walls of his bedroom. 

“I’ve wanted this—fuck—for so long, you have no idea,” he growls into the crook of your neck, labored breath hot on your skin. “Ever since you came over to my house that night you got locked—mhm—you got locked out—” Another bellow. “When you kissed me on the cheek.” 

He continues. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. Honestly–mhm–I was thinking about you before that. Fuck.” 

“I know, Leon,” you gasp as he bottoms out, filling you with the complete length of his cock. You didn’t even know he wasn’t fully inside you yet. The stretch is earth-shattering. You fist the sheets beneath you, and when that isn’t enough release, you grab onto Leon’s lats, burying your fingers into the thick planks of muscle there, digging your nails into his skin until they leave half-moon indentations. “I’ve–I’ve been wanting this too. For so, so long.” You’re stuttering, voice cracking each time he thrusts himself inside. 

“Use me, Leon. Use me to feel good. I want you to feel good.” 

He mewls at the sound of every single honeyed word dripping from your tongue, and you mean each one with your whole heart. You want to lighten the burden that weighs down on him in any way you can, whether it’s cookies or company, or your wet pussy squeezing his cock. Anything. You would do anything to make him feel better. 

“So good, baby,” he mumbles in your ear, breath foggy on the skin of your neck. “You’re so good to me, always so good. You take care of me. I don’t deserve you.” 

Tears stream down your cheeks and into your hairline. You almost didn’t realize you were crying at first. You have wanted him since the day you met him, since he lifted that box off your arms and helped you move into your home. You want to do the same for him. You want to take away all the heavy things in his life, or at least help carry them. 

As you wrap your legs tighter around his hips to pull him further into you, he bellows out your name. “I’m not gonna last long at this rate, sweetheart.” His breath is labored. 

“That’s okay, go ahead,” you whisper. Then, “I’m safe. I want you to cum inside me.” 

He retreats just an inch to look into your eyes, and you give him an assuring nod in return. Leon picks up the pace. With a final few thrusts, he reaches his climax, filling you to the brim with the gush of his orgasm, before collapsing on top of you, your name cascading from his lips on the way down.

A sliver of pale moonlight seeps through the windows, reflecting off the sheen of slick sweat coating Leon’s chest as he rolls over. He pants, his chest rising and falling. As he regains his strength, his palm comes up to your thigh, and he looks over at you. The tears you shed earlier have since dried down into sticky patches of salt beneath your eyes and at your temples. Your hair is messy, strands falling into your face. Lips, blushed and plump. 

You roll over at the touch, lying on your side to get a better look at him, locking his palm between your legs. His hair is also messy. Dark blonde strands stick up at the crown of his head, at his temples, anywhere your fingers had mussed it during the act. Funny enough, he almost looks younger. The wrinkles at his forehead, between his brows, the fine lines beneath his eyes. They’re smoother. The whites of his eyes have won the battle against the purple circles beneath them–the bitter crescents born from stress and poor sleep hygiene. 

He looks over at you and grins a big, toothless grin that climbs all the way up to his eyes–eyes that, for the first time since you’ve known him, look completely full of light. 

Your mother adjusts the strap of her purse for the fifth time, fussing over you like you're still in high school. You're not. You're legally an adult now-fresh out of exams, technically free, technically independent.

But that doesn't matter to her.

"Don't skip meals, okay?" she says, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "And stay off your phone at night. You get those headaches."

You nod, half-listening, half-tired.

Your father's already loading the last suitcase into the car. He calls out from the driver's side, "Your uncle's expecting you. Don't be late, sweetheart."

Uncle. Right.

You barely remember him-just a tall, tired-looking man with stubble and sunglasses who came to a birthday party once when you were maybe six. You think he brought you a set of markers and forgot your name. A distant blood relative on your dad's side. They reconnected recently, or something.

Apparently, he's in town for work and agreed to let you crash at his place while your parents go off to deal with some extended family emergency in another state. Four days, they said. Five at most.

No big deal.

You wave as the car pulls away, engine humming down the road until it fades into silence. The street feels emptier without them.

---

The cab ride to your uncle's place is quiet. A little too quiet. The neighborhood changes the deeper you go-less streetlights, older houses, more fences. The kind of area where everyone minds their business and doesn't ask questions.

You scroll your texts as the driver turns into a narrow street.

Dad, 6:42 PM

He said he'd be home by now. If no one opens the door, just wait. He probably fell asleep on the couch again lol.

You stare at the house. It's old, weather-worn, but still has that strange sense of "someone lives here." A light's on upstairs. The porch creaks under your weight as you step up and ring the doorbell.

Your fingers are cold.

You hear footsteps behind the door. Slow. Heavy.

The lock clicks.

The door opens.

And-

The man standing there isn't what you expected.

He's tall. Much taller than you remember. Broad shoulders, dark shirt clinging to a firm chest, veins visible on his forearms as he rests a hand casually on the doorframe. There's a scar on his lip and stubble on his jaw, like he hasn't shaved in days.

He's not smiling.

But his eyes... his eyes rake over you for just a second too long before his lips curl upward, like he knows you, even if you don't know him.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, voice deep, gravelly, unreadable.

You blink. "...Uncle?"

The man chuckles low in his throat, stepping aside to let you in. "Yeah. C'mon in, kid."

You step inside and the door clicks shut behind you-louder than you expect.

The air inside is warmer than it should be. Not cozy... more like stifling. Like someone's been here too long with the windows closed. It smells faintly like cigarette smoke and something metallic.

"Shoes off," he says, not turning around.

You blink. "Oh. Right."

You toe off your sneakers, suddenly very aware of your socks not matching.

The man-your uncle-walks ahead without waiting. "Your room's upstairs. Third door on the right. Bed's made. There's a charger next to the nightstand and a water bottle on the table. Let me know if you need a fan or somethin'. The AC's been acting weird."

He talks like he's used to this. Used to you. It puts a strange chill in your spine.

You follow him through the narrow hallway. Framed photos hang crooked on the wall, all of them dusty. Some are turned face-down. You don't ask why.

"This here's the bathroom," he says, gesturing as he passes an open door. "Hot water works fine. Don't use the medicine cabinet-it's got some of my stuff in there."

He pauses, turning just enough to glance at you.

You nod. "Okay."

"Kitchen's down there." He tilts his head toward the back. "Microwave, coffee machine, fridge's stocked. If you're picky, you can order food. Just lemme know before you start spending all your daddy's money."

You're not sure if he's joking.

You force a chuckle anyway. "Right. Got it."

He keeps walking, but his voice lowers as he adds, "You got any allergies or weird food things I should know about?"

"Um... no. I'm fine."

"Good."

---

At the top of the stairs, you trail behind as he opens the bedroom door for you.

It's... neat. Cleaner than you expected. The bed's made, just like he said. Fresh sheets. Folded towel on the dresser. Curtains drawn.

Something about it feels... prepared. Like a guest room, but not really.

You set your bag down and turn, finding him still in the doorway.

He doesn't move.

His eyes rake over you again, slower this time. Not overtly inappropriate-but enough to make your skin prickle.

"You tired?" he asks.

"Not really," you lie.

"Mm." He leans against the frame. "Your dad said you were always a night owl. Always on your phone past midnight."

You blink. "He told you that?"

He shrugs. "He talks. I listen."

---

He pushes off the frame, heading back down the hall.

"Get settled in," he mutters. "Dinner's in an hour. I'll call you."

And just like that, you're alone.

Or... you think you are.

An hour passes in strange silence.

You scroll your phone, unpack half your bag, stare at the unfamiliar ceiling, and try to ignore the slight creak of floorboards from somewhere below. Could just be the house settling. Or him. You're not sure which is worse.

You jump slightly when a knock taps against your door.

His voice follows a second later-gravelly, low, like he's leaned in too close to the wood.

"Dinner's ready."

---

The kitchen light is dim. Warm-toned. One bulb flickers above the table, casting soft shadows against the walls. He's already seated, sleeves rolled up, one arm lazily draped across the back of his chair.

Two plates sit across from each other-steak, potatoes, and something green that's been seared to perfection. The food smells way better than you expected.

"You cook?" you ask, surprised.

He glances up at you, then spears a piece of meat with his fork. "When I want to."

You sit down slowly, feeling the chair legs creak under you.

The first few minutes are quiet. Just chewing and the occasional clink of cutlery.

But he keeps watching you. Not constantly. Just... enough.

---

"How's your studies going?" he asks, halfway through his drink.

You pause. "Yeah. It's fine."

He hums like he doesn't believe you. "Your dad said you've been pulling all-nighters and skipping meals."

You blink. "...He said that?"

He shrugs, sipping again. "He worries. Said you don't take care of yourself."

You try to laugh it off. "I guess he exaggerates."

He sets his glass down. "Hope you won't do that here."

You glance up. "Do what?"

"Forget to eat. Lose sleep. Walk around like some exhausted little zombie. That's not cute."

There's a beat of silence.

You give a tight smile, trying not to seem weirded out. "I'll be fine."

"Good." He leans back, eyes still on you. "Don't want you passing out and making a mess."

"Geez..." You mumble before taking another bite.

-

After dinner, he clears the plates before you can offer.

You catch yourself staring as he rinses the dishes-broad back turned to you, muscles flexing under his shirt as he moves like he owns the place. Like he's done this a hundred times before.

Except... wasn't your uncle the type to order takeout and microwave leftovers like your dad said?

You shake the thought off. Maybe he changed.

---

Back in your room, the air feels colder. You're not sure if it's the window draft or something else.

You get ready for bed slowly-brushing your teeth in the bathroom he pointed out, locking the door even though it feels silly. The hallway outside creaks once while you're rinsing your mouth, and you freeze, toothbrush still in hand.

But when you open the door... it's empty.

---

You slip under the covers, fully dressed, heart beating just a little too fast.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your mom.

Mom, 10:42 PM

Hope you're settling in, baby. We'll call tomorrow. Sweet dreams ❤️

You stare at the screen a little longer than necessary before locking it and setting it on the nightstand.

You leave the lamp on.

Just in case.

And for a while, you drift.

The morning light filters through the curtains in muted strips, dust particles floating lazily in the air. You didn't sleep much. You're not sure why-maybe the new environment, or maybe the fact that you kept hearing creaks every time you almost drifted off.

You make your way downstairs, your feet soft against the wooden steps.

