There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.

Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.

The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.

What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.

Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.

The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.

People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.

Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.

He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.

Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.

The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.

Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.

“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”

Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.

Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.

“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.

But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.

Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.

“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”

She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.

Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.

He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.

What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.

This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.

Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.

He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.

At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.

Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.

After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.

His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.

Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.

He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.

By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.

Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.

Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?

Other fantasies creep in afterward.

You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.

He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.

As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.

His mouth goes dry.

Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.

It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.

Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.

He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’

Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.

All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.

Where to bite.

And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.

The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.

Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.

Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.

Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.

On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”

The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.

“Good girl.”

Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”

For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.

He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.

Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.

There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.

The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.

Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.

But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.

If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.

Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.

Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.

At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.

Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.

If only you knew.

“Good morning.”

Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.

“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”

The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.

Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.

“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.

“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.

My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.

My.

Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.

No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.

Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.

His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”

“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”

Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.

You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.

However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.

He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”

That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…

You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.

“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”

Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.

“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”

Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.

Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.

“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”

Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.

“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.

Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.

Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”

“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.

Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.

“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”

You let out a nervous chuckle.

“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”

You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.

Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.

You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”

“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”

Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.

“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”

The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.

If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.

Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.

Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.

You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—

“Ashveil?”

Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.

He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.

“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”

“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.

“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.

“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.

“What was?”

“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.

And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.

At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.

Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.

“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.

“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.

“No! Of course not.”

“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”

“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”

The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.

“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”

“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.

As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.

“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”

The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.

Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.

Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?

Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.

The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.

Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:

That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.

So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.

The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.

Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.

“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”

The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.

“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”

It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.

You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.

He at least tries to constrain the beast.

“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”

Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.

“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”

“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.

From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.

Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.

Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.

He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…

Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.

Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.

The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.

Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.

As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.

The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.

“Hey—”

“Give me the phone.”

The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”

Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”

Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.

The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”

“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”

The man stares at him, dumbfounded.

And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.

Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.

Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.

Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.

Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.

“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.

“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”

Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.

For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.

Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”

He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”

He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.

Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.

Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.

“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.

You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, quickly, let me see.”

Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.

You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?

Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.

Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.

It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?

Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.

He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.

“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”

“No need.”

“But—”

Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”

You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.

“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”

Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.

You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”

Ashveil stills.

“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.

It’s dangerous, this type of care.

“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”

“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”

“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.

You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.

Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.

It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.

“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”

You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.

“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”

“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”

Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.

You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.

A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.

Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.

They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.

“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”

You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.

When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”

He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.

“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”

“Totally.”

“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”

“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.

The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.

Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.

“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.

“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”

“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”

“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”

Ashveil suppresses a laugh.

If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.

As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.

“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.

Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.

“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.

His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—

“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”

He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.

“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.

“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”

He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.

“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”

Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.

“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”

He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…

The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.

He naturally takes notes of what you get.

At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.

“You remembered.”

“Well, you liked it last time.”

Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.

As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.

By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.

“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”

“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, there’s really no need.”

He looks at you with confusion.

“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.

“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”

“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.

It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.

His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—

“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”

“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”

You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.

“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.

“I will.”

You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.

Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.

He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.

No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?

Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.

Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.

Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.

For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.

But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.

That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.

“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”

“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”

Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?

No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.

“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”

“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.

“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”

There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.

“O-okay. Come quick, please.”

The call ends.

Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.

“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”

“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”

By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.

You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.

And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.

His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”

“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”

You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.

He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.

Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.

“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”

“I see.”

Ashveil scans it quickly.

The receipt goes:

a loaf of bread

instant coffee

instant noodles

10 x bunches of bananas

.

.

.

Fuck.

All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.

The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.

Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.

With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?

By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.

“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”

“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”

Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”

Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”

Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.

But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”

“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”

Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.

He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.

Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.

Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.

Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.

And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.

He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.

You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.

He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.

The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.

You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.

All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.

Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.

It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.

He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.

The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.

And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.

He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.

Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.

“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.

“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.

“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—

A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.

“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.

Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.

That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.

As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.

“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.

Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.

“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”

“That’s not how this works—”

He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.

Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.

Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.

“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.

You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.

He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”

You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”

Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.

“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.

“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.

As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.

His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.

Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.

“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.

“I thought you could take that?”

“Just you wait,” he says roughly.

He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.

Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.

“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.

You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”

What didn’t you do?

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”

But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.

Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.

By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.

His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.

You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.

Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.

He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.

One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.

“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”

His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.

“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.

Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.

You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.

“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.

“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.

“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”

He knows that well.

“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.

“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”

He’s even more dizzy after you say that.

Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”

He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.

His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.

So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.

Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.

One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.

“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.

His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.

You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…

You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.

Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.

And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—

“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.

“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.

“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.

He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.

He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.

“W-wait…” you say eventually.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”

“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.

He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”

“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”

Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”

Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.

The room goes still.

Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.

“How did you know it was moved?”

“What?”

“You said I moved it.”

He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.

“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”

“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”

“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.

“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.

More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.

Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.

He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.

“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”

The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.

You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.

Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.

The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.

For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.

Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.

Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.

“No. Not yet,” he growls.

He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.

“Ashveil—”

He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.

It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.

By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.

All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.

The drawer thing.

Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.

You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.

“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.

He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.

You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.

“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”

But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.

He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.

Oh no.

He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.

With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.

“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”

“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”

Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.

Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.

Please. Don’t ruin this for him.

“That’s not it—”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”

“You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”

“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”

“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”

The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.

Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”

Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.

“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”

“It all makes sense now though!”

“What.”

“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—” 

“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.

“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”

Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!

Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”

The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.

“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”

He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.

You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.

All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.

You finally go for the door.

The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.

“Come back here!”

You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.

You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.

“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”

He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.

“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”

You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.

Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.

The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.

“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.

The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.

Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely. 

Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.

She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.

“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”

She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.

Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”

It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.

He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.

“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”

You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.

“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”

The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.

“Please,” you beg her.

Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.

Ashveil exhales in relief.

“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”

You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”

But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.

Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.

He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.

“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”

Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.

This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary. 

Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.

“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”

“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.

“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”

Well, he would, but…

And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”

It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.

As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.

Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.

At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.

However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.

“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”

Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.

You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.

“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”

“It’s… different.”

“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”

Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.

“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”

“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.

“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”

“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.

“Define stalking.”

You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!” 

No denial makes it clear to you.

He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”

The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”

He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.

“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”

And so you do.

It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.

“How could you do something like this?!”

“I know

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.

However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.

“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”

You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.

“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”

You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.

You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.

That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.

“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”

There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…

“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”

“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”

The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.

“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”

You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.

But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.

Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.

Ashveil smiles.

Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.

“Enjin, you're suffocating me. Get up already!”

It’s just morning. Therefore, you shouldn’t have to make your first complaint about your boyfriend already, only feeling as though many more await you in the day’s wake.

“I don't need your slobber all over me either,” you add grumpily, pushing at his shoulder.

But you only receive a groaned-out response, flippant to your current discomfort. “Mhm… five more minutes…”

The same old excuse.

Waking up Enjin is always a drag.

To make matters worse, it has become a norm that you serve as his pillow—girlfriend duties, he’d call it. Which unfortunately comes with an excessiveness of an overgrown cat with no sense of personal space—his leg hooked over your hip, him squeezing your head close to his chest in the image of a balloon that will fly away if he doesn’t commit to it.

Since you’ve tried to wake him up properly multiple times, only for you to fail, you decide you have to reach for unpleasant measures: you poke at his side, digging your finger right between his ribs. A spot not necessarily painful like it is invasive, evoking an intrusive sensation.

That much finally works, as the man in question suddenly jolts and moves away from you, arms loosening around you, and he nearly falls off the side of the bed in impact.

He also shrieks like a banshee, making you laugh.

Serves him right.

