please don't say you love me

“I got you a coffee,” you offered, your short little pencil skirt riding up your thighs as you chased after your boss through the lobby of his fancy office building in the center of the city. 

“Thanks,” he grinned at you, grabbing it just to place all the papers he’d been holding in your hands instead, pushing even more on top while you awkwardly opened and shut your mouth to stop yourself from saying anything. 

He took a small sip, scrunched his nose up while Toji struggled not to scoff out loud from where he was pretending to read a magazine in the corner next to the other waiting clients, all of them eagerly hoping to meet with the not-so-great Satoru Gojo.

“It’s not sweet enough,” Gojo criticized, masking his attitude with playfulness, acting like a child while you apologized to him as if you’d done something wrong by thinking of him. 

He wasn’t listening. Just kept moving towards the elevators, pulling his phone from his pockets to make a phone call to some other prick, probably. 

You scrambled behind him, folders stacked up in your arms, the coffee cup precariously balanced on top of the pile. 

God, what kind of fucking loser didn't carry his own stuff? 

His pretty little assistant he used more like a pack mule. 

It didn’t take long to find out your name. 

From there, everything else was easy. 

Finding out where you lived was as simple as following you from your car to your shitty little apartment, poorly paid and scraping by while your boss lived in his luxury penthouse on the opposite side of the city. Figuring out what foods you liked from what you spent too long looking at in the grocery store before you sighed and tossed a bag of rice in your cart instead. Snapping photos of you from afar like a fucking secret admirer through your window once you got back home, time stamped and saved to a special folder on his laptop, watching you shed your coat and clothes, trading them in for t-shirts and pajama pants. 

Toji wasn’t a stalker though.

Of course not. 

He was just doing what he was paid for. 

And what easier way was there to get to Gojo than through his cute, clueless assistant? 

You weren’t even aware when he trailed behind you on the street, head trained forward, always in a rush, scampering from place to place without stopping. Running errands for a man who couldn’t care less about you.

And in this city, you might be the only person as alone as him. 

Toji couldn’t put his finger on when studying you had become less of a chore and more of a habit. Day four? Week two?

Watching and waiting for the right time to approach? 

For all his expertise, his ability to move through the world unseen, unnoticed, it worked against him for once when you ran straight into him trying to leave your usual coffee shop, turning when he hadn’t expected it and smacking into his chest at full speed.

The coffee – something cold and sugary and sweet – splashed over both of you, your white shirt soaked through to see a pale pink bra underneath, your face flushing for the wrong reasons as you immediately started rattling off apologies.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” you muttered, trying to use the few napkins you grabbed to dab at his t-shirt, rubbing uselessly despite the fabric already being black. “I wasn’t paying attention, and-” 

“S’fine,” he grunted, yanking one from his hand to wipe off your shirt instead. 

You didn’t stop him. 

Just froze, standing completely still as he dragged the napkin over your chest while it heaved, listening to you suck in a sharp breath. 

When was the last time you’d even been intimate with a man if him cleaning your shirt had you practically pressing your thighs together in that prissy skirt of yours? 

Admittedly, there was a distinct disgust churning in him at the image of you being intimate with someone else, despite how quickly he rejected it.

It wasn't like you were more than a mark to Toji.

He squinted, eyes narrowing as his attention shifted to your face just to find you openly gawking at his broad chest, lips still parted mid-apology. 

“Oh, um, thanks,” you practically squeaked, looking up at all with big, surprised eyes.  

“Whatever,” he tch-ed, digging out his last ten dollar bill from his wallet and holding it out despite the urge to just toss it at you to see what you’d do. 

You shook your head, oblivious to the fact he was well-aware just how strapped to cash you really were, biting your bottom lip. “I can’t, I mean, that was really my fault, and-” 

“Don’t make me put it in your purse, doll,” he huffed at you, even if he almost said bra. Tempted to tuck it in, wondering if you’d let him. 

Did you even have it in you to stand up for yourself? 

How the hell did a pretty thing like you survive so long on your own like this? 

“A-are you sure?” You stuttered, glancing back over him again. 

His pride took a fucking hit at your uncertainty. 

Did he seriously look like he couldn’t spare a ten dollar bill? Was it the sweatpants? 

He showered this morning, bothered to spritz on cologne when he usually couldn’t give a shit. Toji ran his fingers through his hair, jaw locking as his eyes narrowed.

“You got a pen?” He grumbled, wagering that you definitely did. Maybe he hadn’t seen the inside of your purse, but he’d been watching you long enough to know what its contents were. 

In a not creepy way. 

“Yes?” You blinked, somehow cuter when you were confused. 

Still though, you were obedient, anticipating him asking for it and just digging it out from your bag to hand to him. The tip of it had been bitten, another little hint of how nervous you were by nature. 

He took it from you, his calloused fingers brushing against your much softer ones, a jolt of electricity traveling up his arm at the simple touch, the soft way your breath paused. You had to feel it too. 

Toji scribbled his number down. 

His personal cell. 

You were beaming before he even finished writing the last number, standing up straighter, sticking your chest out more. 

“I’ll buy you a new shirt,” he grunted, giving you the pen before the dollar, holding it out over your head, your stare flickering from his face to the money. “Text me.” 

He wanted you to reach for it. 

To chase him. 

But three more days passed – and he hadn’t heard a peep. 

Toji knew what you were up to, tracking you instead of his target, taking notes on everything you did instead of texting him. You stared at your phone at home though, left the dollar bill sitting on your kitchen counter, running your fingers over his writing as if you weren’t sure what to do. 

He supposed he’d have to help you figure it out then. 

Especially considering Shiu was starting to get on his ass about getting the job done. 

Because that was what this was supposed to be about – a means to an end. 

Faking a name tag was easy. Digging up the old utility overalls he’d seen some of the other maintenance workers wear at your office, the sort of position no one ever paid any mind to until they were needed for something. He didn't get much sleep, trading in his night shift watching you go to sleep for snooping around your office. And in the morning, after going back to his car to put on some cologne, he walked back in through the lobby like he was supposed to be there, not even getting courtesy nods from your coworkers. 

Toji had memorized your schedule. 

So he knew to be in the third floor break room at ten, pretending to fix something in the ceiling when you walked in to make a cup of coffee. 

For yourself this time. 

He was climbing down from the ladder he stole from a storage closet when you sighed and started cleaning up the mess the last person had left by the coffee machine. You didn’t notice, didn’t even turn until you went to grab a mug from the shelf, frowning when you realized they had all been moved to the top shelf. 

A nice touch, in his opinion.  

Setting everything up to be the one to take care of it for you, stepping behind you, close enough for you to feel his chest on your back as he reached up to get it for you. 

“Here,” he grumbled, and you slowly spun around to face him. 

Stuck between his sturdy body and the cold counter, frozen in surprise at him being here. He wondered if you’d be scared, suspicious. 

It was funny to watch you get so flustered instead, completely frazzled as you tried to find the words to say. 

“Um, you, uh, work here?” You finally managed, and he just raised a brow, the scar over his mouth twitching as he gestured towards the name tag on his belt. 

You blushed again, your attention drifting to something else by it, the bulge he hadn't meant to be sporting. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, a low drawl that made you smile at him. 

It was sunny. You were. Bright, not bitter. Absolutely unaware that the world revolved around you. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, even though you had no actual reason to. Maybe for not messaging him back. Maybe for stealing glances at his dick. 

He paused, a weird strained feeling taking over his chest, constricting his lungs when you tilted your head to the side. 

“I haven’t seen you around before,” you added, holding your breath. 

“I’ve seen you,” he shrugged, and your entire face practically lit up at the idea someone had been paying attention to you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to stifle it. To keep it contained, to make yourself smaller in front of him, like he wouldn’t like you if you weren’t soft-spoken. 

“Do you think you could take a look at the phones in my office? Well, Mr. Gojo’s,” you corrected yourself, toying with your fingers before cringing. “Only if you're available, of course. I put in a ticket but-”

“Sure,” he grunted. 

As long as the actual maintenance guy didn’t come, you’d never know the difference. After all, that was why he’d broken in last night. Disconnecting the phones himself, creating a couple issues with a few of the computers in the sales team downstairs that the real department would be too busy to handle any of your problems. If you ever pieced together he didn’t actually work there, it wouldn’t be until long after he was gone.

He'd prefer it if you never knew any better. 

And Shiu never said he couldn’t have some fun first. 

He followed you back to your office, not hiding his stare, enjoying how you were already squirming, nervously shifting and looking over your shoulder at him every few feet. 

“You didn’t have to do it now,” you mumbled, embarrassed, but he shrugged. 

Rolling his shoulders back to remind you how broad they were, catching the flash of you biting your lip before you faced forward again. 

Everything about you was far more fucking adorable than it had any right to be. 

Toji had never really gotten the appeal of stuffed animals. He never had any when he was a kid. No softness, no warmth, nothing small and sweet to hug. But you reminded him of one.

Or maybe that was just the urge to pick you up and squeeze you hard. 

“What’s wrong with ‘em?” He gruffly asked, gesturing ahead as you hit the button for the elevator to take you both to the top floor. 

“They just ring, and um, nothing happens,” you tried to explain, smoothing down your skirt self-consciously. 

He nodded, like he knew what the problem could be, and he did, actually. Because he caused it. 

The elevator doors opened, thankfully empty. There was something annoying about the idea of sharing you – even for a minute. 

Toji told himself that you were just less irritating than other people. That it had nothing to do with you in particular, just how disgusting the rest of the world was. 

But he was still observing how you pushed the button, how quickly you went back to fiddling with your fingers and picking at your cuticles. Clasping your hands in front of you, maybe just remembering the fact you forgot your coffee back in the break room. Left it by the pot you brewed, your lip gloss staining the rim from the single sip you'd taken and the drink inside growing cold. 

Did you confess? 

Admit you wanted to go back and grab it? 

Nope. 

He knew you wouldn’t. All that meant was another excuse to go back and get it for you himself, maybe make you a fresh one to cement his spot in your good graces, to get your guard down. 

The elevator dinged, opening up to wooden floors and soft lighting. Wall art he had briefly contemplated stealing the night before, although he skipped since it’d be a bitch to sell. 

Besides, he’d have more than enough money to cover anything he wanted to buy soon enough. 

“Um, the phone’s over here,” you shyly said, leading him over to your desk. 

Toji nodded, a low grunt of acknowledgement leaving his throat while he pretended to work on it, messing around with cables. 

You were watching him, taking your seat and clicking away on your keyboard despite your eyes constantly flickering over to his. 

He pretended he didn’t notice. Setting his jaw in a firm line while he unplugged stuff just to put it in different outlets. He considered tapping the lines, just to listen in to whatever you were saying during the day, but then he'd have to justify that expense to Shiu, and he really didn’t fucking feel like getting a lecture. 

His handler would tell him just to take out the target already. Stop wasting his time getting close to a liability. 

But of all the risks Toji had taken, you were the easiest one of all.

Would you let him find an excuse to get under your desk? Maybe catch a peek at whatever pair of panties you picked out today? 

Your personal phone rang – and you were scrambling to pick it up and answer. 

“Hello?” Your voice lilted up, all pure and sweet, and Toji immediately loathed whoever you were addressing. 

It wasn’t anything he could control, just instinctual irritation, a cheese grater to his patience watching you sit up straighter in your chair while you listened to whoever was on the other end. 

“Of course, sir,” you chirped. He had to stop himself from snapping the cord he was holding when he caught how you were subtly twirling your hair. Glancing down at your lap and sucking in a sharp breath before you mumbled, “Sorry, Satoru.” 

Toji had to look down to make sure he didn't somehow electrocute himself when the edges of his vision tinged with red, annoyance rolling into a tight ball of anger. The hard kind that couldn't crack, just rolled around in the pit of his stomach, demanding something be done about it. 

“Okay, see you in thirty.” You smiled. A soft one, biting it back before plastering a practiced expression of professionalism, probably remembering Toji was still here. 

He scowled at the realization Gojo coming back meant he should probably skip bringing you that coffee. Didn't want to risk running into him too soon. 

You hung up, and he shoved the last cord back in the correct place. 

“Try now,” he growled, picking the phone up from the receiver and passing it to you.

You took it from him, your fingertips brushing against his again, all gentle as you cradled it between your shoulder and ear, nails clicking on the keypad. Relief flooded your face when it worked, looking up at him like you were thankful. 

Gratitude wasn't something Toji knew how to receive. 

He was used to the exchange of cash, of cold demands that ended in death. Your warmth was alien. 

What had a guy like Satoru Gojo ever done to deserve it? 

Was this jealousy? Bitter and begging to be addressed, his skin itching at imagining the man getting your company all day long, having you at his beck and call. 

Whatever it was, Toji was going to fucking squash it. 

“Thank you, it was really nice of you-”

“What are you doing after work?” He interrupted before you could finish rambling, making all the reasons why you were easy to take advantage of excruciatingly obvious. You were too sweet. Too nice. Acting like he was a saint for fixing your phone, unaware he was the sinner who broke it to begin with. Who'd break your boss too, the second he got the chance. 

“Um, nothing?” You blinked. Your lips were still parted, but you didn't say anything. 

“Wanna grab drinks?” He grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. Toji wanted to lean across the desk, put his palm flat on top of your useless papers and peek at your cleavage, but you were the sort that scared easily. 

The confusion on your face was cute. 

“Like, as coworkers?” You were clueless. “Are other people coming or-” 

Did you seriously fucking think you were just getting left out of some after work hangout? 

“Like a date,” he clarified, struggling not to contain his urge to bend you over your desk and show you just how not-platonic his interest was. 

“With me?” 

You were gawking, but there was an unmistakable air of giddiness to your face, a grin you couldn't suppress even under all that shock. 

“Did I stutter, doll?” Toji gruffly said, walking around your desk until your eye level was at his mid-riff. Your hand tightened around the armrest, slowly dragging your stare up like you could see the truth in his face. 

“Um, sure,” you nodded, still unsure of how serious he was. “If you want to.” 

“I want you,” he easily shrugged, making his point clear. 

He wasn't delicate. Wouldn't skirt around shit like your Satoru did. Being blunt was the only way to get it through that pretty skull of yours anyway. 

“I'll be waiting for you out front at six.” That was when you usually scampered out anyway, frazzled and exhausted from handling a man child's chores all day. 

“Okay,” you spoke softly, betraying your feelings by covering your mouth with your hands, hiding a smile behind them. 

He turned to leave, but he kept his eyes on you all the way to the elevator. 

You watched him too. He might have a job to do. 

Toji was just going to fuck you first. 

Was this how it felt to have a crush? 

Well, one that wasn’t hopeless and unattainable? 

You’d been wasting years wishing Satoru noticed you. And in a matter of days, someone else had snuck up on you. A spilled coffee. A phone number. And now, a date. 

When was the last time you'd even been on one? 

You frowned at your reflection in the mirror, fingers working to undo another button of your shirt and hike up your skirt a little higher. Half of you was disappointed that he hadn't asked you out on a different night, or given you enough time to go home and get changed into something a little more sexy and less like you just stepped out of an investor meeting. 

But the rest of you was just glad he wanted to go out with you at all. 

You tried to tell yourself you had less time to overthink this way. That you wouldn't be distracted for days until the date, waiting for him to cancel. 

But when you walked out of the building at six, leaving a sticky note for Satoru whenever he stepped out of his office letting him know you couldn’t stay late tonight, Toji was true to his word, waiting for you in a beat-up black car. 

It wasn’t sleek, wasn’t shiny and freshly glossed like Satoru’s, but it looked fast. His window was rolled down, his arm resting on it while his defined jaw unclenched at the sight of you standing there and staring. 