He's already in the kitchen.

Of course he is.

He moves casually behind the stove, flipping something in a pan with one hand while sipping coffee with the other. A faint sizzle fills the silence, along with the scent of butter and eggs.

"You sleep alright?" he asks without turning around.

You hesitate. "Yeah. Fine."

He hums like he doesn't believe you.

You settle into the same chair from last night, brushing your fingers along the grain of the table.

"Didn't think you'd cook again," you say, trying to sound light.

He chuckles under his breath. "Didn't think you'd still be in bed at nine."

You flush slightly, mumbling, "I usually wake up late during holidays..."

"Guess that hasn't changed," he mutters, more to himself than to you.

He slides a plate in front of you-eggs, toast, a slice of fruit. Simple. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

You poke at it with your fork before glancing toward the window over the sink.

"It's really quiet around here," you say. "I barely saw any houses when I came. Are there no neighbors?"

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee slowly.

"Nah," he says. "Most people've moved closer to the city. Easier commute. More streetlights. I guess they like having grocery stores five steps away."

You glance back at him. "So... why do you live here all alone?"

He smiles, slow and lopsided. "Didn't say I lived here. Not really."

You blink. "Huh?"

He shrugs, sets his cup down. "I only come back once in a while. Maybe a weekend here and there. Last time I slept in this place was, what, two months ago?"

He steps closer, standing across the table now.

"Your parents saw a chance and jumped on it. Stuck you here while they ran off to have fun."

His voice is teasing, but there's a strange edge to it.

You frown. "That's not- They didn't- They had important things to do."

He raises a brow, like he's amused by your attempt to defend them.

Then, softly-almost too softly-he asks:

"More important than you?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke.

You stare at him, lips parting slightly, but nothing comes out. Your mind blanks. You're not sure how to respond-or if you're supposed to.

He watches you for a second longer, then chuckles under his breath.

"Relax. Just messing with you."

He turns, walking back to the sink to rinse his mug. But your stomach feels strange now. Not from the food. From something else. A thought. A feeling.

You don't ask him to explain.

You're halfway through cleaning your plate when he suddenly turns around, still drying his mug with a rag.

"Wanna go on a ride?"

You blink up at him, mid-chew. "Huh?"

He's already smirking. "You've been stuck inside too long. Bet you're bored outta your mind."

You hesitate. It's... sudden. And kind of weird. But his eyes sparkle a little, like he's actually enjoying himself, and for once, his expression doesn't feel unreadable or off-it feels easy. Normal.

You nod slowly. "Sure. Why not."

---

The car's an old black sedan, but it runs smooth. He drives one-handed, wrist draped over the steering wheel. The windows are down, warm air brushing against your face as trees and sleepy buildings blur past in the distance.

There's barely any traffic out here. Just long stretches of quiet roads and the occasional rusting mailbox.

You rest your chin on your palm, watching him from the corner of your eye. He looks oddly relaxed like this. Comfortable. You almost forget everything else.

"I wanna learn how to drive," you blurt suddenly, twisting toward him. "Like, seriously. I wanna get my license soon. Everyone else already has theirs, it's annoying." You add a small, dramatic groan.

He glances at you, amused, a brow cocked. "You? Behind the wheel? That sounds like a demolition derby waiting to happen."

"Hey!" you slap his arm lightly, and he just laughs, low and deep. "I wouldn't crash! I've read the whole driving handbook thing!"

"Reading isn't driving, kid."

You pout. "You suck."

He smirks again. "You'll thank me when you don't plow into a streetlamp trying to park."

---

Eventually, the road curves around a cluster of pines, and the landscape opens up to reveal a small lake-still and glassy, reflecting the sky like a mirror. The air smells different here. Crisp. Cleaner than you're used to. It's almost surreal.

You step out and take a few slow steps toward the edge, arms out, letting the breeze sweep through your sleeves. The late sun paints the sky in soft orange and blue.

"It's nice," you murmur.

"Yeah," he says behind you, leaning against the hood. "No horns. No buildings stacked on top of each other. No smog in your lungs."

You nod, glancing back at him. "Wish I saw stuff like this more often..."

He doesn't answer, but you feel his eyes on you again. Not cold this time. Just... lingering.

---

It's getting darker when he finally stretches, pushes off the hood.

"We should head back."

You start walking toward the passenger side, but he tosses something at you mid-step.

You flinch, barely catching it.

His keys.

You stare at him, stunned. "...What?"

He grins. "Your turn."

"Wait-seriously?"

"Dead serious. You said you read the handbook, didn't you?"

You gape for a second before a huge grin spreads across your face. "Okay okay okay-wait-don't laugh if I stall or something, I swear-"

He's already sliding into the passenger seat, one arm draped lazily across the backrest. "Try not to kill us and I won't laugh."

---

You slide into the driver's seat, hands a little shaky as you adjust it, trying to remember every single step from the manual. Okay, check mirrors. Seatbelt. Foot on brake. Start engine- But then you feel it.

His breath. Right against your ear.

"You're gripping the wheel too tight," he murmurs, voice like smoke. "Relax your hands."

You don't move. Your breath catches in your throat.

"Here-like this," he adds, and his fingers brush over yours, guiding them gently into position. His hand lingers. Warm. Firm. Just enough to make your chest feel too small.

You nod slowly, eyes forward, trying to focus-but your heartbeat is so loud in your ears it's impossible to ignore.

Badump. Badump.

This is wrong.

You know it's wrong.

But...

"You listening?" he says, voice low near your cheek.

You snap back to reality, straightening in your seat. "Y-Yeah. Yeah. Sorry."

He leans back with a lazy smirk, draping his arm again.

You put the car in gear. Pull forward.

You don't remember much of the drive back.

Just the smell of pine.

The weight of his touch still tingling on your skin.

And the fact that-for just a moment-you didn't feel scared.

You felt alive.

-

Back at home:

You dry off quickly, steam still clinging to your skin as you wrap a towel around your damp hair. The bathroom mirror is fogged up, making your reflection look strange-blurred, like someone else is staring back.

You shake the thought off and head downstairs in your oversized shirt and pajama shorts. The soft thump of your footsteps barely rises over the faint sound of something sizzling.

He's in the kitchen again.

Leaning over the stove like he's done it a hundred times. A pan on low heat, one hand stirring something slowly while the other holds a glass of water. He doesn't notice you at first-or maybe he does and just doesn't care.

You raise a brow, stepping into the kitchen. "Lemme do it."

He glances over his shoulder. "Hm?"

You cross your arms, mock-pouting. "Or else you'll complain to Dad that I made you work too much."

That earns a low chuckle.

"Isn't that true?" he says, turning back to the stove. "You've made me do literally everything since you got here."

You roll your eyes. "Oh please. I didn't ask you to cook breakfast, and dinner's optional."

"Mmhmm."

You reach to grab a chopping board, fully prepared to defend your honor-when suddenly you feel something tug.

He's behind you.

Before you can blink, his hand is in your hair, pulling the towel gently from your head. You start to protest, but his fingers are already working the cloth through your damp strands with practiced ease.

"H-Hey-! I can do that-!"

He scoffs under his breath. "Sure you can."

But he keeps going.

Firm, slow motions as he rubs the towel through your hair, squeezing out water, fluffing the ends. It's not rough. Not hurried. It's... weirdly careful. His knuckles brush the back of your neck. His palm lingers a little too long against your scalp. You're frozen, not from fear but from-

Whatever this is.

Your breath feels too shallow. Your cheeks are burning.

He finally gives one last rough swipe through your bangs before tossing the towel over your face like it's no big deal.

"Go sit down," he mutters.

You stand there, towel covering your eyes, face red, heart hammering. You don't say anything. You can't.

You just shuffle to the table like a stunned NPC, sinking into the chair as he plates dinner like nothing happened.

---

The clink of utensils and the smell of garlic butter fills the silence. You try to focus on your food, to not think about the feeling of his fingers in your hair.

But your phone screen grabs your attention.

No bars.

Again.

You frown, tapping it twice. Still nothing.

"This is why I don't like this place," you mumble.

He looks up from his plate, brow raised. "Changing your opinion again?"

You groan, shoving the phone toward him. "It was fine yesterday! I even talked to Mom before bed, remember? But now-zero signal. What the hell?"

He sighs, shoveling another bite into his mouth, clearly not fazed.

"Probably the tower's down. Or the signal's just weak out here."

You stare at him. "Isn't that kind of sketchy?"

He shrugs, voice flat. "This isn't the city, kid. You want Wi-Fi and espresso machines, you're in the wrong house."

You go quiet, frowning at your phone again.

He doesn't say anything more. Doesn't try to explain. Just keeps eating like it's not his problem.

He glances at you after a moment, tone low but steady. "So. What do you wanna do now?"

You blink, still caught up in your thoughts. The food tastes like cardboard in your mouth. You put down your fork and shrug.

"Is there even anything to do?"

A short silence.

Then, softer-barely above a whisper.

"Think again."

You look up. And freeze.

He's watching you. No smirk this time, no teasing lilt in his voice. Just a steady, unreadable stare that settles low in your stomach like a weight. You swallow, suddenly nervous. You feel the heat creep up your neck before you even register why.

What is that look?

Why do his eyes feel like they're pressing against your skin?

Your cheeks flush. You glance away, clearing your throat too loudly as you push your chair back and stand.

"Don't wanna," you mumble quickly, retreating without waiting for his reply.

You rush upstairs, practically slamming your door shut behind you. The second you're alone, your legs buckle and you flop onto your bed face-first, burying your head into the sheets.

A soft, strangled whimper escapes you.

Your body feels hot. Heavy. Like your skin's too tight. You can't catch your breath. Your thighs press together instinctively and you curl in on yourself like something's crawling just under your skin.

"What... what's happening to me?" you whisper, gasping. "Why do I feel like this...?"

And his face-his face-is all you can think about.

His hand in your hair. His voice close to your ear. That stare.

The creak of the door yanks you from your thoughts.

You shoot upright, flustered, flushed, heart pounding like you've run a marathon. He's standing in the doorway, calm as ever, one hand still on the doorknob.

"Hey-!" you yelp, scrambling to sit up straight, tugging your shirt down like it'll help. "Knock first-! Get out!"

But he doesn't move.

His head tilts slightly. His eyes narrow. "You okay?"

You blink.

"I-"

"You look sick."