Enjin makes sure to turn his head around and glare at you with offense, right as he scrambles himself and his pride up. “Ugh… Mornin’… you beast with no heart…” he grumbles groggily as he sits down on the bed slowly, still barely coherent.

“Morning, Enjin,” you greet back, awfully chirpy.

His expression turns sullen. Not only are you laughing at him, lying in bed comfortably, there is no way in hell this is a humanly hour to get at up.

Mind you, it’s 9 in the morning.

“What?” Witnessing his slovenly appearance, you cannot help but chuckle again. “Don’t look at me like that. Work calls.”

“I am not getting up this early.” And just like that, he plops himself on your bed again.

You gasp at his audacity, especially that your victory seemingly was cut short. “That’s not up to you. It’s not even early.”

“What are they going to do? Fire me?” He snickers to himself as he draws you close once more. “They need us Cleaners. And I’m sure I can get ready in time anyway.”

You would like to disagree; you digress, seeing he’s adamant to get the extra sleep he wants.

It’s already a questionable idea, dating another Cleaner. But Corvus has never been about enforcing stricter rules, letting people follow him willingly. So long the headquarters are not set on fire, the boss supposes many things are fair.

As Enjin said, it's not as if they’d fire him. The most he’ll hear is his team’s critique.

Yes, you are dating this annoying chain smoker now. Surprisingly, it was his idea—whether because that one sex you had was an excuse to finally reach you without any attached oversentimentality or whatever else. Generally speaking, it’s extremely hard to tell what Enjin thinks beyond simple needs like cigarettes, music, and you. Which tends to be frustrating, terribly so, but you’re trying to steel yourself in patience—very little relationships are perfect from the scratch, right?

“Hm, no. But I will kick you out of my room with a smile on my face,” you threaten, pushing your foot at his calf.

Only for him to yank you to himself impossibly closer, his grip on your waist remorseless. “Yeah? And lose on the best heater?” he mocks, opening one golden eye at you.

You frown, trying to regulate your breath under the pressure of a corset. “I've been the one keeping you warm, you mean. It's not you who’s been held in clutch all night.”

“True that. But it’s a mutual benefit.” And so his eyes close fully for one more moment. “Ever considered that?” he adds just to be annoying, but it’s half-spoken by sleep that overtakes him.

Frustratingly so, yet with him gone for a moment, you are given the chance to gawk at his most peaceful state freely. Long diaphanous lashes brushing his cheeks and filtering morning light, calm breathing working on relaxing you in a way a cat’s purring would, his hair resting down before he’d slap some gel on it, small twitches in his hands… He’s awfully comfortable for someone creaking your poor bones. Cute, you’d dare to say.

He even mumbles something in his inertia state. “…Always the menthol ones left… rotten luck…”

You snicker. He's always such a messy sleeper. Although, there’s one positive side to him sleeping next to you.

Those softer moments, where he doesn't feel like being loud and obnoxious, or even pretending to be bulletproof. Perhaps he simply has no energy for that, his brain not yet charged to be on stand for. In any case, these extra morning-soaked minutes (or hours…) are the most enjoyable.

However, watching the process repeated over the year, something like this is bound to become stagnant—making your heart ache for more. You realize it’s been maybe four months since your relationship started.

You cannot say this is the most noble relationship, but you assume he’s trying for you.

Right?

Your bubble of squealing is burst when he notices you staring, also proving he's been mostly resting than actually sleeping. His eyes open drowsily, yet you can feel him tense up a little against you.

“What are you staring at me for?” he asks with suspicion. “You tend to do that like crazy.”

You let out a dry throat sound, unsure as to why it would be a problem. You play with a strand of his blonde hair as you answer, “Am I not allowed to look at my own boyfriend?” His nose scrunches at the word boyfriend. You wonder what’s this about. It’s as if, half of the time, Enjin acts like a stranger. “But I’m doing it for no particular reason. Just waiting for you to get up,” you clarify, letting your hand fall with something wistful.