“You comin’?” 

Was it wrong to hope he’d make sure you did by the end of the night? 

You scampered over, glancing around to see a few of your coworkers looking your way before you pulled open the passenger door and climbed in. His eyes raked over you, that white scar that ran across the corner of his lips twitching up as he smirked. 

He was broader than Satoru, stockier. All muscles, all man. 

His dark hair was shaggy, not carefully styled, his sturdy fingers running through it as he measured you the same way you measured him. He must’ve gone home and changed, in a dark shirt that clung to his chest, made you take note of his biceps bulging underneath his sleeves, probably big enough to make them burst if he strained hard enough. Wearing jeans, no name tag hanging on his belt now. 

But you already memorized his name. 

Toji. 

It had been on the forefront of your thoughts all day, right there with the rest of his words. He saw you. He wanted you. 

Invited you out like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. 

You were so distracted by, well, everything about him that you forgot to buckle your seatbelt until he stretched across the center console and did it for you. There was something kinda funny about a gruff guy like him taking care of something so small like that for you, grunting under his breath as it clicked into place. 

Maybe just an excuse to be close to you, to touch you again. 

You didn’t mind. 

His attention was nice. 

You didn’t know what to say though, awkwardly glancing between him and outside the window, wondering what a typical conversation looked like on a first date. 

“So, um, do you like your job?” You heard yourself ask, almost immediately wishing you hadn’t just from his soft scoff, the subtle arch of his thin brow while he pulled out onto the road. 

“It pays the bills,” he shrugged, and you tried to nod sympathetically. You were about to spout out something polite, but then he opened his mouth to talk again, giving you that dangerous bit of side eye that made your heart skip a beat. “But it ain’t so bad. Gotta meet you because of it, didn’t I, doll?” 

And there it was again.

Doll. 

Satoru sometimes called you sweetheart, but that didn’t send a shiver down your spine, didn’t have that low rumble to it that gave you goosebumps. When he said it like that, you wouldn’t really mind being a pretty toy for him to play with. 

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, blushing hard as you tried to swallow your anxieties. 

You were overworked. Exhausted. Barely making it by on caffeine and four hours of sleep most days. But you were here. In a hot guy’s car being flirted with on the way to a bar. 

He briefly looked at you before turning back to face the road, but you could see the satisfaction in the crook of his smile. 

“Relax a little, baby,” he hummed, reaching over – and for a second, you thought he was going to grab your thigh. You hadn’t realized it was hope until he just turned up the radio instead. But with a second flash of that scar and that smirk, you were smiling back at him. “We’re gonna have fun tonight." 

It still took two glasses of wine for you to start to unwind, a pleasant buzz floating around in your chest, coloring your world in warm hues as he leaned in next to you, his barstool dragged close enough for his muscled thigh to be constantly brushing against yours. A massive palm casually resting on your side, pulling you in every time someone got into what could be considered your personal space. 

He didn’t talk about himself. 

Or that much, really. 

He’d ask a few questions, then let you ramble. Sometimes, his expression would shift, his harsh and blunt edges softening when you talked about the future, about how you wanted to quit someday, find a job that wouldn’t burn you out. But it hardened a few times too, scowling when you mentioned Satoru, glaring when a drunk guy bumped into you. 

And yeah, you got it. Your boss was a bit of an…acquired taste. 

It didn’t surprise you that he managed to piss off one of his employees, especially when you spent most of your days cleaning up the messes he made. 

“When did you start?” You cleared your throat, trying to change the subject back to him. To get to know him properly. To be the best date you could be – or at least good enough that he might want to take you home. 

“A while ago,” he shrugged, another vague answer as he polished off the last of his whiskey. 

He didn’t even seem buzzed. 

“I feel like an idiot for not noticing you there before,” you admitted, tugging down the hem of your skirt self-consciously, shyly looking up to meet his open stare. 

“S’fine,” he grunted, unbothered. 

You didn’t know what to make of him past the fact he was ridiculously attractive. 

Toji was abrasive. The rough side of the sponge scraping up your silverware, the hard counter edge you bumped into when you weren't expecting it, the sharp rock that sliced open the soles of your feet when you forgot to wear shoes outside. But being around him left you hoping to get cut by him. Fingers crossed that he’d be interested enough to peel you apart and stay long enough to stitch you back together – even if it was sloppy.

After being surrounded by people who only ever plastered on fake smiles and feigned politeness, he felt like the first breath of fresh air you had in forever. Something raw and real in a world full of plastic. 

He wasn’t polished. Wasn’t perfect. 

But you’d never been either. And you were tired of pretending and playing along. 

You took another long sip of your wine, the last drop lingering on your tongue as you pushed your empty glass forward too. 

He chuckled, almost appreciatively. Snagging the drinks menu and sliding it back over to you, letting his fingers linger on top of it like he wanted to remind you how large they were. 

“Pick your poison.” 

“I think I should probably get a water,” you murmured, a little worried he might think that was lame. 

He ordered you one anyway though, chuckling when you wiped away the ring of condensation from the counter after they took your glass away.

“Don’t wanna get drunk with me?” He taunted, butterflies in your stomach fluttering when he cocked his head to the side. “I’m hurt.” 

He wasn’t, not really. But you got the feeling he liked teasing you. 

“I just don’t wanna think this was all a dream tomorrow,” you laughed, forcing it to sound lighter than it really was. You really just refused to let yourself get so wasted that you might black out an entire date or embarrass yourself in front of him. 

His eyes narrowed, like he was the one that couldn’t discern if you were being serious. 

“You callin’ me dreamy?” He dryly mocked, and that pretty jaw of his clenched, like it was a joke.

“I mean, it’s just kind of hard to believe a guy like you wants to go out with someone like me,” you murmured, offering a small smile to the bartender when he pushed a glass of water over to you. 

“A guy like me?” He challenged, and you cringed at your ability to stick your foot in your mouth. You didn’t know if you actually offended him, if that was even possible, but you slipped your hand over his.  

“Y’know,” you drawled, tracing your fingertips over his veins, holding your breath. “Attractive and-”

He snorted.  

“So what does that make you?” He raised a question you’d never really been able to answer. There were labels you assigned yourself, but all those really amounted to was what roles you played for other people. 

Lately, all you felt like was Satoru’s assistant. 

Barely your own person. 

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “Just me?” 

“I like you,” he easily said.

“You don’t know me,” you pointed back out, bringing your water glass up to your lips to take a sip. Maybe he thought you were pretty. Maybe you’d caught his eye. But there was a difference in that and knowing what your favorite-

“You stay late even when you’re exhausted. You think of everyone else when no one gives a shit. Show up with coffee and pastries for other people when you can barely afford to pay for your parking pass. You never take your lunch break-” He was listing facts like he was bored, proving his point with the overhead lights glittering back in his green eyes. You almost choked on your water, and he slipped his hand out from your other one to drag his thumb over your lips. 

It felt scandalous. Like he was just waiting to commit some grave sin with how slowly he brushed it over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to make you wonder what his mouth would feel like, how his taste would compare to his touch. 

But then he let go, dropped his hand down just to make you miss it. 

“You kinda sound like a stalker,” you giggled, unable to stop yourself from grinning at being seen. 

There was some faint alarm bell you knew should be ringing, but your head had been emptied out to make room for more thoughts of him. 

He chuckled, and your chest tightened. 

“What’d you think I was giving you my number for?” He sarcastically asked, dark eyes narrowing under the dim lighting as he brought his own glass up to his lips. 

You stifled another smile. “To pay for my shirt?”

“I was thinkin’ about getting you out of it.”

Toji was shameless. 

And every flirt, every searing gaze of his that stuck to your skin and stoked that fire in your stomach? You were falling for it. For him. 

Would you be a whore for sleeping with him on the first date? 

Maybe, but you couldn’t bring yourself to believe it mattered. 

You were about to suggest maybe returning to your apartment, but your phone started vibrating, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your disappointment. 

“Hold on one second?” You nervously asked, and he nodded.

“Sure,” he barked, all gravelly, not helping the simmering heat still burning under your skin. You pulled your phone out, glancing around the bar for some semi-quiet spot to take the call. 

You settled on a hallway that led to the bathrooms, heels clicking on the floor as you hurried over, grateful that Toji had chosen a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, one that wasn’t packed with people to navigate through. 

“Hello?” Your voice waivered, face flushing at the mental image of what your boss was probably doing on the other end. Scowling down at the note you left him? 

“The hell are you?” Satoru whined on the other end, apparently not happy at your absence. 

“I’m on a date,” you whispered back into the speaker, just for him to scoff back. The sound of it, even tinny and crackling through the line, fucking stung. 

As if it was actually so absurd that you could be with someone. 

“I need you here,” he huffed. “We’re supposed to be preparing for tomorrow’s meetings.”

You tapped your foot, glancing back to the end of the hallway, picturing Toji sitting on the stool waiting for you. 

“I already prepared all your slideshows. Anything you need should already be labeled and on your desk,” you muttered, doing your best to still sound professional. Collected. Calm. Put-together instead of just a weak-willed pushover. 

Toji wasn’t wrong. You spent all your time thinking of Satoru when he really couldn’t care less. You were just convenient to him. That was what he paid you to be. 

“I can’t find it,” he grumbled. Lied. 

“I also emailed everything to you,” you added, and he didn’t bother to hide his whine of annoyance. 

Irritated that you had a life outside of him. That your existence wasn’t solely devoted to making his easier. 

“Who are you even ditching me for?” Satoru was pouting. You could hear it in his voice.

“If you really must know, he works in the maintenance department and-” 

He laughed at you. 

“Leave that loser.” 

Was that what he thought? That the best you could get was a fucking loser?

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Satoru.” You hung up on him. Slipped your phone back in your purse, looking up just to see Toji leaning against the wall across from you. 

Startled, you stepped back, blinking and trying to figure out how someone as big and broad as him managed to sneak up on you.

“He botherin’ you?” Toji grunted, gesturing towards your purse.

“No, um, just work stuff,” you lied. 

You didn’t want to tell him the CEO of the company basically called him a loser. It felt mean, and you were worried he’d somehow think you shared the same impression. 

“Yeah?” He angled his head down to look at you, and his proximity made your pulse race, wild thumps roaring in your head as he took two steps closer. 

“I hung up on him,” you admitted, even though he hadn’t asked. Feeling bold just by being with him, as if you were already getting away with something. 

“You wanna give me all that attention instead, baby?” His voice was deep, a gruff purr that had you nodding. 

Your obedience earned a pleased hum. 

And even better, a kiss. 

The kind that knocked the air from your lungs, his calloused hands cupping your face as he claimed your lips for himself. You kissed him back just as hard, craning your neck up into it, tethering your fingers through his dark locks while you sucked on his lower lip. 

He tasted like whiskey. But his lips were soft enough to make you overlook the feeling that came with wondering if this was a mistake. 

If Satoru would fire you for wanting to get fucked instead of running back to fuss over him. 

Toji wasn’t the sort of guy who’d let you linger on silly worries though. No, his canines were already tugging at you, nipping at the spots you’d bitten out of stress, one of his rough palms travelling down your body, settling on your waist to pull you flush against his hard body. 

You wanted to touch him. 

To pull off his shirt and trace your fingers over all his muscles, map them out and drag your tongue over them. His was busy, already in your mouth, muffling your surprised gasp when his grip on your side suddenly squeezed tight. 

“Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, an intangible thread in your stomach pulling taut at the sound. 

He dragged you back inside the bathroom, the employee one, like he wanted the thrill of fucking you in public with less of a risk of being walked in on. 

It was sleazy.

But the exhilaration of his hand now on your hip, the way his fingers dug in and wrinkled your skirt as he pulled you through the door, your back being pushed against the cold sink as his mouth latched onto your throat next, it outweighed any rational thought your brain could conjure up. 

You wanted him. 

The world could wait. 

This was more real than anything else your reality had to offer. His tongue licking a clean line up from your collarbone to your jaw, going back to leave messy hickies, claiming you as his. For tonight, at least. 

Hopefully longer. 

But you kept that thought to yourself, only letting small whines escape as his hand ventured under your skirt, toying with your panties underneath, slipping two fingers underneath it, testing how much the band could give. 

You didn’t want to scare him off. Push him away before he'd even put his dick inside you. 

He seemed like he specialized in one-night-stands. Like he was used to getting who he wanted when he wanted. And really, you were just so fucking sick of being single. 

Of being lonely. 

The hand that had still been on your face moved back, suddenly cradling the back of your neck, squeezing enough to make your head tilt back and give him easy access to more of you. 

There was a vulnerability to it, letting him sink his teeth into your throat, marking you up enough that the bruises would bleed through your concealer tomorrow.

But then Toji was tearing your panties off, easily rolling the flimsy fabric that you truthfully paid too much for, shoving what was left of it in his pocket before prying your thighs apart. 

You spread them further, your lungs freezing half-full of air as you watched him drag his eyeline down to your exposed cunt, already embarrassingly wet after just a couple hours spent in his company. 

He hiked your skirt higher, appreciatively admiring it, clicking his tongue as he shoved a thick finger inside you. Clearly, he’d taken note of how much you noticed them. 

You were gasping before he even made it down to the knuckle. Eyes widening, your hands immediately shifting to claw at his shoulder blades for some stability when you tried to contain your reaction. 

But Toji wasn’t going to let that slide. Refused to let you hide every lewd reflex – shoving another finger inside to join the first just to force out a strangled moan at the feeling of him stretching you open. 

Scissoring you at a tempo that bordered on lethal, only pausing his onslaught of kisses to watch your face when you said his name, all pitchy, almost pathetic. Putty for him with just a couple fingers. 

“Ya’ like that, pretty?” He grumbled, fraying with impatience, already itching to add another – or maybe trade his fingers out for something bigger. 

“Mm, mhm,” you murmured, nodding as you reclined your head back, the cold edge of the counter digging into your skin as he pulled you closer to him just to make you jolt again at the next pump of his fingers. 

“You wanna tell me why you’re runnin’ from me then, doll?” He dared, his eyes dark, his lips pulled into a thin line as you shook your head the other way. 

The intensity he came with was a double-edged sword. Drawing you in one second and threatening to spear you the next. Chasing the high of being fucked full just to run from the burn, the stretch, the pleasure when he pushed you right on the edge of a cliff the next. Finding yourself teetering a tightrope you never meant to walk on. 

“S’too-” You sounded slurred, even though the only thing you really felt drunk on was him. 

“Hm?” He waited for you to finish, stalling his next thrust with his fingers buried deep enough to reach a spot that was a little too sensitive, knowingly swirling against it while you squirmed. 

You were a wreck and he hadn’t even managed to make you cum yet. 

The too much that had been about to leave your lips replaced with a desperate plea for more. 

Your skin was hot, sweat sticking to your brows as he dug his fingers deeper, felt the sinful way you squeezed them, panting as tears started to form in the corners of your eyes. 

There was no running. Being spread and stuffed on a bathroom sink by a handsome man who might as well be a stranger, fingers poking and prodding at all your sensitive spots, readjusting his hand so his thumb could rub over your clit.

“Thought you had something to say?” He wryly mocked, and you were pretty positive you’d forgotten everything except his name. 

“T-Toji,” you whined, body stuck, all your muscles wound too tightly, hips arching up to meet his hand.

He kissed you again, harder, rougher. Crashing into you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, lost between him and the pleasure, being tossed around with each thrust of his fingers. Climaxing without even meaning to, not even a conscious choice, just being pulled into the motions as he massaged rough circles over your needy bud. 