He steps inside, slow, unbothered. Like he owns the room.

You edge away, trying to turn your face from him, but he's already beside the bed. You flinch as his hand reaches out, but instead of grabbing you, he gently presses the back of his fingers to your cheek.

"You're burning up," he murmurs.

You suck in a breath, trembling. "I-I'm fine, just-too hot, I-I just need some air-"

"Shh."

His arms are around you before you can finish. Firm. Anchoring. You can't fight it. You try-your hands press weakly against his chest-but your body won't listen. You're trembling, breath coming in shallow gasps, heat pooling in your belly.

"Relax," he says softly, lips brushing your temple. "C'mon... I don't want you to die."

He pauses.

Then, with a grin you feel against your skin: "Not yet."

You want to scream at him, to shove him off, but the words won't come. Everything's too fuzzy. His voice is in your ear again.

"Tell me, what do you want to do..."

Your name leaves his lips like it's always belonged there-slow, coaxing.

Your breath catches.

He looks at you.

You stare back, dizzy, heart thudding too hard. You don't even realize when you lean forward-don't notice the moment the last string snaps inside you.

Your lips crash into his, desperate and messy, and you stop thinking altogether.

Your head throbs, grogginess muddying your thoughts. As your eyes flutter open, the morning light stings, blurring your vision. Blinking, you try to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your body halts you mid-movement. What happened last night? Everything's hazy.

As your sight clears, a sudden surge of panic rushes through you. He's there, looming over you, his body pinning yours down. The realization hits like a freight train - he's inside you, thrusting with a relentless pace, his hips slapping against yours.

"eep- uncle..~!?" You want to scream, but all that escapes your lips are desperate mewls. Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. You can't move, can't fight back. It feels like your body isn't yours to command.

He doesn't stop. If anything, your pathetic pleas only seem to spur him on. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head as he continues his brutal pace. You can feel every inch of him stretching you, claiming you in a way that makes your stomach churn.

"My princess," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so tight and wet for me..."

You shake your head frantically, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "w..wait-... please... uncle!"

But your pleas are weak, broken. They dissolve into more soft whimpers as he slams into you, over and over again. The bed creaks under the force of his thrusts, the headboard slamming against the wall.

"You love this, don't you?" He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in harsh circles. "I've seen the way you look a me.."

"aAhh~ t..that's n..not-!" But, your body betrays you, arching into his touch despite the pain. A strangled moan rips from your throat as an unwanted orgasm crashes over you, sending shockwaves of pleasure and disgust coursing through your veins.

He laughs, a dark, cruel sound that makes your skin crawl. "Good girl. My good little princess."

He lets go of your wrists, and you weakly try to push him away. But he just grabs your thighs, pushing them up and back, opening you wider to his punishing thrusts.

"I'm going to fill you up," he promises, his voice dripping with malice. "You'll be dripping with my cum for days."

You sob, twisting your head to the side, unable to look at him. This can't be happening. This can't be real. But the searing pain in your body and the feeling of him throbbing inside you are all too real.

You don't remember how many times he kept going, filling your insides until your tummy was full of his semen. The drug coursing through your veins made it hard to think straight, let alone fight back. Your body started to feel numb, your thoughts hazy and disjointed.

But as he continued to pound into you, something shifted. The pain and fear started to morph into something else - a twisted, unwanted pleasure. Your body betrayed you, your hips starting to rock back to meet his thrusts.

"Uncle~... uncle...!" You mewled, the words barely coherent. But there was a new tone in your voice - a hint of desperation, of need.

He heard it too. His pace quickened, his grip on your hips tightening. "That's it, princess. Take my cock like a good girl."

You couldn't help but moan, your back arching off the bed. The room spun around you, the drug making everything fuzzy and distant. But the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, claiming you - that was sharp and clear.

"P-please... more~ ngh..." You gasped out, your voice a needy whine. You couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth, but you couldn't stop them either.

He obliged, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The bed creaked ominously beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful snap of his hips.

"Cum for me, princess," he growled, his voice rough with exertion and lust. "Cum all over my cock."

Your body obeyed, your insides clenching around him as a powerful orgasm crashed over you. You screamed, your voice echoing through the room, mixing with his grunts and groans of pleasure.

He kept going, kept pounding into you even as you convulsed and shook beneath him. The drug made it feel like the orgasm went on forever, each thrust sending fresh waves of ecstasy coursing through your veins.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and stills. You feel his cock pulse as he empties himself into you, marking you, claiming you in the most degrading way possible.

He collapses on top of you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. You lay there, limp and broken, tears streaming down your face as he catches his breath.

"Princess..." he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "My perfect stupid girl... All mine.."

-

Evening settles into soft orange hues pouring through the windows. You're curled up on the couch, knees tucked under your chin, a faint smile on your face as you listen to him talk. You've grown comfortable-too comfortable, maybe. It's been two days, but something about him disarms you. The way he teases you. Looks at you. Treats you. It's wrong, of course it is. You know it is. But your chest aches every time he leans a little too close, every time his hand brushes yours like it belongs there.

You're falling, and you don't even know who you're falling for.

Then, suddenly-buzz.

Your phone lights up.

Mom calling... (FaceTime).

Your heart leaps. You blink at the screen, hesitation snapping you out of whatever fantasy you were just building. You slide your thumb across the screen without thinking.

"Hey, Mom!"

Her face fills the screen-tired eyes, smile creased from travel. "Sweetheart! Finally, you picked up. We've been trying all day. Are you doing okay there?"

You shift slightly, glancing toward the kitchen where he's standing, lazily sipping from a mug. "Yeah-yeah, I'm good. It's, um..." You pause, a little flustered. You clear your throat. "He's cool. My uncle, I mean. Kinda chill actually."

Your mom's face lights up. "Oh! Then show me, silly. Turn the camera around-I want to say hello!"

You nod and flip to the back camera, angling the phone toward the kitchen. "He's over there," you say, voice casual, but your stomach tightens anyway.

He looks so calm-just standing there, sipping like he owns the place.

And then-pause.

"Mom?" You flip the camera back to your face. "What's wrong?"

Her expression has drained. Pale. Stiff. Eyes wide. Her lips part slowly, voice barely a whisper:

"W...who is that with you...?"

Your heart stops.

You blink. "What? What do you mean? That's-you said my uncle was-"

The signal dies.

Your phone screen goes black.

You just sit there, staring, frozen. Your body's cold, but your neck is damp with sweat. Her face-that expression-it won't leave your head.

You turn toward the kitchen. He's still standing there. Still sipping that mug. But now, he's watching you.

Your lips part. Your voice trembles. "U-..Uncle...?"

He sets the mug down. His smile spreads slowly.

"Yes, princess?" he says-same voice, same inflection-but there's something cruel now, something that cuts into you.

You stand up. Backing away slightly. Your hands grip your phone like it's some kind of shield.

"You're not my uncle..." Your voice is sharper now, but thin. Afraid.

"Who... who are you...?"

He tilts his head.

"Toji," he says softly, like he's offering you a secret.

Then, he grins wider.

"But you can keep calling me uncle..." he murmurs, stepping forward,

"...like ya did while having sex..."

"I was happy... when we first met."

The thought echoes in your mind like a distant bell, soft but heavy, weighing down your chest as you stare at the ceiling in the dim light of your shared apartment. "Then... how did it turn out like this?"

You remember it clearly-the beginning. You were working the morning shift at that tiny corner café tucked between towering office buildings and the scent of burnt espresso and baked pastries. It had been just another regular Tuesday, the kind of day where time blurred with routine.

Then, he walked in.

A man in a charcoal suit, tie slightly loosened, blonde hair slicked back yet slightly out of place, as if the day had already exhausted him by 9 a.m. He looked... tired. Not just physically-but deeply, soulfully drained. You noticed it right away. Something about the way his shoulders sagged, or how his eyes barely scanned the menu like he already knew what he wanted, but still lacked the energy to speak.

You smiled at him, instinctively. "Rough morning?"

He stared at you. Not in an unsettling way-but like your voice had caught him off guard. His eyes lingered on your face a moment too long before he finally said, "Black. No sugar."

He paid without another word, eyes fixed on yours the whole time. And then he left, coffee in hand, silent as a shadow.

That became your routine.

Same time every day, like clockwork. He'd show up, order his drink, never missing a day, and you'd greet him with a cheerful smile, throwing in little comments to try and lighten his mood. He never said much. Just the order, then a long, unreadable look, and he was gone. You didn't even know his name back then. But something about the quiet ritual made you look forward to his visits. You thought maybe-just maybe-he looked forward to them too.

But today... today was different.

You were bent over the register, counting change with tired fingers, when you felt his gaze again. That same gaze you had grown used to. But this time, his voice cut through the hum of the café.

"...What's your name?"

You blinked, glancing up with surprise dancing in your features. A small, genuine laugh escaped you. "Seriously? After all this time?" you teased, tilting your head.

His eyes flicked away for a moment, and then back to you. "You smile too much," he murmured, barely above the hiss of the coffee machine.

You paused, brows lifted. "Huh? Smiling's a good thing! You should try it sometime."

He didn't smile. Just stood there in that same stiff posture, eyes unreadable. And then he turned, like he was about to leave again.

But you called after him. "Wait! What's your name?"

He stopped in the doorway. Without looking back, he simply said, "Kento."

And then he left.

You smiled that day too.

Now, lying here, your fingers curl into the sheets, nails biting your palms. *Dare I say... he's my husband now.*

The words feel surreal even in your mind. The man who once barely spoke now shares your bed, your life, your mornings and nights. You both loved each other. You still do. The quiet presence, the comfort, the small glances-it was everything to you.

So why... why does it feel so suffocating now?

Your chest tightens. "He's acting strange. Off. Like there's something I don't understand. And I hate that I don't understand him anymore..."

---

The sound of the front door clicking open jolts you from your thoughts like a splash of cold water. You sit up quickly from the couch, brushing your fingers through your hair to smooth it down, your heart suddenly beating faster-not from fear, no-but that nervous flutter you still get whenever he comes home.

You head toward the staircase, bare feet padding softly against the wood as you descend.

There he is.

Nanami Kento stands just inside the entryway, his tall frame still cloaked in the soft shadow of the hallway light. His suit jacket hangs slightly off his shoulders, and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks tired-just like the first time you saw him.