You sense that he dislikes being perceived like that, from a closer perspective, inspected—even if your intentions are entirely innocent.

It's still a mystery to you who exactly Enjin is, and you only can be hopeful he opens up to you eventually. Even if your patience starts to run dry. You don’t expect everything to be laid out on the table in one day; although, your man barely talking about yourself is food for thought.

Even making you wonder if you’re doing something wrong.

He hums. Stares at you for a longer second, and when you stare back at him softly as if to further sell your point, he seemingly accepts your answer.

Then that teasing mouth opens.

“Just that? Not thinkin’ how handsome your…” The word comes with slight difficulty but it does. “Boyfriend is?”

His face leans in close, with a small grin painting itself already. So you try to get away, feeling hot in your face. You only end up tangled in your own covers, as he does not let you go.

“No, come here. No being shy now. Dear Enjin will help your ass wake up properly.”

He’s suddenly all over you, rendering you ignorant about any vulnerability—or lack thereof. Just his mouth over your throat and him already grinding his morning wood into you removes a proportionate amount of inhibitions.

Even if you suspect he’s being defensive, you let him indulge, momentarily forgetting your concerns.

Searching for your boyfriend sometimes is like searching for a needle in a haystack, considering he can disappear all of the sudden. The enigma of Enjin trails him everywhere like a ghost, it would seem. The only comfort lies in the fact you never catch a whiff of another woman’s perfume on him, feeling safer to assume he likes his personal space that much.

Especially considering the location he was at when he has found Rudo.

Today is easier to manage, thankfully.

With job well done, coming back safe and all, it’s natural he’d want to relax afterwards. He has seen you already, and so you would have leave him alone for the rest of the afternoon, if it weren’t for one crucial thing.

He’s drinking, someone has told you. And drinking Enjin almost never sounds like a good idea. He can hold his liquor to some extent, but once a certain percentage hits his body? It’s over for everyone—or their ears. So you stalk his whereabouts, at least wanting to check on him and see whether he’s making a fool of himself or already snoring.

From a distance, you can hear a conversation slowly percolating into the corridor. The door to the Cleaners common room is in a poor state, that by this point, it tends to open itself slightly ajar. Many comprising things have been accidentally revealed due to no one bothering to fix it. Maybe they leave it like that on purpose.

Information does not come for cheap on the Ground, after all.

“Shut up finally, will you?” Enjin sounds exasperated, as if long exhausted by some bickering. Funny, that once the tables are turned, he’s suddenly against any idea of provoking people.

“Don't get your panties in a bunch. It’s a good thing to see you prosper!” Gris’s voice audibly teases.

Whatever Enjin and Gris are talking about must be stupid. You can already hear a bit of tipsy to your boyfriend’s voice.

It’s a certain line that Enjin produces that stops you from entering the common room last moment. You freeze right outside the door, not even in front of it yet.

“It’s not that serious anyway.”

Wondering about the context behind these words, you suddenly have a bad feeling. It wouldn’t be a surprise if they were referring to your relationship, considering it’s been a big deal to others for some reason.

“No?” Even Gris sounds surprised. “I thought you and her were dating. You’re her boyfriend, no?”

Oh. So they are indeed talking about it.

You hear that as if a sentence was placed on you. Your heart stammers, not sure what to do with those first heavy words, but knowing well they sting.

Not that serious, Enjin says, this confession being about you and him. After everything… it might not be that serious to the guy.

You still hope you simply took it out of context, so you prick up your ears for more.

In hindsight, you didn’t ask how serious you two are supposed to be, but if he asked you to be his girlfriend and didn’t clarify anything else, isn’t that serious on its own? He didn't even ask you to take it slow. No talk about casualty whatsoever.

Your belief must be vindicated especially after you gave yourself to him. That felt like a pivotal moment of your relationship being born.

Unless the truth is far worse and far less romantic than you thought.