And then you were sucking in air, his fingers pulling back out with a filthy pop! before he brought it up to his mouth and took a taste. Sucking on them and groaning at the second-hand flavor of you on his tongue. 

“Do you wanna come back to my place?” 

You should’ve known making you cum once wouldn’t satisfy him. 

Or twice. 

He had you up against the wall of his shower, your face pressed against the cool tile as his hips smacked against your ass, pounding into it as he continued to leave more hickies. 

“That’s it, pretty,” he grunted, his thick cock throbbing inside you, swollen tip nudging and grinding against your cervix like he owned it. Dragging himself along your walls, making sure you felt every vein, every ridge, warm water pelting both your bodies. “Look how good you're takin’ me.” 

His hand ran over the curve of your ass, softly patting it. It wasn’t a spank, but you wanted it to be. 

You shivered as he bottomed back out, leaning against him, mostly held up by him by now. “M-more.” 

“Greedy fucking girl,” he chuckled, but his voice was raspy too, running his hand back over your ass. “You want me to spank you?” 

You nodded, embarrassed to admit it. 

“Say it,” he groaned, and you squeaked. Surprised at the sudden stall of his cock, feeling yourself squeezing and squirming for him to keep going. 

“Please?” 

His hand came down, leaving a harsh smack that made you clench around him more, a moan escaping that echoed in the cramped space. 

Toji rubbed back over it, his fingers still damp, murmuring something low you couldn't make out under the shower running. But then he was back to thrusting, faster now, like he wasn't finished imprinting the shape of him into you. 

It was all moans, all skin-on-skin, lewd sounds and heavy pumps, his strokes only getting sloppier when his hand slipped over your clit. Intent on making you cum for him again, his jaw clenched when you tensed up. Planting kisses up your throat, teeth marking you with an unspoken mine when you shuddered and finished, white splotching across your vision as your limbs threatened to go limp. 

Toji pulled out, finishing on your back just for the water to wash his cum away. Down the drain with the soap suds. 

He whispered your name into your neck, soft lips tracing back over the mess of hickies he'd left. You were in a haze, brain foggy and chest still full even after your cunt was empty again, leaning against him when he cleaned you up. 

You never would’ve guessed he used the same brand of shampoo or conditioner as you. It was funny how many products you mutually had. Even the hand soap was a familiar bottle, new too, hardly used. 

He dried you off with a patchy towel, wrapping it around you and shutting off the shower. Pulling you back to his bed, half-made navy blankets in a mostly-barren room. The lamp by his bed was crooked, but there wasn't all that much personal stuff laying around. No posters decorating his wall. 

Nothing else to learn about him from his possessions. 

“Tired?” He grumbled, tossing you a t-shirt of his. 

“Mhm,” you yawned, dropping the towel to pull it over your head. No panties, but you figured you didn't really need any to sleep in anyway. 

You still felt nervous getting into his bed, waiting for him to get in with you. He hesitated, staring at you strangely before he grabbed a pair of boxers from the top drawer of his nightstand and pulled them up his thick thighs. 

Toji got in next to you, stiff, awkward, before holding out his arm, like he was waiting for you to snuggle up beside him. 

Maybe he wasn't as much of a man whore as you initially thought. 

He was acting new to this, holding his breath when you scooted closer, laying your head on his arm. 

You wondered if he’d ever been soft before. If he was capable of it.  

Even now, you were left with the vague impression this…tenderness wasn’t exactly that. An impression. A mask, maybe, something he wasn't used to wearing.  

But the afterglow was warm. Wrapped in the heat his body radiated, his strong arms sheltering you from the rest of the world as you sighed in contentment, resting on his bicep as you looked up at him. 

Your phone started buzzing inside your purse on the floor, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. 

“Sometimes I wish he’d just fucking disappear,” you mumbled, sighing as you tried to push off his chest to answer it. 

“Stay,” he growled, grabbing your waist to keep you in place. 

You pressed your palm flat against him, pushing your lips together in a pout. “I have to answer him.” 

Or he’d throw a fit and make tomorrow hell for you. 

Toji begrudgingly let you get up, glaring when you bent over to fish your phone from your bag, his scar twitching down as he frowned. “You ever think you’d be better off if he dropped dead?” 

You laughed, staring at the name on the screen as you shrugged.

“All the time.” 

You were trouble. 

Fucking you was supposed to make it easier. Satisfy the stupid urges he’d been plagued with since he saw your face. Since he heard your voice and felt your fingers on his skin. 

Instead, it sealed his fate. 

Yours too. 

Because laying in bed the morning after, watching the subtle rise-and-fall of your chest, finding himself tracing shapes on your skin for the excuse to keep touching you, a fuzzy feeling he couldn’t snuff out was suffocating him. 

Smothered in the scent of soap and sex and your sweet perfume. Sniffing the shampoo in your hair, sighing at the way his heart beat faster every time you tossed and turned. 

How long had it been since he slept next to someone? 

Shared more than a fast fuck? A quick make-out session that never made him feel anything? 

He snuck out of bed first, readjusting your head to rest on the pillow and pulling up his blanket to cover you before he caught himself. 

What the hell was he doing? 

You weren’t his girlfriend. 

But maybe you could be. If he played his cards correctly. 

And really, was there anything better than making a bet he knew he’d win?

He found his phone in his jeans, a few missed calls from Shiu waiting. He deleted them. Walked out into the kitchen, opening the door to his mostly-empty fridge, staring at the eggs in there, the few cans of energy drinks, before moving to the pantry. There wasn’t much there either. Rice. Ramen. 

Stuff for a single guy who didn’t give a shit about taking care of himself. 

“What’re you doing?” You yawned behind him, all sleepy and sweet, and he glanced back over his shoulder to see you walking over, clutching his blanket to your chest.

“Lookin’ for something to make you breakfast,” he grunted, folding his arms across his chest. 

You giggled, like it was fucking cute. 

“Got any coffee?” 

He made it a week of pretending to be a normal guy in a normal relationship before the fractures started forming. 

Donning his fake uniform and driving you to work and to your place, narrowly avoiding being spotted by your boss and undermining all those pesky security systems to set up for what he was really planning. Using a couple of his contacts to get his hands on something that couldn’t be traced back to him. Moving all the pieces into place while playing boyfriend. 

He might’ve dragged it out longer – went another few days, pushed back Gojo’s death date again – but Shiu wouldn’t shut up. 

Toji was supposed to be waiting for you outside, wishing for a cigarette and reading your message that your boss was making you help him with one last thing then you’d be down to get lunch with him when his own handler called. 

“The hell is taking so long?” Shiu scoffed over the phone, almost as annoyed as he felt. 

“Covering our fuckin’ asses,” he growled back. 

There was no way he was risking his fucking neck this time. He wasn’t going to jail for this shit – and he sure as hell wasn't going to let you either. 

“The client expects this done-” 

“I’m handling it,” Toji interrupted him, a gruff growl from the back of his throat.

He had the stuff with him, everything he needed to make you his – and send Satoru Gojo to an early grave. 

“Take care of it.” 

Shiu hung up on him. 

The soles of his boots were heavy on the ground, tapping his foot as he checked the time again. Two more minutes, and he'd call you. The seconds tended to drag by without you there. 

He heard your voice, faint, still far away, but he turned anyway. 

You were walking out the main doors of the building, Gojo walking close behind you, his brows drawn tightly together, scolding you. He grabbed your wrist, but you shrugged him off, Toji’s blood boiling at how handsy that asshole was, touching something that didn't belong to him. 

All the stares of people passing by, coworkers or not, shifted towards the two of you. 

Your sad little pout, your chest puffed out and trying to stand straight, while he glared at you. 

“Maybe I should just fire you,” Gojo scoffed at you, and you flinched. Toji could feel the vein in his forehead throbbing, fist clenching while you did your best to bite your tongue. 

But then you surprised him – and Gojo – by beginning to speak up, “I’m-” 

“You’re replaceable.” 

Your face crumpled at how sharply he cut you off. Struggling not to cry, to hold yourself together while he turned on his heel and stormed back inside. Other people pretended to not be eavesdropping, avoiding eye contact when you walked away. Head hanging low, rubbing your eyes, barely paying attention to where you were going until he caught you. 

You didn't even say anything when Toji pulled you in for a hug, squeezing you against him as you automatically hid your face in his chest. 

He was shit at comforting people. Had never really known what to say. How to make anyone feel better. 

But you didn't seem to mind, a few muffled sobs snuffed out when your mouth was pressed against his broad muscles.

“H-he said he’s gonna-” You tried to choke out, but Toji just softly patted your head.

“Don't worry about him,” he grunted. 

He wouldn't be alive long enough to actually fire you. 

Toji didn't say that though. He let you cry in his car, listened to you vent about your latest argument, wiped away some of your tears with the calloused pad of his thumb. 

And when your break ended, and you were supposed to go back to finish off your shift, he walked back in with you. Made up some excuse about putting off taking care of the next maintenance ticket, like he hadn't already disabled all the cameras in the building earlier. 

Usually, he preferred a bullet and brute force. Didn't see the point in a delicate touch and careful preparations. But he'd make an exception for you. 

This one time. 

“I think I'm gonna make him some coffee,” you murmured, still sniffling as you grabbed the stuff you needed for it. 

Like it would be a truce instead of a death sentence. 

You didn't know any better. Just scurried around the break room, not noticing when he poured a little packet of powder into the cup the moment your back was turned. 

“You’re too good for him.” 

You glanced back at Toji, smiling even though it didn't reach his eyes. Not really believing it, but still appreciating the sentiment. 

“You're probably the one person that thinks that.”

You picked up the cup of coffee, pouring a ridiculous amount of sugar in, enough to cover the slightly bitter powder. You even snagged a can of whipped cream from the fridge, swirling it on top as if your efforts would be appreciated. 

Two birds. One stone. 

Or really, two fools and one cup of coffee. That was all it'd take for you to be his and both your problems to be solved. 

And if it didn't?

Well, his gun was still tucked inside the band of his jeans. 

“Are you sure you're not going to get in trouble?” 

Toji had gotten on the elevator with you, his hand still slung too low on your waist to be purely polite, brow arched up at your concern for him slacking off. 

“Just wanna make sure you're alright,” he grumbled, huffing and looking back at the buttons lit-up on the elevator. 

You weren't really sure what he was to you. 

A boyfriend? A lover? 

But you didn't mind. His proximity was nice. His presence in your life was welcome. 

Even if it was causing problems with Gojo – who had made it clear he couldn't stand sharing your attention at all. Hated you having a life. 

You weren't delusional enough to think maybe he'd change his mind if he met Toji. 

But your fingers were still unsteady as the elevator dinged and let you off on the top floor. 

Gojo was sitting at your desk, legs propped up and feet on your paperwork. He was pretty as always, white hair tousled, one of those sharp brows of his casually raised as he glanced between you and Toji. “Is this seriously the guy?”

He laughed like it was an insult. Ignoring your frown when you walked over to hand him his coffee. He took it though, bringing it up to his mouth but not before scoffing again. 

“Satoru,” you hissed out his name, a low warning that he was rolling his eyes at.

He took a long drink, whipped cream sticking above his lips like a mustache before his face paled. The next few seconds slowed, crawling by as you watched him drop the mug, ceramic shards shattering as he choked. 

You were staring, your brain refusing to process what you were seeing, Toji’s voice registering behind you but the words not making any sense. 

What the hell was happening?

Somewhere, the vague thought hit you that something was seriously wrong, that Satoru was dying, but nothing would connect, your body refusing to respond to even the notion of it.

Your mouth fell open, but your scream was muffled by Toji’s hand. Knees buckling, just for him to catch you in his arm, one arm wrapped around your midsection to hold you up. 

“Hey, hey, I'm here,” he gruffly muttered, and you clung to that. 

“W-we need to call someone,” you stammered, your panicked gasps turning into hyperventilating. This was bad. Really, really fucking bad. 

“It’s okay,” he soothed in your ears, turning around so you couldn't see Satoru anymore. Wouldn't have to look when-

You couldn't even finish the thought. 

“Just breathe, baby.”

“I-I can't.” You were trying, but no air would enter your lungs, throat constricting more with each attempt. 

Toji paused, his palm pressing harder against your back before he stiffened. 

“We need to go.”

You let him lead you back out, his hand on your spine still guiding you forward. One step, and another. Focusing on the rhythm in them, the pattern of the elevator carpet, a crack in the sidewalk, whatever was beneath your feet to stop the image of Satoru from flashing in your head. 

Was he dead? What could even cause it? An allergic reaction? Poison? 

Oh God no. 

He led you back to his car. 

Toji had parked it further down the street than usual, opening the door for you to get in and buckling you in again. It didn't feel quite as romantic as the first time.

“Where are we going?” You asked, voice cracking as you forced the words out. All you really wanted was to sleep, to go somewhere that you didn't have to think anymore.

“Don't worry about it, doll,” he casually said, shutting the door behind him and walking around to the driver’s seat. 

“Is he-” 

You couldn't get the question out, and he didn’t answer.

“The cops are gonna think-” You started, only just starting to swallow the bitter pill that you were screwed. 

“They’ll frame you for it,” he scoffed, and you recoiled. Surprised at yourself for forgetting what you already knew about the man in front of you. 

He wouldn't sugarcoat it. 

Make fake promises to you that this would be fine. 

“But I-”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your fuckin’ life behind bars?” He growled, and you hated how much of a point he had. 

You shook your head, fingers trembling as he stilled them with his own. 

Gojo had a lot of enemies. Any one of them would be happy to let you take the fall. 

All you'd done was give Gojo a fucking cup of coffee – and now he was dead.

“There’s cameras,” you murmured, ones that would catch you running away from the scene of the crime. 

“They've been down half the day,” Toji grumbled, and you had no idea if that was even a relief. 

Your feelings were all jumbled, guilt, horror, disgust, regret, even affection and adoration tangled up in there with Toji trying so hard to keep you safe. 

You stared at him, still shaking, and he leaned across to spare you a heated kiss. Grounding you here with him, his calloused palm caressing your cheek as his pretty eyes narrowed. 

“I'll protect you.” 

Toji meant it.

The motel was shitty, far enough from the city you dozed off on the drive, but there weren’t any cameras. No one to watch him carry you from his car and no one to care after he tossed enough cash to cover a room at the strung-out receptionist. 

You woke up still in shock. Reeling from what you’d seen – or rather what you’d done. 

“Someone’s gonna come-”

“No one’s gonna find you, baby,” he promised, and it was one he intended to keep. 

You curled up on the bed, and he crawled in next to you, letting you bury your face in his chest to muffle the faint sounds of crying. Stroking your hair at first, eventually untucking your shirt from your skirt to trace soothing patterns over the bare skin of your back. Maybe you were scared right now, that was natural.

The first kill was always the hardest. 

Once you were somewhere safe, once you knew he wasn’t going anywhere, you’d relax. After the news cycle covering your former employer’s death died off, and the investigation went cold, you'd realize that you wouldn't get caught. 

And if you adjusted better than he hoped, maybe you could be his assistant. 

Or if not, maybe he could leave this life behind. Find something more stable. Part-time work, or something he could do from home to spend more time with you.

You fell back asleep on him, lashes fluttering as he ran over his next steps. 

He'd gotten rid of both your cells and tossed your wallet on the drive, slipping the sim cards out and destroying them when he got gas and paid in cash. Someone had probably found the body by now. He'd need to switch cars to pick up the payment from the drop off point, but that wouldn't be a problem. 

There was a payphone outside, one he could see from the window. He'd call Shiu from it in a few minutes, let you dream on him for a bit longer. 