His gaze lifts to meet yours. Calm. Quiet. Unreadable as always.

"Were you sleeping?" he asks, voice low and gentle, like he's afraid of disturbing something fragile.

You shake your head. "No. Just resting my eyes for a bit," you say softly.

He hums-just that-a low, thoughtful sound as he drops his office bag beside the shoe rack. Then, without another word, he steps toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

His arms are firm, familiar. His chin rests gently atop your head as he breathes you in, deeply, like he's grounding himself in the scent of you.

He doesn't say anything. He never does during these moments. And yet, it speaks louder than any words.

This-his embrace-is your weakness. His silence, his presence, the way he holds you like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world.

He knows it too well.

You try to pull back, though not fully. "Let me go... I have to set the table," you murmur against his shirt.

He doesn't argue, just hums again, and slowly releases you with reluctant hands.

"I've prepared the bath already," you say, glancing up at him with a small smile.

His lips twitch-just a little, almost imperceptibly-but it's a smile all the same. "Thank you," he says, before turning and heading toward the bathroom, loosening his tie as he walks away.

You exhale quietly once he's out of sight, then move to the kitchen. Dinner is already mostly done. You plate the food, pour the miso soup, arrange the vegetables just how he likes them. Every small act is muscle memory now-done so often that it feels automatic. But tonight, your hands tremble just slightly.

You sit across from him at the low table once he's done bathing. He smells of fresh soap and something faintly herbal. He eats in silence, as he usually does-methodical and calm.

You pick at your rice, and he notices.

"Eat your spinach too," he says, glancing at your plate with a small frown.

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. "You always care about the vegetables."

"You always try to avoid them," he replies simply, and places a bit of spinach on your bowl from his own chopsticks.

You chuckle under your breath. "Fair point."

A few more minutes pass in silence. The clink of bowls, the warmth of tea, the comfort of routine.

Then you glance down at your lap, heart fluttering again-though this time, not in a pleasant way. You hesitate. Then speak.

"I was thinking..."

He looks up from his food. "Hm?"

You twirl your chopsticks a little. "Uhm... It's been two weeks since we got married, right?" You swallow. "What about... our honeymoon?"

The word hangs awkwardly in the air, and you don't dare look up at his face. Your voice shrinks with the next line. "I-I mean, it doesn't have to be anything fancy. Just... I thought maybe..."

His reply is quiet. Too quiet.

"We can have our honeymoon here. In this house," he says, tone flat. "No need to go out."

Your hand freezes midair.

There it is.

That tone. Detached. Practical. Not cold, exactly... but something close. Something unreadable that tightens the air around you like a wire. This wasn't like him-no, not the man who once stared at you like you were the only warmth in the world.

You want to push back. Say *but we should go out, see the world, make memories, live*. You want to ask what he's thinking. Why is he pulling away even while holding you so close?

But you stop yourself.

Not at the table. Not like this.

"Okay," you say softly, forcing a smile, pushing food around on your plate. "Sure..."

Dinner continues in silence. The ache in your chest is the only thing that grows.

Later, in the dim glow of your bedroom lamp, you lie curled on your side, trying to make sense of the weight in your heart. But before you can think too long, you feel him again-his warmth pressing against your back.

He wraps himself around you, arm snug around your waist, his lips brushing along your neck with soft, unhurried kisses.

Like nothing happened. Like nothing was wrong.

Like he wasn't slowly pulling the air from your lungs with every word he didn't say.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your hand resting on top of his as his breath fans against your skin. His hand roams over your curves, appreciating every inch of your supple skin. His trail kisses along your neck, inhaling your scent, a mix of sweetness and the faint lingering aroma of smoke. You taste like heaven, like everything he'd ever wanted.

He pushed your hair aside, exposing more of your neck to his hungry mouth. You gasp, a shiver running through you as his teeth graze your sensitive skin. His other hand slides down your body, cupping your breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm. Your nipple hardens under his touch, begging to be tasted.

"W-wait.. I'm not ready.." You turn in his arms, your eyes meeting his, filled with lust and a hint of fear. He capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, exploring every corner, claiming you as his. You moan into the kiss, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

"Shh.. I won't hurt you..." He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your jawline, your collarbone, his hands roaming lower, caressing your sides, your hips, your thighs. He settle between your legs, pushing them apart gently, giving himself access to your most intimate parts.

You're already wet, your arousal glistening on your folds. He licks his lips, eager to taste you. He starts at your knee, trailing kisses up your inner thigh, stopping just short of where you need him most. You whimper, your hips lifting off the bed, silently begging for more.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Patience, love," He murmured, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. He continues his teasing path, switching to the other thigh, driving you mad with anticipation.

When he finally reaches your center, he takes a moment to admire the view, your pink folds glistening with desire. He ran a finger through your slit, feeling your wetness coat his skin. You shudder, a soft cry escaping your lips.

Slowly, he begins to explore you with his tongue, starting at your entrance and licking upwards, savoring your sweet taste. You buck against his mouth, your hands fisting in the sheets, your breath coming in short gasps. He focuses on your clit, flicking and circling the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue, eliciting more moans from you.

He slides two fingers inside you, feeling your tight walls clench around them. He pump them in and out, curling them to hit that special spot deep inside you. Your hips move in rhythm with his fingers, seeking more friction, more pleasure.

He feels you tightening around his fingers, your moans growing louder, more desperate. He redoubles his efforts, wanting to feel you come undone beneath him. Your body tenses, your back arching off the bed as you cry out your release. He continues to lap at you, prolonging your orgasm until you collapse back onto the bed, spent and satisfied.

He crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a deep kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling his hardness pressing against you.

He lined himself up with your entrance, teasing you with the tip, rubbing it against your still-sensitive clit. You whimper, your hips lifting, trying to take him inside. But he holds back, wanting to draw out the pleasure for both of you.

"I love you," He murmured against your lips, his eyes boring into yours. "So.. so.. much.."

With that declaration, He slowly pushes into you, feeling your tight heat envelop him. "Fuck..." He groaned at the sensation, fighting the urge to thrust hard and fast. Instead, He set a steady rhythm, savoring every inch of you.

"Aah..~!..ngh.." You match his pace, your hips rising to meet his, taking him deeper in perfect sync, chasing that elusive peak together. He buries his face in your neck, breathing in your scent, losing himself in the feel of you.

He can feel his release building, the pressure growing at the base of his spine. But he holds back, wanting to feel you come again first. He reaches between your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing it in tight circles. "Ahh~n..noo.. it's too much..!" You clench around him, your moans growing louder, more urgent.

"Come for me, Y/N," He whispered in your ear. "Let go for me."

Your body tenses, your nails digging into his back as you shatter around him. He continues to thrust through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure. When you start to come down, He pulls out, spilling himself onto the sheets next to you. He collapsed on top of you, panting and sweaty. Yet, grinding his semi-hard length against your ruined entrance. "The night is still young, love."

-

The next morning drifted by quietly.

Nanami had already left for work, the usual faint scent of his aftershave lingering in the hallway, clinging to the collar of his suit left on the laundry basket. You had kissed him goodbye, murmured something about taking care, and he had replied with a soft hum, brushing your cheek with his knuckles before stepping out the door.

Now, the apartment was silent again-too silent.

You weren't really doing anything. Just moving through the motions: folding laundry, wiping down the kitchen counters, rearranging a drawer that didn't really need it. You kept busy, but your mind was elsewhere.

The quiet had never bothered you before. But now... it rang louder than before.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You startled slightly, heart skipping for no reason at all. Glancing down, you saw *Mom* flashing on the screen.

You picked it up immediately. "Hi, Mom!" you said, injecting cheer into your voice.

There was a familiar warmth on the other end. "Sweetheart! I was just thinking about you. How are you doing? And how's he treating you?"

You laughed a little, shaking your head as you sank into the dining chair, tucking a leg underneath you. "You're worrying for nothing, seriously. I told you-he's a good guy!"

"I know, I know," she said, but her voice held a mother's signature strain of worry. "I just can't help it. You're still so young, you know... and he's-well, he's seen more of the world than you."

You paused, a smile faltering just slightly. You knew what she meant. The age difference-nothing extreme, but enough that it had made her hesitant at first.

You sighed gently. "Mom, he's not ancient. And besides, he treats me well. Always has. He's kind in his own quiet way. Cares about the little things. You don't have to keep worrying."

There was a soft laugh on the other end, but it was filled with love. "I suppose I'll never stop. That's what moms do."

The conversation drifted after that. Her voice filled the apartment, lightening the air. You told her about the dinner you planned, about a bird that wouldn't stop perching on the balcony railing, about the scarf you found in your closet that Nanami apparently folded and stored without you realizing.

After a while, the chores were done, and your mom was done asking about vitamins and laundry and your meals.

"Alright, I'll let you go. Call me soon, okay?"

"I will," you promised. "Love you."

"Love you more."

The call ended. The house fell into stillness again.

You stood for a long moment, staring at your phone, your fingers brushing the screen. Then you shook your head, stretched your arms over your head, and moved back to the kitchen. Dinner needed prepping. He'd be home in a few hours.

The routine continued-rice simmering, miso soup bubbling, the vegetables you knew he'd fuss over you eating. The house filled with warm, savory scents, and that familiar anticipation crept in again, just like it always did around this time.

When the door finally clicked open, your heart gave that soft, ridiculous jump. You turned to greet him as he stepped in, loosening his tie, sighing through his nose in quiet exhaustion.

You smiled. "Welcome home."

He looked up at you. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then, as always, he took off his shoes and placed his bag by the door.

But tonight, there was a small pause in the rhythm.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer.

"Who were you on the phone with all day?"

You blinked, confused for a heartbeat. "Oh... that was my mom," you said, brushing a hand over your arm. "We were just chatting while I did some cleaning."

He hummed softly, his usual acknowledgment.

Then he spoke again, gently. "We should invite your parents over sometime."

You looked up, startled by the unexpected suggestion. His voice was calm, almost too calm. "You must've been missing them, right?"

There was something in the way he said it. Not accusatory. Not suspicious. Just... thoughtful. Careful. As if he were handling something delicate.

You hesitated, caught off guard. "I mean... yeah. A little," you admitted. And then a small smile pulled at your lips. "I'd actually really like that."

His eyes softened, and for a brief moment, the warmth you'd first fallen in love with peeked through. "Then let's do it," he said.