The pay for this would be enough for fake passports, to buy some place off grid – and install a state of the art security system. To keep intruders or officers investigating out. 

And more importantly, keep you inside. 

There was nothing better than a bonus for a job well done - especially one as pretty as you.

"We should change your bandages," you tell him, setting the first aid kit on the coffee table.

He stares at you from the couch. Despite how he's sunken down into it, he's rigid, hands balled into fists at his side. It makes his muscles ache in ways they never have, but he can't find it in himself to let them relax.

"We," he repeats, spitting the word. "We aren't doing it. You want to do it. So ask."

You're tired. It's written in the slopes of your shoulders, the line of your mouth, and especially in the way you look at him. Still, you have the nerve to look sad. What the fuck do you have to be sad about? He's the one who's lost everything.

"I’m not asking," you say, voice firm, though with that same relentless patience. "We need to change your bandages, or it could still get infected."

Heat flares in his chest, and his expression twists into something ugly. An infection. This weak, vulnerable existence is so fucking-

"Pathetic," he hisses. "You're fucking pathetic, you know that?"

The satisfaction he gets from your frown is fleeting. Hollow. He's already digging for something to say to get another hit.

"Sit up," you say. Your tone is maybe a little flatter, but not nearly as upset as he feels. It makes him want to scream. To see you scream, throw things, cry. You should be begging him to let you do this.

"No."

A long moment passes in which the two of you just stare at each other. For days–maybe weeks, he’s lost track–you've coaxed him into every lick of his wounds, sat through his every fit and misery. This has become a routine, and at least that is something familiar to cling to.

“Okay,” you say at last, the sound of it more sigh than a word, and pick up the kit.

He sits up, his animosity swiftly transmuted into apprehension by this unexpected change to the script the two of you have been rehearsing over and over.

“Where are you going?”

You lift your shoulders, one hand drifting out in a listless, noncommittal gesture. “I don’t know. I just need to be somewhere else right now.”

His stomach churns. Anger resurges, burning up his throat like bile. Like fear. He jumps to his feet and catches you by the wrist. It makes him sick that he has to try to stop you in your tracks, how much he can actually feel you pull against him, the muscles in his arm trembling with the effort.

“Where are you going?” he demands again, but you don’t face him. You won’t even look at him. “Answer me! Where do you think you’re going? Huh? What, think you’re too good for me now? You think I’m broken, don’t you? Say it! Tell me what’s so fucking–”

“Stop it!”

The pitch of your voice hits him as hard as the volume of it. It leaves a faint ringing in his ears, his ranting mouth gone slack. Tears stream from your eyes like two rivers undammed.

“What… What’re you–you’re”–he fumbles, his voice breaking. His own eyes burn salty wet. “Why are you crying? What do you have to cry about?” he asks, louder, shriller. There’s no pretense of rage in his voice to hide behind anymore, it’s fragmented and weak. Even he hears the pitchy childishness of it.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say. The words hit him with cold, horrible dread. “I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to be here for you, but I can’t. You don’t want me, and I can’t–I can’t do this. Every day, you just–it’s like the more I try, the more you hate me,” you manage to say, breathing like each word nearly chokes you.

There’s no singular word for the expression that puts on his face, or for the feeling that blooms in his chest. It’s a horrible patchwork tapestry of hurt, anger, misery, confusion. It drapes so heavily over his heart, he feels like he’s being suffocated by it.

“I don’t–I don’t hate you,” he sputters. “Why would you say that?”

“Oh my God!” you cry, ripping your arm from his grasp to throw your hands into the air. He flinches. “Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I? Do you even hear yourself? You just told me that I’m pathetic! That I’m pathetic for trying to help you! For loving you!”

The exasperation in your voice makes the hurt all the more raw.

“You don’t talk to me except to insult me, you don’t touch me, you barely let me touch you,” you say, only managing to suck in a ragged gulp of air once you’ve gone breathless. “But the second I try to give you any space, you do this! I don’t know what you want from me.”

The quiet that follows is deafening.

“I…” he trails off, arms slack at his side. He’s never felt more naked than he does at his moment, stripped down to mundane civilian clothes, his whole existence now a raw exposed nerve. “Don’t.”

You only stare. Like a mirror, he can see every ounce of his own misery reflected on your face.

“Don’t leave,” he begs, the pitchy words barely a whisper.

The tight line strung through your shoulders goes slack so quickly, he takes a step forward, half expecting you to fall. Maybe you would have if you still thought of him as strong enough to catch you.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, voice equally quiet.

He hates the way he has to strain to hear you, that he can’t hear your heart, or smell your shampoo from across the house. His entire life, he has known the world as no other person could hope to. He’s known you down to each and every follicle. What he hates is his own burned out body, dulled and halfway dead. 

“What I want,” he begins, grasping blindly for the words to explain feelings he doesn’t even understand. “What I want–I want you to–to look at me. I want you to see me, me! and not, not some useless fucking nobody,” he says, the volume of his voice climbing. “Stop looking at me like I’m broken! The–the–the fucking pity party you’re throwing every time you look at me! Stop it!”

It’s your turn to be at a loss. You start and stop a handful of sentences, but with every attempt, you only look more incredulous.

“Is that really what you think?” is what you finally manage to ask, wounded but undeniably angry. “That I pity you?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he sneers, baring his teeth from the proverbial corner he’s put himself in. “You think I don’t see it?”

“I love you.”

Those simple words disarm him so acutely, you may as well have slapped him.

“What?”

“All I’ve ever done is love you. For fuck’s sake, I almost lost you. Do you understand that? I almost lost you! I’ve never been so scared in my life! You don’t get to decide what I feel! You don’t get to treat my love as something ugly because you can’t stand to look at yourself anymore!”

Homelander recoils at that. Your voice is so loud in his ears. He can’t even remember the last time he looked in a mirror. He knows that he’s a mess, that his hair is overgrown, his face bearded and disheveled, but he can’t bring himself to look at it. He’s too afraid of what he’ll see.

What he’ll see.

Deep down there’s a part of you that’s still… human.

Nauseated, he steps back from you, whimpering nonsense under his breath.

 …dirty, shriveled, anemic little part of you.

He grabs at his own hair, sick to find it’s long enough to take fistfuls of, and pulls hard at it, screwing his eyes shut, grinding his teeth against the pain. 

We gotta cut that part of you out like a cancer.

It’s been done. All that’s left of him is what he swore he would carve from himself forever. He rips at his hair until it feels like he’s going to split in two, until he throws himself to his knees and screams.

“It hurts,” he grits out, pulling harder at himself. “It hurts, everything hurts so fucking much. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair!” he sobs, wishing he could tear himself in half. “What was it for? What was any of it fucking for?! They boiled me alive, and it didn’t hurt like this! An oven! I was in an oven! I was in a fucking oven! For this!”

All that’s left of me is this.

His chest hurts. He can’t breathe. The world becomes fuzzy. His scalp is burning–they burned me alive–but he can’t make himself let go. He can’t make himself let go of the pain. 

Your hands are gentle atop his. Slowly, you work your fingers between his, easing the white-knuckle grip he has until you’re able to pry his hands out of his hair. He gradually goes slack, no longer resisting your pull.

“Here,” you say, bringing his hands to the carpet. His brows furrow. “Touch. What is it?”

He looks at you strangely, his eyes glassy and bloodshot. The redirection works, his confusion overtaking his previous overwhelm. “The… floor?”

“Yes, but what is it?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat, looking back down. Are you asking him fucking riddles now? He’s too tired to make the wisecrack. Instead, he combs his fingers through the soft strands of the carpet, letting himself ponder the ridiculous question.

“Nylon, probably?” His nose scrunches. He’s always hated synthetic fibers. “Eugh, maybe polyester.” 

You huff a laugh. He suddenly remembers how much you used to do that, and how long it’s been since he heard it.

“That’s right. How does it feel?”

“Cheap,” he answers, though it lacks bite. There’s an exhausted hollow quality to his voice. You nod like you want him to continue, and he sighs, begrudgingly petting the carpet. “It’s soft, I guess. Why are you asking me this?”

You point beyond him, and he turns to look. Sunlight spills between the faux wood slats of the blinds that hang over the window.

“What’s that?”

He stares for a long moment. “Window.”

“Mhm, that’s right. Can you see outside? What’s out there?”

Absently, he interlaces his fingers with yours. You used to feel a little cool to him. Not because you ran cold, but because he ran so damn hot. Now, touching you feels more like an extension of himself. It feels the same.

Through the half-closed angle of the blinds, he can barely see the green of trees. Their leaves dance in the sway of winds he can’t hear, no matter how hard he focuses on them.

“Trees… It’s windy.”

“Yeah,” you say. There’s a break in your voice that makes him look back at you. Tears in your eyes, yet you smile.

“Where are you right now?”

He stares at you, understanding dawning in his eyes. He looks around the room, taking in what he’s purposefully been blocking out. His world had narrowed to such a small, interior place, he’d honestly forgotten where he really is.

Not the penthouse. Not the lab. It’s not Vought at all. It’s just a house.

“Your house,” he says, gauging your reaction. Even now, he feels that little prickle of desire to answer how you want him to. A thought occurs to him, and he tries again: “I’m… home?”

Your smile twists, and you make a noise that’s somehow both a laugh and a sob. “Yes, yeah, that’s good. That’s right. This is home. You’re home with me.”

Shame broils hotly in his gut. If he had anything left in him, that might turn to anger. Instead, all he can manage to feel about it is sadness. Morose grief at the realization that he finally has a home, but not the capacity to enjoy it.

“I know they hurt you,” you whisper. He tenses. “And I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine it,” you say, keeping your voice quiet, taking your time between each carefully selected word. 

“And I know you’re hurting now. The stitches, the bandages, the tape, I wish I didn’t need any of it,” you say, and though you’re trying to hold them back, your tears fall despite your efforts.

For the first time since his fall from grace, he’s able to see beyond his own pain, and recognize yours.

“I’m sorry that it hurts. I’m really, really sorry. All I want to do is help you. Can you let me do that? Can you let me be here for you, even when it’s uncomfortable? Even when it hurts?”

Tentatively, he streaks his thumb through the shiny tear tracks on your cheek. Your lashes flutter shut, and you lean into his touch with a readiness and hunger that he feels deep to his core.

He takes it further, cupping your face in his palms. You sag into it, and the weight feels… good. It feels real. The realization of how much he missed this hits him so hard, it knocks the breath out of him.

“God,” he exhales, pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “Why did I ever stop touching you?”

The noise that wrings from you is made of pure grief. There’s no pretense of laughter anymore, just sobs that yank each breath out of you like a physical blow. He knows that you’ve cried since he lost himself, but this is the first time he’s been faced with it so directly.

The first time he’s accepted that you’re crying for him, and not another version of him that you had lost.

Your hands move as if you want to grab him, but you stop yourself each time. He’s struck by the memory of a thousand tiny rejections. Somewhere amidst all the pain and discomfort of you caring for his wounds, he had begun flinching from your hands, even when there were no scissors or alcohol wipes in them. He’d unconsciously started associating your every touch with hurt. 

Christ, how long has he been avoiding you? He can’t put a number to it, but the absence of it crashes down upon him like a wave. The longing that comes with it is dizzying.

“Touch me,” he rasps. Your hands are on him before he takes his next breath. By touch alone, you know where every single bruise and cut is, and how to avoid them. Your fingertips skirt the edges of wounds that are halfway to being scars, lingering on every bit of unharmed skin you can find. 

Though he cannot sense your every twitch anymore, there is a thrum in you he’s never felt before. That there could possibly be anything to you that he hasn’t noticed seems impossible, doubly so that he would only notice it now, when he is dulled to such a state, but it’s there, faint and buzzing under his touch.

He kisses you, and realizes that the thrum of you is your strength. He never could have imagined that you could feel like this. He’s always been hyper aware of your fragility, how utterly breakable you were in his hands. Now, you press back into him with such feverish hunger, he actually fucking falls backwards! His head thumps against the soft carpet at the same time you land atop him. His vision spins while you curse under your breath, murmuring an apology.

“Are you okay?” you ask, looking fretfully into his eyes.

Above him, haloed by the ceiling light, you look like a goddamn angel.

Homelander starts to laugh. It hits him like a bout of hysteria; giggles that climb in pitch and frequency until he’s wheezing, his bruised ribs aching. For weeks, his constant awareness of his own physicality has been a nightmare. The neverending aches in his back, the sting of fleshed being stretched wrong, the relentless onslaught of existing in a vulnerable body, it’s all been a fucking nightmare.

For the first time, he doesn’t resent the ache of existence. Beyond all logic, it actually feels good. 

It feels like being alive.

You’re laughing, too. He soaks it in like a dying man drinks from the oasis, cupping your face and kissing the sound of it straight from your lips.

“You’re strong,” he tells you with such wonder, grinning wildly to himself. There’s a wound in his side that twinges when he moves, but it’s worth it to flip you over, to pin your wandering hands down. He’s been so resentful of his weakness, but in this moment, he can admit to the satisfaction of feeling his muscles work to move you.

The look in your eyes makes his heart leap. Your skin is flushed so warm, and he doesn’t need to hear it to know your own heart is racing. There’s an awe in your expression that he was certain he would never see again. Reverence that belonged to a version of him that was dead and gone.

“So are you,” you reply, pushing against his grip.

Christ, he really does have to try to keep your hands down. On some level, he knows that should bother him, send him spiraling again, but the thrill he gets at successfully keeping you pinned despite the struggle is far too distracting.

He kisses you, and your hands relax beneath his.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he says again and again, punctuating each one with a kiss to your mouth, your jaw, your neck. He wants to etch it into every part of you so that no matter where he looks at you, he’ll never lose sight of it again.

The second your hands are free, they’re upon him. In his hair, in his clothes, grabbing and pulling at every part of him that you can reach. Where he once would have been both an immovable object and an unstoppable force, he now moves with each push and pull.

For his entire adult life, power was the only security Homelander ever knew. So long as he was the most powerful person in the room, he didn’t have to be afraid of what would be done to him. He wasn’t a child anymore. He would never let himself be held down and hurt the way he had been before. Without that power, the world–even you–had become terrifying, and that fear had nearly grown to hatred.

The world spins, and suddenly you’re on top of him. His eyes are wide, his kiss-bitten lips parted around breathless panting. You have the upper hand now, his wrists pinned down to the ground beneath your hands.

“Gotcha,” you say, just as out of breath as he is.

He probably thought he was being subtle. You’d fled to the front porch shortly after arriving, but even that meager distance did little to help when you could see him out of the corner of your eye, stealing glances at you from the living room couch through the water-stained window as he played some terrible first-person shooter with a couple members of the fraternity. You were making a considerable effort to ignore him, but it was easier said than done. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the weight of his gaze, the knot of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach, the memories of his voice calling out to you in—

“Are you good?”

You blinked. Nobara was squinting at you, her head cocked to the side. Nodding hastily, you rushed to answer before fully processing her question. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little—” You paused, forcing yourself to laugh. “Just zoned out, I guess.”

She hummed, unconvinced. Next to her, the other girl you’d been talking to - Maki - smirked and slung an arm over Nobara’s shoulders. “Blame your friend. He’s got a bit of a staring problem.”

She glanced into the living room. “Yuuji? He’s harmless.” And then, to you, “You know him, right?”

The panic was a ice-cold stake to your chest. You shook your head, moved to tell her that no, really, it was alright, you were just having an off-night, you’d give her all the money in your wallet if she just didn’t do this, but it was already too late. Nobara turned to the window, raising a hand, and you watched in frozen horror as she waved to Yuuji, gesturing for him to join you.