You nodded, a little more excitedly than you meant to. "Okay."

And for the first time in days, the heaviness in your chest eased-just a little.

---

The day your parents were coming arrived faster than expected, and the apartment was filled with the quiet hum of preparation.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, apron tied loosely around your waist, stirring the miso soup while trying not to panic over the state of the living room. "Are you sure the couch cushions look okay?" you asked, peeking over your shoulder toward where Nanami was calmly adjusting a vase of fresh flowers you didn't even know he bought this morning.

"They're fine," he said simply, glancing at you with a reassuring nod. "You've cleaned everything twice."

You pouted. "They're my *parents*. They already think you're some mysterious businessman who snatched me away too quickly."

"I am a mysterious businessman who snatched you away too quickly," he replied smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth.

You rolled your eyes but felt your nerves settle just a bit. He was always like this-steady, unshaken, and today, surprisingly hands-on. He helped you set the table, adjusted the lighting, and even folded the hand towels in the guest bathroom into neat little fans that made you blink at him like he was a secret origami master.

At exactly four o'clock, the doorbell rang.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, fumbling to untie your apron as Nanami calmly went to answer it. When he opened the door, his tone was warm-polite, formal, but not cold.

"Welcome. Please come in."

Your mother blinked a little, eyes darting around the space before smiling. "Thank you... Nanami-san. It's so nice to finally visit."

"Please, just call me Kento."

Your father gave a polite bow, still a bit stiff, but you noticed how his eyes scanned the apartment-clean, warm, inviting. Nanami had even set out their favorite tea before they arrived, and he offered it now without missing a beat.

The afternoon passed in a blur of conversation. Nanami sat with them, listened attentively to your father's work stories, even asked a few questions that made your dad puff up proudly. He remembered the name of your mother's favorite singer and brought up a concert she'd once mentioned in passing over the phone. You hadn't even known he was listening.

At dinner, he insisted on serving your parents personally-placing dishes gently in front of them, making sure they had enough of everything. When your mother asked for water, he stood before you could even react.

You watched from across the table, a strange, swelling warmth in your chest. This-this quiet effort-this was who he truly was.

Later, while Nanami and your father chatted about books in the living room, your mother gently pulled you aside in the kitchen under the pretense of helping with the dishes.

"You know," she said in a low voice, drying a plate with a soft cloth, "I really thought he'd be... distant. Cold, even. But I was wrong."

You glanced at her, curious.

She smiled at you-truly smiled-and added, "You're lucky, sweetheart. He really *is* a good man."

Your heart skipped a beat. You bit your lip and tried to hold back the small wave of emotion building behind your eyes. "I know," you whispered.

When they finally left in the early evening, your parents hugged you tightly at the door, your mother's voice soft with sincerity as she said again, "Take care of each other."

Nanami stood beside you, his hand resting gently on your lower back, grounding you.

Once the door closed behind them and the house returned to silence, you turned to him, face still glowing with happiness.

"Thank you," you said, your voice a little breathless. "For everything. Today meant a lot."

He looked down at you, expression softening in that quiet way only you ever got to see. "Anything for you."

You smiled up at him, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his waist, cheek resting against his chest. He held you there for a long, content moment, his chin resting on your head again, just like always.

Sweet moments like this... they were your favorite kind. The kind that made you believe that even in the quiet, even in the strange, unreadable pauses-there was love.

There always had been.

-

It was Sunday.

A quiet, warm kind of day. The sun poured through the living room windows like lazy gold, spilling onto the wooden floors and casting soft shadows across the walls. The kind of peaceful morning you'd always imagined sharing with someone.

And now, here you were-sharing it with him.

Nanami had decided to stay home today, finally taking a well-deserved rest. He rarely ever did. His usual definition of a "day off" involved catching up on paperwork or reviewing financial reports with a straight face and a lukewarm cup of tea. But today, he had promised-no work. Just the two of you.

He had woken up earlier, taken a long shower, and was now padding through the hallway, hair damp, towel draped around his neck, dressed in a simple black T-shirt and lounge pants. Casual. Domestic. Still somehow refined.

You sat curled on the couch, flipping through a recipe book you didn't even plan on using today, just enjoying the comfort of being in the same space.

Then your phone rang.

You blinked at the screen. Unknown number-but something familiar about the digits made your chest tighten.

You picked up. "Hello?"

"Y/N-chan!" came the chirpy voice of your old café manager.

You straightened up. "Oh-! Manager! It's been a while."

"I heard about the wedding!" she said brightly. "Congratulations! Married life must be treating you well, huh?"

You laughed nervously. "Ah, yeah... it's been nice. Thank you."

There was a pause on the other end before her tone turned a bit more businesslike. "So... when do you think you'll be coming back to work?"

You froze.

That question hit a part of your brain you hadn't touched in weeks. You hadn't even *thought* about the café. The smell of roasted beans, the chime of the bell over the door, the regulars-*your* little world.

It felt like a different life.

"Oh," you said softly, voice catching. "I haven't really... decided yet."

"Ah, I see," she said, gently now. "Of course. No pressure at all. Just let me know when you can. Everyone misses you around here."

"Right... I'll let you know soon, I promise."

She hummed, understanding in her tone. "Take care, Y/N."

The call ended.

You were still staring at your screen, heart somewhere caught between nostalgia and confusion, when you heard the towel being ruffled behind you.

"Who was it?" Nanami's voice drifted over your shoulder-low, calm as always.

You glanced back at him. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, and he was running the towel over the ends absently as he stood just a few steps behind you.

"The manager," you replied. "From the café. She wanted to know when I'll be coming back." You gave him a soft smile. "It's been weeks, right?"

He stared at you for a moment. "What did you tell her?"

You shrugged. "I said I'd let her know. That I needed some time to think."

His towel stilled mid-motion.

"You didn't say no?"

You turned slightly on the couch to face him better. "Huh? No, I mean-I didn't *decide* anything yet."

He sighed, quiet but unmistakably displeased, and set the towel on the back of the couch.

"You don't have to work at that café anymore," he said simply.

You blinked. "Why?"

"If you want to work," he added, his voice still even, "you can come work for my company. We'll make arrangements. I can have something tailored for you."

You furrowed your brows, fully turning to him now. "But... Why not the café? I liked working there."

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he walked closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His touch was tender-loving, even-but the air had shifted.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours, steady and unreadable.

Then he murmured, almost too softly:

"What if you meet another 'me'... and try to cheer him up as well?"

You froze.

For a moment, the words didn't register. But then the silence that followed was louder than anything.

Your heart thudded once. Hard.

"...What?" you asked, voice quiet, almost a whisper.

He didn't say anything more. His hand lingered near your cheek for a moment longer before he pulled it away slowly, looking down-not at you, but at the floor, like he'd said too much. Or maybe not enough.

You stared at him, searching his face for something-an answer, a joke, a smirk-but found none. Just calm eyes and an invisible wall.

And suddenly, the apartment felt too quiet again.

Too still.

Like something important had shifted-and neither of you were sure what to do with it.

-

Since that day...

Everything had started to unravel.

It wasn't obvious at first-just small things. A strange comment here. A missed call there. But the shift was unmistakable once you saw it. Once you felt it.

You tried to ignore it. You really did.

But now... it was getting too much.

He started to decide things for you. Quietly. Smoothly. Without discussion.

The arguments began small, like harmless ripples in still water.

"I just wanted to go out for a bit," you had said one evening, voice tired but steady. "To walk around. Breathe. Maybe stop by the station bookstore."

"It's not safe," he replied, voice as calm as always.

You blinked. "Kento... it's just a ten-minute walk. I used to do it every day-"

"I said it's not safe," he repeated. "You don't need to be out there."

That phrase became his shield. "It's not safe."

Like the world was a monster with teeth, waiting to devour you the moment he looked away.

You thought maybe he was just worried. Overprotective, perhaps. You tried to reassure him. To understand.

Until one day, you called the café just to check in-only to find out that your resignation had been finalized.

You never submitted one.

"Kento," you had asked slowly, confronting him in the living room, hands clenched into fists. "Did you... quit my job for me?"

He didn't even look up from the book he was reading. "Yes."

You had gone still. "Why?"

He turned the page, his voice even. "Because you weren't going to do it. So I did it for you."

That night, when you finally decided to leave for some air-just air-the front door was locked.

From the outside.

You'd stood there in the hallway, staring at the latch like it had grown teeth. Your fingers trembled on the knob. You'd jiggled it, then pounded, heart thudding.

No key. No way out.

Things were spiraling. You felt it in your gut. But whenever you confronted him, his voice stayed the same. Gentle. Patient. As if you were the one acting irrational.

"I'm doing this for your safety," he'd say, cupping your face with warm palms, kissing your temple. "For our future."

But your chest kept tightening. Your sleep was getting lighter. Even your laughter felt hollow now.

You tried calling your mom again. You told her everything-at least what you could without falling apart. You expected worry, concern, something.

But her voice only offered calm reassurance. "Sweetheart... I think he's just being protective. Don't overthink it. He's older, more experienced. He knows things you don't."

Your blood ran cold.

Even she didn't believe you.

That night, you tried to leave. No more waiting. You had to. You had to. You climbed through the laundry window barefoot-no time for shoes. Your heart pounded with each step. You ran down the street, not even knowing where you were headed.

But he found you.

He always found you.

And when he brought you back... he didn't yell. He didn't raise his hand.

He just closed the door behind you. Locked it. Then turned to you with that same unreadable calm.

Now, you sat on the edge of the bed, your legs trembling. You could still feel the sting of gravel in your feet, the scratches along your soles. You didn't dare meet his eyes.

Then you felt his hand.

You startled as Nanami knelt down in front of you, head bowed, gently taking your bare foot in his palm. His other hand caressed your ankle with a tenderness that made you shiver-not from affection, but from fear.

You hissed as his fingers brushed a gash. He didn't flinch.

"I bought you new shoes, didn't I?" he murmured, voice low, soft. "What's the need for running outside barefoot?"

Your breath caught. "Kento, please... it hurts."

He sighed faintly, reaching for a cloth and dabbing your wound. "This is why I said it's dangerous out there."

You winced, pulling back slightly. "Let go... it's stinging..."

His hand tightened-just a little. Then, with no shift in tone, he asked, "Should we cut them off, then?"

Silence crashed into the room like a brick wall.