He was off the couch and out the door before you could so much as think to make a run for it.

Maki was greeted with a nod, Nobara a hasty fist bump. You were pulled into a hug before you had the chance to object - his smothering physical affection saved for you and you alone. Even when he drew back, it was only far enough to position himself behind you and drape his arms around your waist. You could feel his breath on the dip of your shoulder, the scar at the corner of his lips ghosting over the base of your throat. It felt as if you were about to crawl out of your skin, but if your discomfort was visible, Maki and Nobara were both kind enough to ignore it. The former seemed disinterested while the latter only grinned.

“So you two do know each other.”

“Obviously.” Yuuji couldn’t have sounded happier. You felt yourself shrink underneath him. “We met last semester, in that class I failed.”

Nobara laughed. “So, like, any class you’ve literally ever taken.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The words were harsh, but his affection was light, cheery. Nobara brightened. Even Maki cracked a smile. Yuuji had that effect on people. He made them happy. He made them like him.

You weren’t sure why it didn’t work the same way, for you.

“We had this project together, and—” His hands dropped lower, falling a little too close to your hips. “Do you want to tell them what you said when I asked for your number, babe?”

“It wasn’t necessary for the assignment,” you recited, flatly.

“I got it anyway, though.” You cringed at the reminder. You’d changed it, since then, but that’d only stopped the flood of texts for a few days. All innocent things - questions about your day or pictures of cute dogs on campus. Nothing you could show to anyone else without seeming like you were crazy one for being bothered. “And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

He was leaving things out. All the times he’d sat next to you in class, always more than happy to move along with you whenever you decided to switch seats. How often he’d coincidentally show up at the library while you were studying, despite never having reviewed for a test in his life. The hours of sleep you’d lost to dreading the next time you’d see him, the next time he’d stand too close or stare too long or talk about the two of you like you were good friends. You might’ve been able to cope, if you had someone to talk to. But—

Maki’s chuckled. She met your eyes, and her grin widened. “That would’ve been pretty scary, if it’d been anyone else. Bet you’re glad you’ve got the nicest guy on campus for a stalker, huh?”

You wanted to scream.

But everyone loved Yuuji.

You shrugged him off, starting for the front door. “I need to—”

“You’re right. We should dance.” Immediately, he was in front of you, grabbing your wrist. “C’mon, Toge’s getting the speakers hooked up out back.”

"I’m good. Maybe later.”

You tried to pull yourself out of his hold. His grip tightened.

“Do you want something to drink? I made sure we’re stocked up on everything you like, just—”

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and you made the mistake of looking up - of looking at him. That was what had made you keep your distance, before the following and the touching and the harassment.

No matter how brightly he was smiling, his eyes were always so, so cold.

"Stop touching me.”

Heads turned in your direction. Nobara whispered something to Maki. Yuuji’s hand vanished from your wrist, as if it’d never been there at all.

Fuck.

You’d made a scene.

You shouldered past him, trudging into the house proper. Inside, disparate conversations melted into a constant pulse of voices and laughter and noise. You shouldered through bodies packed too tightly together, muttering apologies as drinks were spilled and balance was lost. Yuuji tried to follow, but the crowd was thick and you lost him quickly in the tangle. Hopefully, it’d stay that way until you’d done what you needed to.

It didn’t take long for you to find your roommate. Yuuta was in the basement, sprawled out on a well-beaten couch, passing a joint around with a few of his anemic friends. The current holder - a younger guy with spiky black hair and a perpetual frown - offered it to you as you approached, but you shook your head. Any other time, maybe. Right now, there was only one thing you wanted.

“C’mon, Okkotsu.” You reached over the back of the couch, taking him by the shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

His dark eyes were wide and unfocused. He had to blink a few times before his gaze shifted to you. When he spoke, his speech was on that same type of drawled delay. “Already?”

Agitation sparked, but you stamped it out. He was high. You’d been here for less than an hour. Some resistance was fair. “Yeah, it’s—” His name got caught in your throat. You did your best to choke it down before going on. “It’s Itadori.”

Of all the people you’d considered confessing your Yuuji-centered issues to, you’d gotten with Yuuta. You’d lived with him since freshman year. He was always so level-headed, so calm, so sympathetic. When someone spoke, he listened. You’d always liked that about him. You’d always trusted him to do the same for you.

Yuuta groaned, clenching his eyes shut and crossing his arms over his face. A knot formed in your chest. You repeated your mantra. Some resistance was fair. You had to believe that this was fair. “Again?”

“I know it’s early, but—”

“It’s too early. And Itadori’s not even that—” He broke off, whining into his sleeves. “Have you tried talking to him?”

The knot tightened.

“…it’s not really like that. We don’t—”

“He’s so nice.” With effort, Yuuta managed to sit up. “And sweet. And everybody knows he likes you. Couldn’t you just…?”

The insinuation was clear. You felt the knot grow tighter and tighter still before the cord snapped and something deep inside of you unraveled.

Your voice was flat, blank, confusion dulling anger into frigid apathy. “You want me to shut up and fuck him so you can… What? Smoke in his friend’s basement for another twenty minutes?”

Yuuta grimaced. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant, though, right?”

“He’s nice.” Sulkily, now. As if you’d done something wrong. “It just— It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Your expression hardened. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open as he scrambled to apologize, but it was too late. You were already climbing up the basement stairs. With or without him, you were getting out of here.

Someone had started playing music. You couldn’t see any amps, but deep bass blared through the house, loud enough to shake the foundations. People were beginning to dance. Not that any of that mattered to you. You kept to the walls, skirting around the edges, doing what you could to fade into the background. You didn’t want attention. You didn’t want to make a scene. You just wanted to—

Two arms, appearing out of nowhere, caging you in on either side. You froze, pressing your back against the drywall. Panic blurred your vision, but you would’ve had to be blind not to recognize the man in front of you.

Yuuji, obviously.

It was always fucking Yuuji.

He had a drink in his hand. The usual frat part mixer - reddish, brownish, smelling vaguely of Kool-Aid and gasoline. And he was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. You weren’t sure he was capable of doing anything else.

You did your best to be blunt, to keep your voice from shaking. “What do you want?”

He didn’t say anything. Slowly, with the type of care you hadn’t thought he was capable of, he held his drink in front of you. For an embarrassingly long second, you stared at it blankly, uncertain if you were supposed to take it or slap it out of his hand. Then, his smile widened, and in one unfaltering movement, he turned his cup over and dumped its contents down the front of your shirt.

The revulsion was hot and instantaneous. You cursed, grabbing at your shirt and pulling it away from your skin. You moved to dart away from Yuuji, but a muscular arm cut off your escape. It was all you could do to bare your teeth, glaring at him as you snarled, “What the fu—”

“Yo, Itadori.”

You snapped to your left and found Yuuta, the spiky haired kid from the basement trailing after him. He paid Yuuji a nod and a smile before his eyes fell to you, his expression dimming.

You opened your mouth, but Yuuji was faster. “Just a party foul,” he explained, nodding to your ruined shirt. “Mind if I borrow your room for the clean-up, Megumi?”

The spiky haired kid - Megumi - looked to you, his bleary eyes suddenly prying, evaluative. For a moment, he seemed to take you in, from the cheap booze dripping down your chest to the rigidity of your posture to the way you were pressed into the wall, clearly scared, clearly trying to keep your distance from a lurking threat. For a moment, you let yourself hope, even if you weren’t entirely sure for what. Help, maybe. More realistically, bare-bones acknowledgement, some kind of unspoken sign that he recognized what was happening. That something was wrong and it wasn’t your fault.

And then, the moment passed, and your amorphous hopes solidified into familiar disappointment as his gaze slid to Yuuji, softening in an instant. He nodded, and immediately, Yuuji’s fist was cuffed around your wrist, hauling you away. In your peripheral, you watched Yuuta raise a hand and start to say something, only to fall short. Megumi’s lips moved, the words lost underneath the music, gesturing in the direction of the drinks’ table. Yuuji’s grip tightened and you glanced toward him on instinct, finding only disheveled pink hair and the corners of his grin. By the time you looked back over your shoulder, they were gone.

Yuuji weaved seamlessly through the crowd. You were made to stumble up a too-thin staircase, then down a narrow hallway. The floor creaked under your weight as mold-infested carpeting tapered into ancient wooden boards, the music fading into a muted pulsing and the crowd thinning until you were alone save for the handful of lost, inebriated party-goers who’d wandered farther than they were supposed to. Never pausing to explain himself, Yuuji shouldered open an unmarked door, shutting it again as soon as he’d pulled you across the threshold.

Distantly, you heard a lock click into place, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. A little privacy didn’t sound all that bad, at the moment.

The room was dark. The walls were a deep, depressing shade of charcoal gray and the sole window was swallowed by a thick, black curtain. The sole source of light came from a lamp on a surprisingly neat desk, its harsh white light almost jarring after wading through the technicolor haze downstairs. You collapsed onto the foot of the bed, burying your head in your hands and groaning into your palms. Even that moment of catharsis was cut short as the mattress dipped beside you, Yuuji settling into place.

“We should get this off.” His hand curled around the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. “Can’t be comfortable, like that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why are you doing this?”

An airy laugh. Another tug - more insistent, this time. “‘cause we’re friends, obviously.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Alright.”

It was terrible, how calm his voice was, how little warning were given before his hands were on your shoulders, your back on the bed, his knees planted on either side of your waist. His weight settled onto your stomach - heavier than you’d expected. Of course. Yuuji was an athlete. In the haze of all his other positive accolades, you must’ve forgotten.

And he was staring at you, his eyes as cold as ice.

“Do you remember the day we met? Not the phone number shit. I really couldn’t care less if some—” He gestured dismissively, then let his hands fall to your midriff. “—fucking loser doesn’t want to talk to me. Afterward. When the lecture let out. You’d forgotten something, so I called your name. Must’ve caught you off guard, because you turned around and looked at me like…”

He trailed off, laughing.

“Like I was gonna kill you.”

Again, he caught the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. The air hitched in your throat. “…are you going to?”

The corners of his mouth pulled back, baring fangs. He shook his head. Somehow, no relief accompanied the reassurance.

“I really do like you.” In one motion, he tore your shirt up and over your head. Resistance wasn’t an option. Fabric tore, and suddenly, you were exposed and unprotected beneath him. Calloused fingertips dragged over your bare skin. He pulled off his own, then let his head dip low, his mouth skirting over the curve of your chest. “Took me a while to realize that. You kept running away, but I never stopped wanting to chase you.” He paused, chuckled. “I’m sorry. That makes me sound like I’m just in it for— for this, I guess. I’m not. I like the way you react to things. Whether you’re pretending not to see me or doing that deer in headlights thing or—”

He broke off suddenly, his lips latching onto your nipple. You cried out involuntarily as his teeth dug into your areola hard enough to break the skin. His tongue lapped hastily over the puncture wounds before he pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. “Or that.”

Hot, humiliating tears were beginning to fog your vision. You could see the door over his shoulder - salvation in the form of a hazy black outline. His hand drifted lower, finding the button of your jeans. Half on purpose, half on reflex, you thrashed. Your nails caught his cheek, something tearing where you made contact. You managed to free one of your legs, to get enough distance between you and him to pitch your heel into his chest. Yuuji jerked back, letting you squirm free. You rolled onto your hands and knees, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. You just had to get your feet underneath you. You just had to get out of this room. You just had to—

You made it all of a few, pitiful inches before a strong arm curled around your waist, a heavy body draping itself over yours. Anchoring you.

Trapping you.

Yuuji laughed, burying his head in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your throat. You didn’t realize that he’d been trying to be gentle until he shoved your jeans down to your knees and palmed at your cunt with all the delicacy of a hacksaw, already in motion. A thumb slid into the waistband of your underwear, the flimsy article torn off with the same haphazard efficiency. You tried to scream, but Yuuji’s mouth was already on yours, swallowing any noise you might’ve been able to get out. At the same time, he forced two fingers into your cunt, the heel of his palm rolling against your clit. A humiliatingly wet noise echoed off the walls of the bedroom - slick and mortifying. Yuuji let out a low whistle, spreading his fingers apart inside of you.

“And I thought you hated me.” His breath was hot and smothering against your skin. You shook your head violently, and he laughed. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”

You tried not to react, not to give him what he wanted. You couldn’t get away, and so denial was the next best option — letting your mind go blank and dissociating until he lost interest, playing dead until the predator got bored and wandered off in search of more interesting prey. But Yuuji had always made himself difficult to ignore. He held you tight against his chest, pumping his fingers into you with all the delicacy and all the curiosity of a mechanical piston, carrying out its only programmed function. Your cunt clenched and he forced in yet another digit, threatening to split you open. A pained groan slipped through your sealed lips. You were wet, but you didn’t want this. It was a fear reaction, not the pleasure he’d been so happy to mistake it for. It was going to take more than his invasive touch, his stifling closeness to make up for that.

…and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the little, pitchy whines tangling together on your tongue, couldn’t seem to stop your legs from twitching underneath you. You bowed your head low, but Yuuji followed you, keeping his chest against your back and his hand lodged in-between your thighs, not allowing for any amount of distance. He was so, so close. You could feel his heart beating against your spine. You could hear him panting in your ear, too reminiscent of some giant, lumbering beast. You could see his face in your peripheral, his gaze locked on your expression. His eyes were cold enough to burn.

You came with a single, miserable moan. Yuuji’s pace slowed as you came down from your unwanted high, eventually stilling inside of you. You hoped beyond hope that he’d stay like that, that you’d get a chance to at least start to recover, but the world wasn’t that kind and Yuuji wasn’t that patient. Drawing back, his hands found your hips and turned you over — all but throwing you down to the mattress. You heard fabric shift, metal clink. It was all you could do not to look. You would’ve given anything to never have to put an image to that sound.

If only you had anything left to give.

“Sorry we couldn’t do this somewhere more— more special.” He fit his body between your legs. You felt something blunt and searing press against your entrance. “Next time. I promise, I’ll make it more romantic, next time.”

You opened your mouth, but it was too late. He was already thrusting into you. In a single motion, you were split open on his cock, left bare and exposed and at his mercy. Yuuji groaned, falling against you. His lips found yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, lapping into you. You were minded uncannily of the way wolves licked each others’ mouths, all instinct without the care.

You used to fight. In the first few weeks, you would scream and throw things. You’d get physical too, but that barely put a scratch on him. He never retaliated, never got desperate enough to truly rough you around. The most he did was bind you down for a few hours. It took a few tries of trial and error to realize overpowering him was a lost cause. Despite not looking gaunt, he was far stronger than he looked. 

These days, you don’t fight. You don’t bend either. You may not curse him out anymore, but you don’t make small-talk with him. You don’t ask him about his day, what he’s been up to. You remain stubbornly silent. It was easier on your psyche to pretend you were making a concession, rather than admitting true defeat. 

It’s not like Choso is all that much of a talker. He hardly speaks a word, most days. All he does is just…watch. He never touches, or gropes or does anything you thought a kidnapper would do once they’ve finally gotten you right where they want you to be. Even at night, he doesn’t sleep next to you in bed. He’s far more content in sitting on a chair, forcing you to feel eyes prickle over your skin even when you’re snuggled underneath warm covers. His voyeuristic tendencies feel worse than if he forced you to snuggle with him. 

In a way, just watching makes everything a little more worse. You don’t know what he wants from you, but you know he wants something. You can feel it. There are these moments, every so often. If you blink, you’d miss it, but it’s there. A part of him breaks. Something darkens in his eyes, and then it’s gone. 