You stared at him, eyes wide. Your lips trembled, but no words came.

He slowly looked up, eyes calm. Not cold. Not angry.

He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek with the back of his knuckle.

"Don't look so scared," he whispered. "I don't like it when you're in pain."

His hand cupped your face.

"I'd do anything to make you smile."

You were shivering now-really, truly shaking. You didn't know when the tears had started, only that your cheeks were wet, your hands gripping the bedsheet.

"I... no... Something's wrong..." Your voice cracked. "I-I'm scared... I want to go home."

You didn't even know where "home" was anymore. But it wasn't here.

He didn't let go.

Instead, Nanami rested his head gently on your lap, still holding your legs close, his eyes on your face.

"Why?" he asked softly. "Am I not treating you well?"

You choked on a sob.

"After everything I've done," he said, voice lowering, rougher now. "You want to leave?"

His arms tightened.

"Running off. Lying to my face. Being a damn brat."

Your heart nearly stopped.

"I-Kento, please..." you tried to speak, but your voice barely came out.

Then he stood.

You flinched as he towered over you, eyes sharp now-glinting with something that hadn't been there before.

"I've been more than patient with you, Y/N," he said, slowly loosening his tie, fingers moving with terrifying calm.

"Strip before I break your ankle."

Elf slave is used as a toilet attraction at the funfair:

♡ THE PISSING GAME

Yandere kidnapper wants you to marry him:

♡ ANAL SEX & NONCON

Taken captive by an old, middle-aged man:

♡ RIMMING & FORCED ORGASM

Yandere kidnapper punishes you with overstimulation:

♡ GENITAL TORTURE

Mindbroken elf slave cleans her orc master using her tongue:

♡ SERVICE-KINK

You're a rich old guy's favorite toy:

♡ OBJECT-INSERTION & SEMI-PUBLIC

Losers exact revenge on popular reader:

♡ GAGGING/CHOKING

Crazy psychiatrist has you institutionalized under his special care:

♡ MEDICAL-PLAY & DILDOS

Minbroken elf slave is the orc king's personal cock cleaner:

♡ CUM-LICKING

Corrupt priest swears he'll save you from sin:

♡ CHASTITY

You're taken captive by hillbillies:

♡ OUTDOOR SEX

You get abducted by aliens:

♡ ALIEN ABDUCTION

Seedy, deadbeat uncle is staying with you:

♡ DEADBEAT UNCLE

Newbie demon captured by an archangel:

♡ BLASPHEMY

Pixie reader caught by orcs:

♡ PINT-SIZED

Being a sociopathic billionaire's sex-trafficked dungeon whore:

♡ DUNGEON WHORE

Weird pervert has a panty fetish:

♡ PANTY FETISH

Orc and human reader sexually torturing an elf together:

♡ KARMA

Slavemaster orc x elf reader:

♡ NATURAL STATE ♡ PART TWO

The Seven Heavenly Virtues as yanderes:

♡ HEAVENLY VIRTUES

The Seven Deadly Sins as yanderes:

♡ DEADLY SINS

The seven days of the week as yanderes:

♡ YANDERE DAYS

You're a poor bunny hybrid sold off to an apex predator:

♡ P1: PLAYBOY BUNNY ♡ P2: CLIENTELE

Set in medieval times, you get punished by the parish priest for gossiping:

♡ BRANK'S BRIDLE

Cruel Emperor makes a harem out of all his bastard sons and daughters:

♡ HALFBLOODS

Elf reader captured and gangbanged by orcs:

♡ THE PILLORY ♡ PART TWO

Pretty reader x virgin loserboy:

♡ VIRGIN BOY

Your trip-sitter isn't as trustworthy as you think:

♡ TRIP-SITTER

Strange Yandere keeps you locked inside his playroom:

♡ THE PLAYROOM

Behemoth dominant Omega x tiny Alpha reader:

♡ UNNATURAL ♡ PART TWO

Patronizing soft dom Alpha:

♡ OVERWHELMED

You're sent to an omega institution for behavioral correcting:

♡ THE OMEGA INSTITUTION

Hybrid bear yandere takes bunny darling captive:

♡ BUNNIES MAKE THE BEST SLUTS

You're not really a model, but the brash photographer doesn't care:

♡ PHOTOGRAPHER ♡ PART TWO

You're not cheap, but you're worth it:

♡ FAVORITE WHORE

The old-fashioned boss with intern reader:

♡ NEW INTERN

Teacher teaches you a hard lesson:

♡ HARD LESSON

You let your bully fuck you in exchange for him leaving you alone:

♡ WORSE OFF

Sweet boyfriend won't stop talking about anal:

♡ SECOND VIRGINITY

Pet collector buys bunny reader:

♡ BOUGHT & SOLD ♡ THE OTHER PETS

Businessman x trophy wife:

♡ TASTE OF MONEY

Spending Valentine's Day with your incel kidnapper:

♡ HAPPY VALENTINES

Step-daddy puts you in your place:

♡ TRAINING

Poly wolfboys x bunny reader:

♡ BUNNYHOLES

Poly yandere captors make you cum for them:

♡ A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

You become the spoiled prince's personal maid:

♡ FARM ANIMAL

Yandere captor has too much libido:

♡ REMINDER

Yandere captor staking claim to all your holes:

♡ STUFFED

Simpy boyfriend is unabashedly obsessed with your ass:

♡ ASS

Yandere captor using you as his pretty rope-bunny:

♡ ROPE-BUNNY

Boss uses his assistant whenever he wants and however he wants:

♡ BOSS

Awful nasty incel:

♡ drabble

Yandere kidnapper is a sexual sadist:

♡ RIBBED CONDOMS

GNx

Craxy yandere subjects you to age-play:

♡ PAMPERS

Can two Betas do the work of one Alpha?

♡ TWO BETAS, ONE OMEGA

Ex-military yandere kidnaps you:

♡ EX-MILITARY YANDERE

Aromantic psychopathic yandere kidnaps you:

♡ NUISANCE

Poly wolfboys x bunny reader:

♡ GROOMING

You're an older guy's pleasure pet:

♡ BEDTIME FEEDING

Businessman yandere comes home to his little trophy wife:

♡ STRESS BALL

Stepdaddy puts you in your place:

♡ BRAT

Yandere captor loves watching you cum:

♡ THAT SPECIAL PLACE

Another day waking up next to your yandere captor:

♡ MORNING WOOD

Yandere kidnapper throatfucks you after anal:

♡ ATM

Shell-shock has you by the throat, making you swallow thickly beneath a flared breath, trying to keep cool, the same way you would when encountering any other wild animal—no sudden movements—talking to him just so, like a beast who could and very likely would kill you if you weren’t very, very, very careful.

“Hi…”

His lips move, talking to you, but you’re unable to catch any of it over the sound of your own blaring heartbeat. Ears ringing, rushing with blood, feeling faint, looking at the ghost-of-suppressed-past as if he’d come only to remind you of what you can’t forget.

“Grab coffee with me?” he asks eagerly, eyes bright, beaming, loud, looking as surprised as you felt, though without the fear, to have bumped into you like this—like a scene straight out of a movie. 

It’s all odd and nothing short of terrifying. But even odder and more horrifying still, there’s a smile on his face—giddy looking, of all things.

It was a good imitation of normalcy. You’re sure, from an outsider's perspective, it couldn’t have looked any different from two estranged sweethearts stumbling into each other, a much-awaited long time, no see. And yet, despite the effort, none of it relieved the feeling of being robbed at gunpoint. 

“Uh—I was just, uhm…” You struggle to find the words. Your throat is like a dry well, heaving up empty buckets, delayed in answering the first question, “Heading home.”

Eerily sharp, inspecting you like a security screener, his eyes don’t dither, and neither does his voice—pressing on, just as keenly as before, insisting, “My treat? For old times' sake?”

You can’t help but regard it the same way you would the gun being cocked. “Uhm…” Praying to whomever might take pity enough to listen to you, while you empty your purse for all the measly value that it’s worth. 

“Okay.”

You’re led away by a grip on your wrist. It’s not too tight—nothing you wouldn’t be able to rip yourself free from if you tried—but for some reason, it still feels impossible. It’s the same when he ushers you down on a seat by a tiny two-seater table inside a cute sundae cafe while he goes to stand in line to order. Despite the many inner voices, some whispering and others screaming, telling you to go now that he’s got his back turned, you remain right there, statuesque, trying to remember how you’d usually make your feet move, but coming up empty-handed with a feeling of utter foolishness that all but jeers at you, telling you that you only have yourself to blame.

“I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just bought the most expensive thing,” he returns with two flamboyant, syrupy mocha coffees topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, sitting down opposite you. 

“That wasn’t a brag—I’m just—I don’t know what to say…”

He seems nervous, too. Or no, not nervous, but excited, sitting strangely straight-backed on the tiny wooden café chair, both his hands wrapped around the acrylic of his cup, fingers locked, glistening wet with dewdrops dripping down its sides—it’s impossible to tell if any of it’s genuine or not.

You don’t touch your own. Actually, you don’t do anything. You just end up sitting there. Waiting, wondering, in anxiety, still rattled by the shock, partly in disbelief, thinking—hoping—you only fell asleep in your cubicle back at the office and are having the strangest nightmare you’ve had in a while.

“You’re nowhere to be found,” he suddenly states after your silence, making you snap out of your ponder, blinking at him, still startled to see him sitting there, in the flesh. 

You can only muster up a “What?”

It makes him laugh—an awkward, slightly impatient type of laugh. “I mean.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks off to the side as if sheepish about something, explaining, “I couldn't find you anywhere on social media.”

Your face blanches anew.

He’s been looking for you? The thought makes your gut twist even tighter. You knew he would, but still? Has he been looking for you all this time? Did you really just stumble into him at random, or was all of this some twisted act? Why? What does he want?

Why can’t he just leave you alone?

You grab your drink, if only to let the taste of sugar distract you. Answering curtly, “Oh, yeah, I don’t use my real name anymore. So many scammers and stuff, you know...” You take a sip, aggressive enough to give you brainfreeze—thinking anything’s better than this burn that’s all but consumed you from head to toe.

He lifts his drink up to his mouth as well. “Smart girl. Glad to see you finally protecting yourself.”

You both drink for another long pause.

He drums a beat on the table while looking up at the ceiling, then out the window, in some way looking like he’s thinking up things to say, and in another way looking like he’s holding himself back from saying what he really wants.

He looks older—you notice against your will—bigger. Not surprising, given the years that have passed since you last saw each other, but still, you’d have thought he’d never grow out of that ever-present and ever-cocky smile of his. Right now, he seems, somehow, somewhat normal, sitting there—dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. You don’t know why it strikes you as odd. It isn’t, really. You’re sure he wore the same things back then, but still, it seems off for some reason.

You suppose, what’s weird about it is that it makes him look like any other average person you would bump into on the street, even when he’s the farthest thing from it. 

It just doesn’t make much sense—none of it.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asks suddenly, once again popping the awkward silence like an overinflated balloon at a little girl’s birthday party. 

You keep waiting for a high-pitched cry to break out. 

It’s those types of questions—trivial nothings anyone would ask anyone. Anyone but him. In his mouth, it’s a script, like an actor treating the world as his stage. He does it well, though—fitting in—he always has. But you know better this time than to believe it, having experienced it first-hand, how it only runs skin deep.

“Good,” is all you offer. Forgetting to return the question.

He doesn’t seem to mind. Unbothered, continuing on with his dialogue as if on cue, “Must have been hard moving away. Dropping everything like that. So suddenly.”

It’s more probing than his previous ask, more personal—but you’d say it alludes to more about him. Something about his tone, something accusational, something not quite polished enough to suit that fluffy exterior, making way for a bit of the real him to peek through, enough to make a fresh chill run down your spine.

You don’t have an immediate answer. Too caught up in the feeling of imminent threat—at the edge of your seat waiting for him to lose patience, as if he’d lunge at you from across the table, uncaring of the people around—even though, logically, you know he’d never do anything in public. Your thoughts from earlier return. Why is he doing this? What does he want? Why? All these years later, why can’t he let you go?

There’s another airy laugh before he flashes you a big grin. “I have to admit,” he says, chuckling. “It kind of felt like you were running away from me.”

He says it as a joke, but you know it isn’t. It’s got clear intentions—he wants to make you squirm, to make you beg, to apologize, to cry, and do all those things you used to do when he got upset.

A part of you still wants to, feeling like it’s the safest option. You almost indulge it, but instead you steel yourself. After all, you ran away from him for a reason.

And all these years later, you’re not about to go running back.

“I just needed to get away, is all,” you excuse. “I’d been so cooped up, I barely knew who I was or what I wanted out of life.”

It’s not really a lie. Then again, it’s also far from the full truth of it. And by the looks of him, you both know it. The way he eyes you calmly—hunting and hauntingly. That fluffy exterior, like sheep-skin on a wolf, peeling away, too rotted to hold itself together.

“Hmph.” Tilting his head, he eyes you condescendingly. “Yeah, you always were a bit of an airhead, weren’t you? Always following me around like you didn’t know where to go without me,” he grins, speaking as though it’s all fond memories. “Not that it ever bothered me, of course. Actually, I kind of miss it. Don’t you?”

You nearly flinch, almost making your drink fall and crash onto the ground, wishing you’d just left when you had the chance. If only you’d been able to shake the shock out of your body enough to allow your feet to move.

“It's a long time ago,” you say, voice thin, looking into the foam halfway down your fountain glass as you take another sip. Wherever the conversation is headed is not somewhere you want to go—especially with him leading the way.

“What does that mean? You don’t remember?” he snickers, knowing you do. 

“We used to have so much fun…” His voice slips into a lower murmur, spilling your shared secrets over the table-top. “You’d sneak me in through your bedroom window at night. I’d have to climb your rose-wall like you were Rapunzel. Tch—you were so cute, shushing me, thinking your parents were gonna wake up.”

You stay silent as he laughs.

“Yeah, always such a goody-two-shoes. Remember how much you choked on your first drink? Granted, I’d maybe overshot the vodka on purpose. Your first smoke was just as bad, but shit—your first hit of the good stuff was the worst. You couldn’t stop coughing, and after your fourth hit, you weren’t even able to move. But I took good care of you, didn’t I? Getting you into your PJs and tucking you in tight. You remember?”

He doesn’t really give you any time to answer or stop him.

“I almost got you to take your first tattoo as well if you hadn’t been such a scaredy-cat. Tch—but no worries, I took a lot of your other firsts to make up for it.” Humming, his eyes go lazy—pictures of it all playing out behind them. “You really let me get away with everything… Like a Barbie doll—you’d let me dress you up the way I liked, and undress you wherever and whenever I wanted.” 

He takes a moment to admire your face, all flushed and pouty, avoiding looking back at him, before he grins with another sly scoff. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” 

You think you might get sick if you stay any longer, and still, nothing—not even the feeling of that all-too-familiar collar being clasped around your neck—is enough to convince your body to get up and leave while he continues to tighten the leash.

“You’re right,” he admits when you don’t say anything. “It is a long time ago. It’s just… looking at you makes it feel like yesterday.”

You could say the same. Although you can’t say those would be the memories you’d choose. Or, at least, you wouldn’t have phrased them like that. Rather, you remember the time his hand left a bruise around your throat so deep you had to wear a scarf for two months waiting for it to disappear, and the way he’d lick and suck on it every time you were alone—telling you he was kissing it better when he was actually just making it worse. Or the time he didn’t allow you to wear a sweater to a party, forcing you to choose between leaving it in the car or walking home by yourself all the way to the other side of town, and the way he’d shown you and your bra off to everyone inside when you’d conceded—later praising you with sweet nothings and heated kisses in an off-limits bedroom even when you were begging him to take you home. Or that time he’d knocked your father’s teeth out in the driveway for having warned him to stay away from you. Or how, when you’d told him you had decided you were getting the abortion, he’d called you a baby-killing bitch, and said he’d never look or speak to you again if you went through with it.

You’d made sure he stood by those words. You’d made a decision and packed your bags, leaving your childhood home behind you with goodbye kisses to your parents, promising them you’d keep in touch despite moving as far away as your savings would allow. You took the first job you could get and worked your way up with only a high school degree to back you up.

You’d erased all traces of yourself—practically faking your own death. 

And you hadn’t seen him since.

“Give me your contacts?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket, spinning it around, and sliding it across the short distance of the table separating you.

“Your phonenumber,” he clarifies. “It would be nice for us to catch up. It’s been so many years, I was beginning to fear we might never get the chance.” 

You can’t really say that you agree. But the sight of his phone already in front of you, waiting for you to indulge him, somehow and someway, you still don’t have the guts to say no to him, even when typing up the numbers feels no different from signing a deal with the devil.

Finally—and thankfully—he releases you a short while after that.

He’d offered to walk you home, but you made up an excuse on the fly about going to see a friend—not sure if you were convincing or not. 

Paranoid, you still get on the subway to another part of town, now a little happy about the crowd, before hailing a cab to take you back.

The stairs up to your apartment feel like an eternity, even as you rush up the flights. Your hands, cold and slightly trembling, struggle to put your key in the lock. And when you finally step inside, you instantly collapse against the door, breath knocked out of you, shaking from head to toe.

A phantom in your stomach makes the tears rush down your cheeks like acid rain, corroding the skin in its wake. It’s every emotion at once—shame, guilt, anger, terror.

You’re overreacting, you’re aware. But it doesn’t help. Thoughts racing, telling you you’ll have to move again, even farther away this time, maybe even out of the country, to someplace faraway he’ll never find you. But how did he find you? If he found you once, he’ll do it again. Meaning you’re not safe. There’s nowhere you can go. It’s only a matter of time before he hunts you down again, and again, and again, and again.

You clamber across the faux wood, running to the kitchen cabinet to pull out that bottle of wine along with a glass, topping yourself off to the very brim. A few drops spill over onto the floor in the rush.

A pling comes from the floor while you drink, making your eyes snap to view it—whole body on edge and convinced it was something deadly, only to see your phone where you’d left it on its back, screen lit.

You stare at it, regarding it with apprehension. Then, despite not wanting to move, your feet take you with them anyway, slowly walking over until you’re standing right above it, spotting an unknown number at the top, followed by an unwanted text.

it was good seeing you

made me realize how much I really miss you

maybe I can see your place this weekend. wanna know what you’ve been up to…

anyway tell your friend hi, and call me when you get home. let’s plan another…

There’s more to the messages, but you can’t see it without opening the chain. You only stare at it as it is. Reading it over and over. Unsure what you’re looking for outside of wanting it to go away until the screen goes back to black, snapping you out of it.

You end up leaving it there—choosing to walk yourself over to the couch instead. But you don’t really know what to make of yourself once you’re there, either—whether you want a sitcom as company or if you prefer the silence.

The silence gives room to more thoughts, and too many of them are bad, so you put on the first recommended thing.

More plinging from the floor disturbs your binging. Still, a full five twenty-minute episodes pass before the singular plings are exchanged with ringing. 

You let it ring until it stops. Ignoring it without pausing the show in front of you. You just keep drinking your wine, staring at the screen without catching any of the contents, as more plinging and ringing chimes from the floor.

You close your eyes, and a couple of stray tears slip free from your waterline. You don’t even dare move. Sitting there, stiff and scared and helpless, like you’re back in time and still just a hopeless girl stuck beneath his thumb.

Funny enough, it’s when the noises stop for a full episode that you finally get your legs to move, slipping out of the blanket you’d wrapped yourself in, toes numb against the cold floors as you walk back over to your phone. You don’t know why—you still don’t want to look, but an indescribable urge all but forces you to open the chain, eyes peeled as you scroll through a mile of messages, each one worse than the one before…

it was good seeing you

made me realize how much I really miss you

maybe I can see your place this weekend. wanna know what you’ve been up to all these years without me

anyway tell your friend hi, and call me when you get home. let’s plan another date

don’t mean to blow up your phone, but your accounts are private, you need to accept my friend request

I know you’re with a friend, but it only takes a minute to reply

you should get better at checking your phone. what if it was something important?

pick up the phone, I need to talk to you

I’m not angry, I just really want to hear your voice

answer me

why are you being like this? we had a nice date and now you’re just going to ignore me?

you haven’t changed at all you know that? you’re still that same flighty fucking bitch you always were

answer the fucking phone right now

I swear if you keep ignoring me I’m gonna come over and make you regret it

Breath shallow and weak on your upper lip, you stare in deafening silence as another message is typed up. Three dots jumping, slowly compared to the rapid beat of your heart.

last chance

You almost toss the phone away when it rings, but manage to maintain your grip, breath coming out heavy—so heavy that the screen catches dew on every outtake. Finger hovering over the green button, somewhat itching to slide it, but remaining placid until the ringing eventually dies out, reverting back to the text chain. 