You’re waiting for the hammer to drop, and you’re not quite sure you’ll be able to put yourself back together when it does. 

The journey from the bathroom to the kitchen is a short one. Your hands trail over the empty walls of the house as you walk over carpeted floors. It’s familiar in the way a recurring dream is–one that repeats over and over again until you’re affixed with a strange type of anxiety. Maybe it has to do with the strange type of loneliness the house brings. Out here, there’s nothing but Choso and trees. 

Even wild animals were a rarity. You think the highlight of your week was a family of ducks traipsing through the front yard. One mama duck and her six adorable ducklings, waddling behind her. You had your eyes peeled through the window as you watched them for minutes. Other than them, you hadn’t seen another animal in weeks. Even the animals know to avoid this side of the forest. 

The kitchen is always stocked with everything you could possibly want or need. Fresh fruit and veggies always lingered in the fridge. The pantry was stocked with your favorite snacks and whatever else you possibly need. Your fingers glide over tomatoes and onions and carrots as you hum a song you forgot the words long ago. 

If you tried hard enough, you could pretend you were still living in your apartment, spending a lazy weekend in your pajamas. Choso never makes it hard to find familiarity. The bathroom is stocked with your usual shampoos and soaps. The covers in the bedroom impeccably match your old ones. Even the couches and furniture are decorated in your favorite color. Everything is meticulously recreated or recrafted. 

He must have studied you for months, maybe even a year. The thought he knew you far longer than you knew him used to terrify you. You used to wonder if you did see him before, but you just didn’t remember. It’s hard to believe, especially considering how odd he dresses and looks. The white robe and purple scarf look like they’re centuries-old fashion. His pigtails and that sharp line over his nose would make him a hard character to miss. The first time you saw him was when you woke up in this cabin with a light head all those months ago. 

Now, it’s easy to not think about those types of implications. That never got you far. 

Escaping never got you far, either. 

You have made one so far. You only count the time you escaped the seven foot gate. The rest were too laughingly pathetic to even mention. The glass was bullet proof, no matter how hard you threw the chairs or whatever you could find, there was hardly a scratch. The door held five bolts and locks, each harder to crack than the last. He almost always caught you when you rushed past the wooden fence, failing to climb over it in time. 

If you do get that far, there’s the forest stretching for miles in every direction. 

You can still remember the first night you spent in the woods. The scars on your skin were hard to ignore. In retrospect, you were an idiot. Somehow, you thought if you picked a direction and kept walking, you’d make it to civilization. You were woefully unprepared for any type of expedition. You were barefoot and your thin clothes barely fought against the frigid wind. You didn’t even think to pack food or water. The outdoors were never your specialty. The only thing that fueled you was futile hope. You escaped the house when the sun was high in the sky. You were still in that forest when the woods darkened and distant howls got closer and closer. 

You were exhausted, helpless, and lost when the coyotes caught up to you. They surrounded you in a circle, all with hungry eyes and snapping teeth. Their whimpers and growls promised to rip you apart into meaty chunks. They might’ve fulfilled their promise if Choso hadn’t arrived on time. 

To this day, you still can’t describe what happened. One second, a wild animal was dead set on pouncing on you, eager to swallow you whole, the next it was the one torn to shreds. A glimpse of a piercing-red arrow before it was dead. 

The other animals scattered after that. A part of you wanted to run with them, but you couldn’t do anything but slump on the grassy ground. You were exhausted and helpless, stuck looking up at your captor. 

For minutes, he didn’t speak a word. It felt like hours as he loomed above you, waiting for something you’d never give him. Then, he knelt down to your height. You felt a hint of fingers on your ankle. 

There was no yelling, no beratement. 

“Any injuries?” He had asked, his voice soft and quiet as always. He’s never once raised his voice at you. You always thought that was far scarier. 

You could only shake your head, letting him gather you into his arms before he returned you back to the cabin. For once, you don’t bother to fight him. Or maybe, the better reason is that you can’t bring yourself to, not after you saw what he’s capable of. Days after, you waited for a punishment that never came, a beating you’d never receive, a raise in tone that never arrived. 

Choso said nothing, but that never made you feel much better. His eyes darkened for weeks after that incident. Like he was in a trance no one could pull him out of. You forced yourself to walk on eggshells, your anxiety heightened to a state it’d never been before. 

During that time, you often wondered if the coyotes were the lesser evil. 

You’re brought back to the sounds of your pot bubbling and threatening to overflow onto the stove. You reach over and shut off the gas. Your dish is nearly ready. You just needed a few more spices before you could finally sit down and eat. 

You never offer Choso food, but you don’t think he eats, either. You’re unsure if he even sleeps, though you doubt it considering the purple circles over his eyes. That along with whatever he did to the coyotes makes you wonder how human he really is. He was always so awkward, like he didn’t know how to exist within his own body. There are some days where you’re sure he wants nothing more than to turn into stone, especially with the way he hunches over and the way his face stills. At times, he moves like a newborn kitten barely learning to walk, constantly wobbling and flopping all over the place. And yet, at certain times, his entire demeanor changes and he’s as graceful and silent as a leaf. You can’t tell which one is the act. 

The meal you cooked was a staple in your home–your real home. It was something your family would settle down for dinner, chattering and laughing through the entire meal. It was so loud, back home. There was never this type of silence. You think about your glistening childhood memories as you savour every last bite. 

When you moved out, you never had time to cook. You were always so busy with work or friends or anything else you paid attention to. Meals were less for enjoyment and more for fuel. Ironically, being trapped like this finally gave you time to enjoy the little things again. 

Choso wasn’t stingy. Anything you asked for, he brought you without question. Books you’ve never read were piled up in various corners simply because you mentioned them. Hobbies you always wanted to learn but never had the time for, were right at your fingertips. 

A small silver lining on an otherwise dark thundercloud. Not that it amounted to much.

As lackluster as your previous life was, freedom tasted sweeter than a pretty gilded cage. 

When you finish your meal, you put away the dishes. Slowly, you wash the plates, letting them pile up in the sink. You peel away the scraps of food, wiping off the porcelain until the dish shines brilliantly once more. 

You wonder about your family. Were they still looking for you? Did they think you were dead? If you were a better person, you would probably hope they were taking care of themselves and weren’t so worried about you. 

However, you are selfish. You hope they can barely eat because of how worried they are. You hope they think about you every day and night and every meal time, just like you are of them. You hope they never stop looking for you. 

But then you wonder how they’ll think about you sharing a cabin with a quiet man who may or may not be human. 

Maybe, it’s better if they stop looking. 

꧞꧞꧞

Choso returns to the cabin when the sun settles behind the trees, casting a golden glow over the purple-pink sky. 

There’s this hammer that looms above your head whenever Choso’s near. You can feel it hover above you, threatening to fall and smash your skull every time he looks at you. It becomes easier to ignore, but it never goes away. 

You don’t flinch when you hear the lock unlatch. You remain in your position, curled up on the couch, halfway through a book that was mildly engaging. His routine is the same as always. He’ll walk through the door, shuffle around a bit and just stare like you’re some exotic animal in a zoo. You should really be used to this but–

There’s a sharp inhale. You look up. 

He’s staring at you, but something’s off with his gaze. His eyes are wide as they can go. His posture is rigid, you can see how tense he is even as he’s tucked underneath those baggy clothes. He strangely looks like he’s in pain. 

The more humane part of you wants to ask what’s wrong. The more logical part of you reminds yourself he’s a kidnapper and a stalker. So, you wait for him to take the lead. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he flees. 

You watch as he disappears into the back of the house. A door slams shut and the house stills all over again. 

You stare at the door he retreated behind. No movement. Your book is utterly forgotten, laying abandoned in your lap as you adjust your position on the couch. 

Did he just run from you? You don’t know how else to explain what happened. You look down at your clothes, your hands, your legs, and a morbid part of you curiously wants to chase after him. 

Obviously, you don’t. Part of you is pretty relieved Choso decided to run off like that. It meant a peaceful evening without all the staring and analyzing. He might leave you alone tonight, too. A night without that familiar prickle crawling down your spine–it sounded like heaven. 

Choso doesn’t return. When your eyes grow heavy and you’re no longer as interested in the book, you pack up. Outside, the sun disappears behind the trees. The sky blooms into a variety of pinks and purples. 

The floorboards creak under your weight as you travel to your bedroom. When you reach the silver handle, your eyes betray you. You glance at the door Choso disappeared through hours ago. You wait, straining your ears. You swear you can hear something emanating from the room. 

Crying? You weren’t sure. They were so faint, you could easily just be imagining it. 

Ignore it. Whatever he was doing there, it wasn’t any of your business. Nothing he does should interest you. You tighten your resolve and shut your door behind you. There’s no lock, but you never stop wishing you had one. 

Maybe that wish was futile. If Choso truly wanted to get in, would flimsy metal stop him? 

You change out of your clothes, shifting into something more casual, more appropriate for sleeping. As you fold up your clothes, you catch a spot of red on your discarded panties. 

You stare at it while something gnaws at your stomach. You hadn’t had your period in a while. For months, you’ve been in survival mode, constantly wary, constantly waiting for anything. All that stress made it hard for your body to maintain its usual cycles. 

It was probably a good thing your period came back, but that hardly gave you relief. In the morning, you would have to deal with the associated cramps as well as whatever bullshit Choso got up to. It sounded like a nightmare combination. 

A migraine threatens your temples. You decide to ignore it until tomorrow. It’s where you put the rest of your problems. What’s one more upcoming disaster? 

You crawl underneath sheets you always hated because of how similar they were to your previous bedroom sheets. What were they like now? Were they gathering dust, along with the rest of your items in your abandoned room? Or maybe they were packed away long ago, convinced their owner would never return. 

You hate your sheets, and it’s so much easier to hate your sheets as you drift off to sleep, willfully ignoring the hammer above you. 

꧞꧞꧞

You think you were having a nice dream. 

It was murky, blurred at the edges, like your brain wasn’t able to process it. You were sitting on a plane, looking down at the wispy clouds. You could hear the voices of people chatter all around you, but you could only stare out the window, at the sky, at the wing of the plane, at the expansive sky. 

You didn't know where the plane headed. You didn't care. It was so freeing living in the moment, not caring where you landed. 

Dreams don’t last forever. As hard as you try to cling on, your grip steadily loosens. Bit by bit, the dream began to fracture. Each piece breaks off like shattered glass, disappearing into obscurity. You descend into a dark room, back into reality. 

Something isn't right.

You feel good. Heat gathers into your belly. Instinctively, you arch towards feeling, but your thighs are being held in place by firm hands. 

You’re still half-asleep when you open your eyes and blindly look around the room. It takes a minute for them to adjust in the darkness. You almost miss the figure lodged right between your thighs, face buried in your pussy. 

 Your panties are off. Your dress is hiked up to your stomach and Choso is lapping away at your cunt.

He’s saying something, but you can’t hear him clearly because your ears are filled with ringing and the blood is pounding through your ears. You can feel him mouth something in your cunt until you’re able to practically feel the shape of his words on your sensitive skin I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry–

His tongue laps over your clit and a strangled whine breaks out from your throat. 

He stops his delirious movements. Slowly, he lifts his head up to meet your eyes. 

You wish he hadn’t. 

Your blood smears all over his lips and chin, you can smell the metal tang of it drift around the room. He’s already made a mess of the sheets. The stain would probably never wash away. His eyes are the worst part. Hollow. Bright. As wide as they could go. His pupils are blown out and there’s no hint of his iris. 

It reminds you of those coyotes Choso once saved you from, the ones with snarling teeth and soulless eyes.

Saved wasn’t the best word. He was storing you away for his own teeth. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells you and you wonder if this is how coyotes would sound like if they could speak. “But I–I can’t help myself. I can’t–you smelled so good I–” 

He cuts himself off in favor of diving into your pussy all over again. 

You finally move. Your thighs press together, trying to push him out. That barely deters Choso. His hands tighten their grip on your flesh, keeping your legs apart so he can finish consuming his meal. 

Your hand lashes out, fingers finding the loosened locks of his black hair. You pull with all your might, but he ignores that too. He licks a stripe up and down your pussy. Filthy wet noises fill the room. 

You hate that you find yourself giving in. Your back arches as he continues eating you out like his life depends on it. Pleasure shoots up your spine as his serpentine tongue flicks over your clit before delving into your hole. 

Your weak pleas only seem to further spur him on. The grip on his hair loosens ever so slightly as you fight the urge to bring him closer to your cunt. 

He makes that decision for you, licking his way deeper into your pussy, savoring his meal. 

Cumming feels like a relief more than anything. Your body accepts the endless waves of pleasure as you jerk within his grasp, toes curling up as your orgasm fizzles through you. It feels like it lasts for centuries as your body seizes up and your back arches up off the mattress. 

When it finally passes, you slump back down to earth, brain foggy and exhausted. Your breaths are labored, interrupted by your shuddering sobs. 

Choso pulls back from your battered cunt. You can barely watch as he reaches his hand up to wipe away his chin, never breaking eye-contact with you. His gaze is no longer so hollow and unrestrained. He’s sated. 

For now. 

You close your eyes when he crawls over your body, lowering himself next to you. Neither of you care about the metallic scent crowding the room or the fact that the sheets are utterly ruined. You turn away when you feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in. Trepid fingers rub circles into your trembling shoulders. An act of comfort. You want to laugh if you weren’t certain you’d cry. 

At least the coyotes would just rip you apart. Choso would rip you to pieces and be cruel enough to stitch you back together. 

You’re teetering on the brink of exhaustion, half-wishing you’d fall back asleep so you don’t have to listen to his creepy mutterings and the evidence of what he did lingering all around you. 

You wait for the rage, the horror, the pure disgust to settle in. You want to yell at him, to truly curse him out. Perhaps today, if you really fought, you might be lucky to rip out his eye, maybe even knock out a tooth. 

You open your mouth. 

“Choso?” You ask, voice devoid of any malice. He hums at your voice. 

“I hate the color of my sheets.” You say instead of any truth, because it’s easier to hate your sheets. 

He brings you closer to his chest. You think he’s saying something, maybe he’s offering to get you new ones. You never hear his answer. The exhaustion finally consumes you, letting you go limp. 

“Why don’t you go ahead,” he says. “I still haven’t decided.”

You decide in that moment that you think you’ll like this new customer. 

When he finally comes up to the register, a smile on his face, you can’t help but smile back at him. 

“What can I get for you?”

His eyes are piercing. You think, briefly, that he must never want for romantic partners. And he’d be great at sealing business deals.

“I think I’ll try a piece of your pistachio cake, please. And one of your cherry chocolate cupcakes. Everyone seems to be ordering those.”

You beam. “They’re a specialty! I get the cherries from a local farm, and the pistachio cake is an old family recipe.”

You hustle and bustle and pack up his order to go, just like he requested. You’re a bit disappointed that you won’t get to see him take that first bite--it’s a bit of an indulgence for you to watch new customers and see how they react. So far, no one has ever had anything bad to say… except, sometimes, to complain about how much your treats have added to their waistline.

 --

The young man comes back the next day. It doesn’t surprise you. Maybe it wasn’t humble to think things like that, but your bakery had no shortage of people who came back day after day to indulge themselves in your cakes and cookies and other baked goods. It was simply that popular. It was simply that good. 

This time, however, he sits down on the table and you watch him out of the corner of your eye to see how he likes it. He ordered a fudge brownie, a black coffee (to which he added several little containers of creamer and a rather hefty lump of sugar) and a slice of honey crepe cake. You’re ringing up a customer when he takes a bite of the crepe cake, and you lip quirks up at the side when you see his reaction. He closes his eyes. He chews slowly. He savors. 

It makes you feel good, to see people enjoy your food. Why shouldn’t it?

--

He comes back again and again, and before you know it, you consider him one of your regulars. Eventually, you ask his name, a habit you stick to for anyone that comes in every day or just about. His name is Seth, and he’s staying in town for a while on a work project. He has a sweet tooth, he tells you once, and you can believe it by the way he savors each bite of your food every time he stops in.

And then comes a day when you're--oddly, but not impossibly--alone in the bakery together for the first time.

“It’s quiet in here,” he remarks from his place at one of the tables, a half-finished piece of cake on his plate. He seems surprised. He came in later this morning, so the morning rush was now over, and it was one of those strange lulls in the day when you rarely got any customers.

You smile from behind the counter, where you’re simultaneously rearranging a case, planning on what items you should make more of tomorrow based on today’s sales, wiping off from stray crumbs that found their way onto the glass, and debating what to pick up for dinner on the way home.

“Right?” You shut the case and wipe your fingers on your apron. “Definitely a lot quieter than it is in the morning.” You shrug easily. “But I can’t exactly complain about that, can I?”

You see him smile from behind his coffee cup as he takes a sip. You wonder how much sugar he put in this time, and then shake the thought away. You found yourself wondering a little too much about what he ate, and why he chose the treats he did, and sometimes you even felt a little twinge of disappointment when he simply took his order to go instead of sitting in. You shouldn’t wonder those things, or feel those things, and so you try to shake them off.

He’s just another customer. That’s all. 

So you give him a little smile and head over to the nearby tables where people have left their plates and napkins and--you cringe--a child’s bandaid. 

“Why did you open this bakery?” 

It’s a sudden question. It doesn’t feel intrusive, the way it might have with a different customer. Somehow, Seth knows just the right way to ask things so that they don’t seem rude or imposing. It feels like you’ve known him for years, even though it’s only been a few weeks at most. 

“Well,” you say, dropping some collected trash in the bin. “I love baking. Obviously.” He makes a low noise at that, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “But…” You stick your hands in the pocket of your apron. “More than that, I love sharing with others. Sharing what I bake, what I create... it’s like sharing a piece of myself every time.” You shrug. “Sorry, that sounds kind of weird, I guess.”

“Not at all.”

You look at him, then, and you’re overwhelmed with the sensation that you really do like being in his company. His smile is warm. His gaze is understanding. Above all, his presence feels familiar. Like you’re old friends. 

Yet there’s something else too, something on the edge of your inner knowledge that you can’t quite pinpoint. It makes you feel like you’ll get goosebumps. 

Isn’t that strange?

--

Unusually enough, you find yourself alone with him in the bakery more and more often. He used to come in in the morning, with the hustle and bustle of the morning commute, but lately he comes in just before your lunchtime. Which is, of course, after the actual lunch rush of office workers ordering in trays of sweets for their post-lunch meetings. 

Of course, being alone would be awkward if you were totally silent, so you talk. And he talks. You talk about books and movies--he’s woefully behind on seeing many of the classics, you tell him--and other little things. What cakes you’ll be making next week. What part of town he enjoys taking walks in. What your plans are for the future. 

You don’t mind it. It’s nice to talk to someone now and then, you don’t really get much time for conversation when you’re running a busy bakery. One day, you’re about to close for lunch, gesturing for him to walk ahead of you so that you can lock the door… when it starts to rain. Suddenly. A huge squall, seemingly out of nowhere. You jerk back from the door and then laugh at yourself. Who would get so startled by a little rain?

You look back at Seth, and realize that neither of you have any umbrellas. 

“Guess we’re stuck inside,” you say. 

“I suppose,” he answers, peering around you. You think he might just go outside anyway, but then he sits back down at his table, which he’d just cleared off for you. Another reason why he’s slowly becoming your favorite customer.

“Do you mind if I eat lunch here?” You ask. You normally went to the local park and ate your packed lunch on the benches. But you’d rather not eat a sandwich soaked and soggy with rainwater.

“Not at all,” he replies, in his charming way. If there was one word you could use to describe Seth, it was that: charming. You’re about to take a seat at another table, but he smiles at you and you sit down across from him. It would be rather strange to sit at a completely new table while he sat there watching you eat in silence . 

The conversation is banal enough at first. You talk about the sudden rain squall. And how surprising it was, especially for the season. You ask him how his day has been. 

“Unorthodox,” he says, and you’re about to ask him to elaborate when he suddenly leans down a little on his elbow, cupping his chin in his hand.

“I have been wondering something.”

You chew a bite of your sandwich. “Oh?” You ask, covering your mouth with one hand. “What?”

“What is your secret?”

You make a little noise around your bite, then finish chewing so that you’re not showing off masticated ham, cheese and bread.

“Secret?”

He chuckles, and you feel a little flutter in your stomach that you push down. It’s not right to feel things like that about Seth. That doesn’t mean you don’t feel them, though. Something about him is so inviting and calming, especially right now, in the quiet bakery with nothing but a soft drizzle for background noise.

“The secret to your success. The success of the bakery, of course.” 

“Ohhh,” you say, and you get another nibble of your sandwich before you decide to answer.

“If you believe the locals,” you begin, voice laced with just a dash of bitterness. “I’m a witch.”

You expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he merely raises his eyebrows a little.

“Are you?” His lips are pressed together, and his expression is unusually somber. You realize, suddenly, that his question is entirely serious. 

And then you laugh, grinning, baring your teeth in all their I-hope-there’s-no-sandwich-bits-in-them glory.

“No! Of course not.” You fiddle with the wrapper of your sandwich, tucking it back into your lunchbag to take care of later. If anything, Seth’s expression looks disappointed. Like he was expecting you to confess to being some sort of bakery witch, and you threw him for a loop with your easy denial. Maybe he’d heard the local gossip and found the reality wanting.

“But,” you add, after a few moments of pause, and you can’t help grinning and shooting him a mischievous look. “I do have a secret ingredient.”

Seth smiles, just a little, just a crack.

“I take it that the secret ingredient isn’t a magic potion that makes customers fall in love with your cupcakes.”

You scoff, laughing, and shake your head.

“It’s love.”

He regards you thoughtfully. It’s a cliché, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, you feel like he’s taking your answer just as seriously as his question about your alleged dabbling in witchcraft.

“I opened the bakery because of my boyfriend,” you continue, clarifying the details. You see his expression fall, just a little, before it smooths itself out. “I would sell cupcakes online or take orders from mom’s looking for kid’s birthday cakes, things like that. And one day, I realized that he was the love of my life, and I wanted to really settle down in this town with him and… well.” You gesture to the bakery. “He supported me the whole way. He even helped me get the loan for this place, and I’ve been baking here ever since.” 

You smile, fondly. “I guess you could say he made my dreams come true.” 

The rain seems to let up as your conversation wanes. He’s gone quieter than he was before. There’s something a bit disappointed in him, a little sour. Maybe he was hoping for a more exciting answer.

Maybe he was hoping you were single, a voice inside you says, and you mentally hush it. But, as you give Seth a wave that he returns rather somberly, you wonder if that voice wasn’t on the right track.

--

You don’t see Seth the next day. Or the next. It’s strange, at firs. Until it isn’t. Regulars come and go, after all. Maybe he moved. Maybe his doctor told him to take it easy on the sweets. Maybe that last conversation proved your little voice right, and he was simply trying to ask you out on a date, and left, dejected, when he realized you were seeing someone. 

It doesn’t matter. Life changes. 

Though not always for the better.

The day your boyfriend breaks up with you, you feel like the ground might cave in underneath you. No, you feel like it should cave in, like you want it to cave in. You want to be swallowed whole until you’re eating dirt, drowning in it, buried in the ground where you can’t feel anything but suffocation.

That tense feeling doesn’t last. But the pain continues. The sorrow continues.  Especially when he seems someone else. Especially when she…you don’t want to think about that, though. Never again.

And little by little, other things change, too. You begin to lose some regulars. You start getting complaints about the food. Cakes that are stale, cupcakes that are underdone, and even a brownie with a piece of foil stuck in the middle. You can’t blame people for complaining. Your heart just isn’t in it anymore. 

Maybe love was a magical ingredient after all, and now that yours was gone, you had nothing to put into your treats but sorrow and self pity. 

Sorrow and self pity don’t pay the bills. And neither does a bakery that’s losing customers by the day. Eventually, it’s too much, and you’re forced to make the toughest decision of your life. You have to close. Some customers return for that last week, bittersweet smiles and cooing sounds coming out of their mouth. You don’t really care. You know the cakes they buy out of pity will probably get tossed out or fed to their toddlers who don’t care about anything but a sweet, sugary taste.

--

It’s the last day that your bakery will be open, and you’re glad that you decided to only stay open through the morning, closing before what used to be the lunch rush. It gives you time to enjoy the place in solitude. The decorations have already been packed up. All of the cases but one have been emptied and cleaned and locked up. You only kept two tables out front, not that you needed them--no one wanted to sit there this morning, with the gloomy atmosphere and the awkward tension in the air.

Now that you’re alone, you finally let yourself cry. Hot, humiliated, horrible tears that aren’t just for your bakery but for the life you had with your boyfriend that was cut down and ended . You thought you were going to get married. You thought you would have children with him. You thought you would grow old and sit together on the porch and rocking chairs , watching the sunset and all that crap. But no. None of that will happen, your bakery is closing, and you’re all alone. 

You’re about to lock up for good and eat something for lunch that you probably won’t even taste through your sorrow, when you hear the door open and the bell above the door clatter and ring.

It startles you, because you thought you took that out this morning. Didn't you? You spin around, and there he is. 

Seth.

It feels like a cruel joke. Familiar feelings rush back in, memories blinking in and out. The conversations you shared, sometimes surprisingly deep, often light, kind, funny. The way his eyes sometimes made you feel giddy, and then guilty, because you shouldn’t have been thinking about him like that. Not that it mattered now. Now, you were alone.

“Oh, Seth,” you say, voice thick with your tears, which you start rapidly wiping away with the back of your hands. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else, since… we’re closing.” Your voice is so tight the last words barely come out.

There’s a pinched sort of sympathy on his face. It looks unnatural there.

“Yes, I saw the sign.” He gazes around at the empty shell that was once a bustling bakery. “I thought business had been going well?”

“It was,” you say. “Great big emphasis on was.”

Your smile is bitter and tight and upset.

Seth clucks, a soft sound against the roof of his mouth. “Care to tell me what happened?’

And although it’s been more than a year since you’ve seen him, it’s like your mind and body slide into the old routine that the two of you shared before. Easy conversations,  words that seem to spill out of your mouth even though you had only just met him. You’re tired, you’re sad, you feel numb and you want someone to share your pain with. 

You search for the words. What did happen? What made you go from the top of the world to here, wiping away tears and mascara on your hands in front of a lonely cake display stand?

And then it comes to you. The perfect words. You don’t sigh them out, romantic and wistful. Instead they come short, clipped, bitter. And painfully true.

“I lost my secret ingredient.”

His eyes widen and you almost feel bad for being so short, so open, so honest. 

But then he regards you with those eyes, eyes that you remember thinking about now and then while you were on the bakery floor. They were so deep, so thoughtful. You could get lost in them. Fall into them. Like leaning over a pond.

And then you remember where you are, and where he is, and you want to leave. You want to lock this place up and never think about it again. Dashed dreams and ruined futures--you want to be rid of it.

“I was just locking up,” you tell him, gathering your purse and your courage all in one go. 

He nods, understanding, walking behind you as you step up to the door for the last time. You glance up and there are no bells--but then how--but you don’t have time to think anymore because there is a sudden, pouring rain outside that obscures everything in front of you. A cold rain. A misty rain. A terrible squall.

“You’re kidding,” you mutter. You don’t have your umbrella. You glance behind and of course, neither does Seth.

What he does have is a bag in his hand from a local takeout place.

“Lunch? For old time’s sake?” 

You don’t answer and he gestures with his chin towards the rain.

“Unless you want to brave it.”

You glance outside. It looks freezing unpleasant and foggy. You may be feeling sorry for yourself, but you’d feel even worse if you were soaked to the bone. And there’s something else about it that makes you second guess stepping outside. The mist, it’s… you shake your head. It doesn’t matter. 

“Sure,” you say, turning around to face him, forcing a smile, because you do suddenly feel like an asshole for being so short and cold with him. It’s not his fault your business failed. It’s not his fault your life is a mess. 

This time it doesn’t feel charming to be stuck inside during the rain, eating lunch with a regular customer. You feel like you’re trapped in a tomb. You feel like you’re a ghost, pretending to live some place that had long since gone to rot.

This time, there is no jovial conversation between you. Only silence and the sound of wrappers, of chewing.

And then--

“What if I could help you get your business back on track?”

It’s not something you expected him to say, and you’re surprised by how much it hurt your heart to hear it. You didn’t think you could say such mundanely cruel things with ease. 

“Please don’t start that.” You chew your food with renewed bitterness, barely tasting it. “I’ve already been down that road with finance managers and all sorts of people promising they knew how to fix things. None of it worked.” You lick your lips. You scoff, sighing, almost laughing a little. “Unless you have a magic wand…”

He smiles when you say this. But it’s not a mocking smile. It’s like he knows something. Like you told a joke, but didn’t even realize it. 

“No need for a magic wand.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, you fight down the urge to snark.  You shouldn’t. This is Seth. You weren’t friends, exactly, but as close as it could have been, considering that he was a customer of your shop for so long. He doesn’t mean any harm, you repeat to yourself. He’s just trying to help.

“So, what? Business plan?” You raise your voice, teasing darkly. “Money laundering?”

His smile seems more serious. And there’s something in his eyes that gives you pause. Even before he talks and takes your breath away with his words. 

“Did you ever tell Mrs. Wolcott that you were the one who picked her husband’s last flowers from her garden? Or did you keep that secret to her grave?”

You’ve never felt such a sudden, horrible lack of air before. It’s like you’ve been punched in the stomach and can no longer breathe. You barely heard the sound of the rain pounding outside. You heard only silence, and your heartbeat, pounding so loud it made you feel sick. 

Mrs. Wolcott was your neighbor when your family lived in a different town, in a different state.  Back when you were a child. She had known you since birth, and doted on you in the way that neighborhood women sometimes did. Her husband was an avid gardener and when he died, she kept up his garden as a way to remember him. 

You don’t know why you did it. It wasn’t out of malice or revenge or anything like that. But one day, you waltzed into her garden when you knew she wasn’t home, and picked every single flower. You didn’t even take them home. You just left them on the ground, scattered memories, plucked like they were nothing. Later, when you saw how upset she was, you cried yourself to sleep for two weeks straight. You even gave her flowers from your garden, a pitiful offering. She smiled and blubbered and held you close before offering you old candy from a dish. 

But you would never admit to what you’d done. And you never did. She died, not knowing who had done such a terrible thing to her husband’s memory period to her precious garden. 

“No,” you answer, voice hoarse, as if you’ve been talking for hours. It feels like you have, suddenly--like you’ve been here with Seth for an eternity. 

“How… how did you know that?” Clarity returns slow and sluggish. He heard it from someone in town. Or he’s some kind of stalker. Or he found your childhood diary at a landfill and tracked you down just to mess with you. Yes. Maybe. Sure. There had to be some explanation. Right?

“I know lots of things.” He pauses. “About everyone. Everything. Not just you.” He doesn’t smile, exactly, but his expression contains a casual lightness that hurts as his next words leave his lips. “It was cruel of your boyfriend to leave you for the reason he did, you know.” 