You click the number at the top, slowly tapping Info, then the two red words at the bottom, blocking him. Then, you go back to the cartoon still playing on the TV and re-drape yourself with your still-warm blanket, hugging yourself tightly. Eyes sliding to peek at your phone now and again, relieved to see it simply lying on the coffee table, calm as usual.

You spend the weekend inside, ordering take-out. Using your computer to check out if you’ve left anything to be found online that could help him find your address if he somehow managed to check out your socials despite you blocking all his advances. You don’t think so, but still, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow able to track you. It’s all silly, but even so, you end up deleting your accounts across every platform just in case, not even leaving your phone number in the end, thinking you’ll get a new one as soon as you can.

You consider staying home sick on Monday, but you wind up going anyway after double-checking that the office website and Facebook page hadn’t publicized your name or picture anywhere. 

Still, you’re a nervous wreck all day, hardly getting any work done, even when you skipped lunch to sit in your cubicle. You keep wracking your brain with the same question—how’d he even find you in the first place? Was it really just some fucked up coincidence? Is that even possible? For him to just suddenly show up out of the blue, multiple cities away from the last place you saw him so many years ago? Had you maybe mentioned you wanted to move here? You’re certain you didn’t, you’re certain this place wasn’t even on your radar before you made the decision. Did your parents tell him? No, they wouldn’t, right? Maybe not on purpose. Using the work computer, you check out their profiles. But, just as you’d requested, there isn’t a single post about you or the few times they’ve flown out to visit you. Actually, scrolling through, it’s squeaky clean from top to bottom, so much so that it’s as if they didn’t have a daughter at all.

It doesn’t make any sense. How the fuck did he find you?

Well… it wasn’t easy…

The contractor he paid was one out of a dozen others before him. He suspects the first eleven were amateurs who only did a deep dive through the web, as if he couldn’t do that on his own. But this last guy, he was legit. A lot more expensive, too, but after years of trying to find you, he wouldn’t complain, especially when the guy somehow managed to track you down in less than two days' time. 

He could barely believe it once he pinged him in the middle of the day with a picture of you—candid, you looked to be on your way somewhere, probably home with the somewhat tired look on your face, dressed in drab work clothes he’d never picture you in, older now and still, you were as beautiful as the day he lost you.

And, after so many years, he’s not about to let you slip away again. No matter how stubborn you are.

He watches you climb the stairs outside your building, tired in your step. You’d stayed late at the office, made him wait all day until dark, but somehow it was fitting. Romantic, in one way, and deserved in another—hunting you while you’re all alone at night. This way, he could make you pay a little, freak you out, scare you—get you to really regret it.

“Hey.”

You whip around like a bunny who’d heard a twig snap—eyes round, hand down your purse, stopped in the middle of fishing for the keys.

“What—what are you doing here?”

You sound worse than you did at the cafe. Just like his own, you’ve let the mask slip. Might as well, given there’s no one else but the two of you around.

“Why’d you block me?” He ignores your question in favor of posing his own. It’s a stupid thing for you to ask, anyway, given how obvious it is.

“What?” you continue to act stupid, still with your hand in your purse, trying to be smooth while you carefully feel around for your keys as though he can’t see exactly what you’re doing.

“You blocked me,” he clarifies, standing at the bottom of the short ten-step staircase, looking up at you. “Why?”

He can spot you swallowing thickly, in fact, he thinks he can even hear it, followed by your cheap excuses, all spluttered out like nervous word-vomit, still trying to keep up the charade in fear of the reality staring you in the face, “Oh–well, you know, I'm sorry–I sorta just keep touch with close friends so—”

“No boyfriends then,” he states—this time, fully like an accusation.

Your shoulders hike, and goosebumps break out across your arms. Still, you try to stay strong. “You’re not-”

“Careful.”

A heavy silence ensues at that. 

The wind blows softly through the empty street. Everyone’s either eating a late dinner or already in bed with a movie. Meanwhile, you’re here, on the steps, looking down at him, waiting for a sudden air-strike or alien invasion—anything to make it break the deafening quiet.

When nothing happens, you find no other option but to break it yourself. Mustering up the courage, you finally break the act, asking him what’s been on your mind all along, “What do you want?”

A grin breaks out across his face then. Stating the obvious, “I want you to invite me in.”

Your hand whitens with the death grip you're giving your bag, stiffening up like a cadet trying to put some bite into her bark. “And if I say no?”

The smile curls, becoming something vile. “I’ll invite myself.”

You whip around, keys in a panicked hand, stupidly jabbing at the lock with no tact to make it work. 

“Don’t.” He’s behind you before the first tear drops, and you let out a choked whimper, feeling his presence at your back like something from a horror movie. “Don’t make me angry.” He cyphons the chills out of you, voice tepid and smooth right at your ear, speaking to you like a lover. “You don’t want that. I don’t either… Just invite me in.”

You sniffle, biting back a cry, shaking against his chest as he wraps both arms around you.

Feeling possessed, you fiddle with the keys against the lock again, hand shaking so much that you drop them on the floor. Startled, you rush down to pick them up, promptly and still as clumsily trying for the lock.

Arms around you, his cold hand grasps yours, steadying it as he helps you slide the key in place, turning your hand in his, twisting it until the lock comes undone. He puts his paw on the knob and pushes down, letting the door swing in.

Another paw on your waist guides you inside with a steady nudge.

You black out as you climb the stairs one step at a time, feeling the rhythmic repetition lull you into catatonia. This time, when you reach the door, he confiscates the keys from your hand, and you let him, only silently watching as he effortlessly puts them in your lock.

“You know… I’ve been trying to find you for a while,” he mumbles against your neck, nosing your jawline, lips on the underbelly of your chin. “A really long while.” 

You jolt as the door slams to a close behind you, feeling faint—as though he’s about to bite your throat out now that he finally has you alone. And yet, despite your body being immobile in light of the impending death threat, all he does is hold you, murmuring more words against your ear.

“It makes me feel like—I don’t know... maybe you were hiding from me.” You hold your breath, feeling stormed by his voice, twisting about in your head, leaving little room for anything else. “Do you really hate me that much?”

Overwhelmed, in some last-ditch effort, you try pushing him away while shaking your head, needing to get away, needing space to breathe, to think, to stop this urge of playing dead like you’re some helpless animal stuck on a hunter’s jaws.

But he only clicks his tongue at the attempt. Letting you go with a harsh push that has you drop to the floor. He follows quickly, on top of you, with a fierce grip around your throat.

“I told you already, don’t do that,” he repeats—tone tighter now, vexed. “I don’t want to be rough with you, but I will if you make this difficult.”

“Please–” you squeak, both hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to pull him off without succeeding.

He only tightens the hold as he leans down, teeth gritting, “Please, what? What do you think I’m gonna do that’s so goddamn bad? I’m genuinely curious, please what?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling spit fly from his gnashing, barking the words at you with his face only a short foot away.

“You afraid to say it or something?” he laughs, something just shy of unhinged. “Is he gonna kill me or fuck me—that’ what you’re thinking?”

There’s a silence. You keep your eyes closed while it prolongs—not sure what you’re waiting for—the latter or the former. 

“I should kill you,” he says then. “Fucking off the way you did—my kid in your belly and all. What the fuck did you do, huh?”

You croak with another cry, stabbed with that same feeling from before, strangling your guts into unbearable knots.

“Yeah, thought so.”

You don’t even notice his hand when it lets go of your throat and joins the other in cradling your face—tenderly, but cagingly, holding you steady as you choke on your own onslaught of tears.

“How about I let you pick, hm?” he says, voice suddenly soft again, as if there’s kindness in giving you a choice, like he’s asking if you’d like chocolate or ice cream. “Which one do you want? Either I kill you—” His thumbs rub your cheeks while his forehead dips against yours. “Or we make a new one.”

The proposal doesn’t ease your sobbing, only further spurs it on as the ache inside gets twisted anew.

And still, he presses on, “Answer me, which is it?”

You shake your head, a sniveling mess, struggling to breathe, drowning under the pressure.

“Wow…” he grumbles coldly. “You’d really rather die?”

Letting go of your face, he straightens himself, looking down his nose at you like you’re this pathetic thing before abruptly scoffing, “Tch, it's not like it’s anything new. I mean, let’s be real, how many times have we done it, huh?” There’s a new sharpness to his tone as he continues, seething at you as he lays both hands down flat on either side of your head, catching your hair beneath his fingers. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve met a bigger slut than you, always begging to get fucked. That was always your answer to everything. Whenever you made a mistake, you’d make it up to me with sex, whenever I was upset, you’d calm me down with sex, whenever I wanted to talk to you about us, about our future, about wanting to make you my wife, my world, my fucking everything, you’d always shut me up with sex.”

He’s panting by the end of it—both in the same state, heaving for air through the thick of it. The touch of something hot dripping on your face makes you finally open your bleary eyes, blurry vision slowly focusing on the sight of his own reddened ones staring back down at you.

“Did you ever even love me? Hm? Even just a little?” his voice cracks as he asks it. Impatiently demanding your answer this time with tightness in his throat, “Come on, answer me.”

Still, you remain silent in shock as you try to make sense of the expression on his face and how it, despite everything, still has this godawful ability to make you want to reach out and give him every part of yourself in the hope it’ll be enough to make him happy.

“Answer me!”

This time, as he bangs his fist down next to your head, the answer all but springs out of you like convicts in a prison break, “Yes! Yes, I loved you—I love you… I–” It all pours out of you like it’s something you’ve been holding back since the day you left—feeling like a deathbed confession, this white-hot guilty burden you’d been denying, trying desperately to convince yourself wasn’t true.

“You lying to me?” he pushes, as needy as it is threatening, with lips down by the corner of yours and hand back to caressing your throat. 

“No–no, I’m not lying–” you promise, putting your own hands by his pulse and cheek, looking at him as all those old feelings retake their rightful spot inside you, festering like a sickness you never fully got rid of. “I love you, I really–”

He kisses you then, and you, feeling desperate for any type of comfort, accept it with greed.