Don’t say it, you think. Don’t you dare say it out loud. 

If he says it, you know, you just know that you’ll shatter into a million pieces. Christ, you don’t care if he knows--but how does he know? No one else knew, not even your mom, not even your friends--so long as he doesn’t say it out loud. So long as he doesn’t bring it to life syllable by syllable.

“How did he put it…” Seth’s head tilts a little to the side, as if he’s remembering a conversation he wasn’t there for, a conversation he shouldn’t be able to reference at all. Yet he does. With his next words… he does. “Ah, yes. ‘I want to be with someone that can give the family I want. Give me children.’” 

His words bring you back to that evening, when you came home from work to find his bags packed, to find him waiting in the kitchen with a serious expression. It had only been two weeks since you’d gotten the confirmation of your infertility. Two weeks. He couldn’t wait any longer than that?

And Seth knew. Seth knew every word, down to the syllable, down to the way your boyfriend--ex-boyfriend, you remind yourself--said it.

You want to throw up. You want to leave. Neither happens. 

“You’re just… you’re just a stalker,” you say, sputtering and desperate. Because it’s the only thing that makes sense. Even if it doesn’t. A stalker wouldn’t know that childhood secret. A stalker couldn’t know why your boyfriend left, or what he said to you. Or what happened next, the very thing that turned your heart to ash.

His expression turns softer, pitying. As if he might actually hate to say what comes out of his mouth next. “And that other woman becoming pregnant so soon after they started dating. Terrible, really.”

The sound of the rain outside stops so abruptly that you jump in your chair and turn your head to look. Outside, the rain is gone, but a thick fog is in its place. So thick you can’t really see beyond the glass storefront of your bakery. What was happening? What in the world was happening to you?

Slowly, you turn your head back to face Seth. And in that moment, you see his eyes now clearer than you ever have before--see them for what they are. Limitless and knowing and old, so very old.

“Who are you?” It comes out in a hoarse whisper. Some primal fear keeps your throat thick and your breath short.

“What’s a name?” His fingers fiddle with the edge of his coffee cup, and it’s now that you notice, abruptly, that his first two fingers are the exact same length. Maybe you saw it before and brushed it off as a trick of the light, but now it seems strange and terrible. 

“You call me Seth, anyway,” he continues. “You can continue to do that. But that’s not what’s important, is it?” He meets your gaze, and you can’t look away. “I told you, I can get your bakery back into top shape.”

You shake your head without thinking. You don’t want his help. You want him to leave. You want the rain to let up and to leave this bakery and this town forever. 

“I didn’t take you for being so hasty,” he chides. “I thought you would know a good deal when you saw one.”

“A deal?” 

The question seems to engage him, because he leans forward now, chin in hand. 

“Yes, a deal. That’s why I came back. To offer my assistance.” He gestures around him, at the empty hull that was once your biggest dream. “It’s a shame to waste your talent. To waste your generosity.” He smiles, a little, and it’s such an empathetic smile that you almost feel like crying. When was the last time someone showed you empathy, not just cloying pity? 

“You put your heart and soul into this bakery, didn’t you? Your love.” The last word is said in nostalgia, as if he’s reliving a memory. “You gave it to others so freely. Yet as soon as you were struggling, the customers you’d been so generous with… well.” He doesn’t need to say the rest.

There’s a few moments of pause. And you realize he wants you to speak.

“You…” Your words come out slow, measured. You feel like you’re floating, and you’re desperately trying to gain some purchase on the ground. Seth… what was he? He knew things he couldn’t. And in his eyes, there was something--something you couldn’t exactly explain. But his eyes told you everything (and yet nothing) about him. He wasn’t human. He was… something else. 

Something that was offering you an impossible dream. A deal? 

“You could make my bakery popular again,” you say finally, voice slow and disbelieving. 

“Yes,” he replies, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I could make it so no one remembers your recent failures, and it’s as busy as it ever was. Busier, if you want. Or,” and there’s something kind in his voice now. “If the memories would be too much for you, you can start a bakery somewhere else. Or any type of business, really. All that matters is that it’s a success, right? All that matters is that you’re happy.” 

You snort through your nose. 

“Why do you care if I’m happy or not?”

An odd expression crosses his face. Then it’s gone, replaced with a placid smile. Yet underneath it, there’s still something, a hint, a inch of… what, exactly? You feel like you’ve seen that expression on him before. On that last day before he left. 

But he smooths it out entirely until you’re left with nothing but his calm expression and his words. 

“You could say I’m in the business of granting people their deepest wish. And that’s yours, isn’t it? To be happy again?”

And it is. Oh God, it is. You want so badly to feel happy like you used to--to wake up in the morning, giddy and bright, dreaming of the future and kneading it with your own flour-dusted hands. You want to feel anything but the empty, aching loneliness and sorrow that you’ve felt over these past months. You want to feel whole… so whole that you can once again start giving away pieces of yourself, your heart, to others.

Seth could make that happen. 

But at what price? 

“What…” you begin, feeling very small and very young in the face of all this. “What would you want in return?” 

“Not much.” His voice is level and calm and reasonable. Like you’re doing business in a regular bakery, and not making some sort of otherworldly deal involving magic for what you thought were impossible things. “Only one thing, really.”

Your fingers grip the edge of the table until your knuckles hurt. 

“What thing?”

He reaches towards you, and his hand is warm as it covers your own, tight-knuckled, trembling. You don’t want him to touch you--what will he feel like?--but when he does,  there’s only warmth, ordinary and mundane. 

A million possibilities run through your mind. His fingers tighten on yours, which slacken. He takes up your hand, lifting it from its death-grip on the table, and your heart hammers.

Does he want your soul? Your life? A sacrifice? Something worse, something you can’t even comprehend? 

Your gaze goes from his hand on yours to his face, and you recognize the serious expression on it as one he wore on the last day you saw him before your life turned sideways. 

Seth smiles. His eyes light up, all blue and green and you think again of the sensation of falling into them, of being lost in them, drowned in them, unable to pull away from them forever. 

“In return, what I want is…” he says, pausing, letting his words sink in before he delivers the finishing blow. “Your secret ingredient.” 

To anyone watching the scene, the pair of you would look like two friends--two lovers, maybe, if they were in the habit of assuming such things--standing in the fading light under a streetlamp. Having a conversation. Ending a date. Perhaps talking about something serious--perhaps a bit of a spat, given y our posture.

Because it looks innocent enough, on the surface. Normal enough. The man in front of you is standing with his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes simply watching as you stand, arms crossed tight over your chest, and avoid looking him in the eye as much as possible.

But if they were to dig a little deeper, they’d find something else entirely. They’d find someone who was about to be taken to some unknowable part of the world forever. They’d find someone who accidentally bumped heads with a supernatural entity that decided he wanted them. They’d find someone who, after years of dodging and running and winning by the thinnest margin, finally lost.

They’d find someone whose life is about to change forever.

“But,” you repeat his words, voice taking on a tinge of bitterness. “I don’t exactly feel like dancing right before I’m about to be kidnapped for the rest of my life.” You frown. “However long that is, anyway.” You think about people who have disappeared because of him. People whose souls became nothing but dust. How long would it be before you were like them?

He tilts his head slightly. The gesture is strangely innocent, strangely human, and it makes something in you curdle.

“You’re not going to die,” he says. Patient. Like he’s talking to a child. “Whatever do you take me for?”

You press your lips together. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

He laughs, tilting his head down, revealing a boyish grin.

And then he looks back up at you, still smiling, but there’s something sober in it that gives you pause.

“I do mean my offer genuinely. If you’d like, we can dance one more time. Like we did that first night.” There’s nostalgia in his voice, which surprises you.  You didn’t know he was capable of such an emotion.

That first night... When you thought he was a human being, just some stranger passing through town who happened into the local pub on a Friday night. When he smiled at you from across the room and you, a bit tipsy on alcohol and the high of the end of the workweek, grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor. 

He smiled. He laughed. He had the most infectious smiles that you’d ever seen in your life, and those few hours you spent laughing, twirling, even holding each other for a slow dance or two… magical in the way that only dancing with a stranger until the wee hours of the morning can be.

And after that, he was gone. And it wasn’t a big deal, really, because that was what happened when you danced with a stranger on a Friday night. You had your fun and that was that.

Only it wasn’t the end of things.

Only he came back. But it wasn’t to dance. It was to tell you about the deepest wish of your heart and lay out a bargain for it, naked and raw on the table.  You were tempted. You would never say that you weren’t sorely, horribly tempted. But the price was too high and you resisted. That time… and the next time… and the next.

You can’t remember exactly when he went from trying to push you into making a deal with him into simply making you come with him. When his bargains disappeared and his terrible games came in, games in which you had to fight to keep your sanity, keep your freedom.

You won. Sometimes barely. Sometimes others were lost along the way. But you still won. You still escaped. You still managed to keep your feet planted firmly in this world--the sunshine world, he called it sometimes--for another few weeks or months.

Until you didn’t win. Until now.

“That was a long time ago,” you finally say, breaking away from your memories. “I didn’t know who you were then, anyway.” You can’t imagine dancing with him like that now. Carefree. Not now, when you know what he is.

Not now, when you’ve spent so long running--moving from place to place, changing your looks, changing your name. Spending so long looking over your shoulder, fearing that anything and everything might be an accidental gateway into one of his sick games. A mirror in the hotel room. A quiet library. He had his tricks, and he always used them when you least expected it.

He’s not the same person you saw him as that night. And you’re not the same person you were then, either. You wonder if he cares.

He’s watching you while you think. Analyzing, evaluating. You don’t think he can read your thoughts exactly, but he can perhaps get an impression of your feelings.

“Well,” he says, and he almost sounds disappointed. “If you wouldn’t like one last dance here, we can always dance later.” His eyes almost seem faraway and remote now. As if he’s thinking about some distant future that you aren’t privy to. “When we’re behind the mist. There will be plenty of time.”

“It won’t be the same,” you murmur, tightening your arms against your chest, thinking of what little you know of the world behind the mist. The realm where he dwells and returns to, again and again, after doing his errands here.

“No,” he concedes, voice not unkind but practical and conceding. “It won’t.”

Something about the finality in his words makes you feel sick. Sick and sad and maybe, then, something in your chest blooms wide--low and aching. You’re never going to come back here. Not fully. There is going to be a stark, white line between Before and After, and you’re about to cross it.

“I guess one dance wouldn’t hurt.” Your voice is a whisper, almost hoarse with emotion.

One dance, you think. Your last dance as yourself, truly and completely. Your last dance in a world that makes sense. Your last dance in the sunshine world, where things are right and normal.

He smiles. It’s the same kind of smile that drew you in that night. But now you now there’s something else behind it.

Somewhere, the soft sound of an old-fashioned music box begins to play. The thought occurs to you that it’s perhaps coming from behind the mist.

It's slow music for a slow dance. Of course.

He approaches, and slowly, you let your arms fall to your sides. You can’t look him in the eyes, so you stare at his waist, at the perfectly ordinary white dress shirt he’s wearing.

He wastes no time in wrapping his arms around you as he did that night you met. His arms are warm, just as they were then. It’s wrong, you think. He shouldn’t be warm. He shouldn’t feel so human. But he is, and he does, and it hurts to think about.

So you stop thinking about it. You lift your own arms up and rest them lightly on his shoulders, listening to the music, focusing on the soft tinkling that’s coming from somewhere impossible.

Your legs shuffle to the music, stepping in time with his. Again, you think about someone else watching the scene, separating yourself from it as if it might make it easier to swallow. Anyone watching would think this is romantic. Quaint. Charming.

“What will it be like? When we… go behind the mist?” You refuse to do more than glance at him, eyes darting away when you see his smile.

His arm wraps tighter around your waist, and your stomach thrills a little when he spins you. It’s the type of move that made you feel all giddy that first night. Your stomach flips now, as it did then, but for a completely different reason.

“It will be different,” he says. You force yourself to look at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer, more serious. And again, there’s that remote quality to his words and expression. “You’ll see things. Do things. Wonderful and terrible.”

He pulls you closer, and he smells just like anyone else. Soft cologne and the slight scent of sweat, of a body, just a regular human body.

“Different,” he repeats.

You’re terrified. You wish you could break away from him and run. But what good would it do? You wouldn’t get far, and that’s assuming you can break his hold on you.

So you nod, and if you let your head rest a little on his shoulder, can you blame yourself? You need something to ground your aching heart. Something to focus on. So you focus on the solid weight of his body, the warmth of his arms. And the music box chiming softly, still playing somewhere behind the mist.

You shrug, bringing your knees closer to your chest, picking at the laces of your shoes. You’d given in some of the things he wished upon you. Dresses, old fashioned ones. Scents kept in intricate glass vials that smelled of worlds long gone. But your favorite pair of sneakers--more worn now, but holding on--was one thing you refused to give up. No matter how much he asked.

Sometimes you half-expected to wake up only to find them gone and replaced with whatever footwear he deemed acceptable, but he never did. He wants you to willingly let them go, you think--as willingly you’ve let everything else go. Little by little, starting with the biggest thing--yourself.

“What’s strange about it?”

Your fingers trace a loose thread in one of the laces. “You’re… I don’t know how old.”

You glance aside and see his lips thin, can practically hear the reminder to watch your manners on his tongue, and you can’t help your own smile. “No offense. I just mean that, what am I, in the grand scheme of things? Just an ordinary person. A blip. Nothing. You’ll get bored of me, like people get bored of new presents they get for Christmas. Besides,” you continue,  gesturing towards the window, where the strange worlds outside whirl by, accompanied by the din of train wheels running over the tracks. “How could I keep you entertained for very long, compared to all this?”

There’s a few moments of pause. When you risk a glance at his face, he’s merely watching you, his eyes far away for the slightest of moments before returning to look at you with his familiar clarity.

“If you were boring,” he says, his voice taking on the usual primness it did when he was explaining something that he thought you ought to already know. “I would not have sought the bargain I did. And,” he adds, sounding a bit offended now, “I did not make our bargain in order for you to keep me entertained. Really.”

You bite back an apology, to save yourself an ounce of dignity.

“So you wouldn’t let me go? Even if you got bored of me--” His eyebrows raise again and you put your hands up, placating. “If, I said if. Let’s just… pretend you did. You wouldn’t let me go, even then?”

He sighs, a soft sound. His gaze turns out the window, where the scenery has gone misty.

“No,” he says. His voice sounds remote, despite the fact that he’s sitting right next to you. “Even if I did grow tired of you… and I wouldn’t, mind you.” His voice deepens at that, and you nod, agreeing, wanting him to keep going. Wanting to hear the end, even if you knew it wouldn’t do anything but confirm the knot in your stomach. “But even if I did, I couldn’t let you go.”

It takes you a while to realize what he said, exactly.

“Couldn’t? You mean you… even if you wanted, you…” You let the rest go unsaid. You’re too afraid to ask the words concretely.

He’s not smiling, now, his lips etched ever so slightly downward in a frustrated frown. It’s not an expression he often wears when you’re around.

“A bargain is a bargain. The mist is the mist. If it was so easy to get back, do you think any people from your sunlit world would stay here for very long? Especially those who didn’t make any bargain, and merely wandered in. Unlucky things.” There’s a flash of a smile at the end, and somehow, it makes you feel less anxious to see that than it does to see his frowning face.

It’s your turn to look back at the window, at the rushing of unnatural trees with limbs that formed faces, at flashes of hanging bone and monster sharpness and skies the color of red wine.

You think about what he said. You think about what you want to say.