“Yeah, but… we’re not about to get married or anything,” Enjin scoffs, adding fuel to the fire. “It’s complicated. We might get bored of each other tomorrow. She can be quite the pain in the ass too.” He clanks his glass against the table, as if speaking of irritation.

Now he’s straight up insulting you. You barely curb a gasping sound from coming out of your mouth, but your stomach drops in exchange.

And if your boyfriend is, first and foremost, not sure what to exactly make of your relationship, then you suppose it really is not that serious to him.

You place your forehead against the wall next to the entrance, trying not to get emotion overwhelm you, even if your blood suddenly runs cold.

Is that it? The end? You’ve been played, and used, and to be discarded once you served your purpose? Is Enjin seriously so cruel?

You don’t want to believe he could ever be like that, trying to stop your thoughts from spiraling. There's been some trust built between you and him before your relationship even started; some sense of rapport.

Then again, it was mostly just you and him as coworkers fighting next to each other, with catching a drink after. Personal relationships fall under completely different umbrella, and some men can be simultaneously helpful to the society and terrible in person.

His reluctance to commit fully suddenly explains many things, in fact.

Unfortunately, Enjin hears that forehead thump on the wall.

“Is that…?” Gris asks with shushed breath, the party suddenly pausing as he places his beer down on the coffee table.

Their eyes fly at the door immediately.

The moment you realize they must have heard you, you march away.

“Hey, wait!” Enjin exclaims as he sees the blur of your shadow passing by the door through its crack.

Getting up on his feet expeditiously, he crosses the room quickly before he swings the door fully and peaks out to the side.

Whatever came over you, he decides to go after you immediately.

“Were you eavesdropping on us?” he asks with a frown, getting mad at the possibility despite everything.

You don’t respond.

His long and lean legs unfortunately give him advantage.

The moment he catches up with you and places a stopping hand on your shoulder, you shrug it off.

“What’s wrong?” he throws another question at you, his tone growing impatient. Gris’s sudden waterfall of inquires about your relationship already made him irritated.

He really dares to ask what’s wrong. Perhaps he truly has considered it nothing important from the beginning, if the problem isn't glaringly obvious to him.

You speed up your movements, covering half of your face with the hand in disbelief.

But he catches up with you again as quickly, grabbing your forearm before you could hide in your room. Still trying not to bruise you, he turns you around by your shoulder.

“Girl, I asked you something. Look at me,” Enjin says sharply, holding you in place.

“Leave me alone—”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong,” he butts in, ignoring your squirms dancing under his palms.

You face him with disappointment written all over your eyes, as your lip trembles. “Not that serious, huh?” You throw his own words back at him.

He therefore has an inkling of what troubles you. All the more when he sees tears welling up in your eyes still attempting to glare at him.

His stomach threatens to flip upside down; mostly from the fact he’s not greatest at comforting crying women. He is capable of comforting others, but doubtfully in a way you’d like it—devoid of something that isn’t a practical or metaphorical advice.

“Listen—” he starts, removing his grip in hope you won’t get away.

“Am I just a body to you, Enjin? Was that it?” you ask painfully.

His brows narrow down in something flummoxed. The accusation comes so suddenly, he has no clue what to do with it. “What do you mean?”

“Perfect timing, to start dating me right after taking my virginity!”

Digging into your memory, you’ve been more physical than you were genuine. At least, he was responsible for maintaining this imbalance. You’ve been pouring out your heart, wearing it on a sleeve, only for him to be no more than listener and receiver for the majority of time. He’d hear you out, he’d advise, he’d even compliment, praise, hype up, and have fun with you… but when it comes to genuine kind of reciprocating, or showing affection…

Well, it took you enough time to comprehend he wasn’t a good exemplar of a boyfriend—a stark contrast of what you were giving, and you’re not even perfect yourself.

Not exactly neglectful, but also… not exactly committed. Just occupying a vacant spot so someone else doesn’t. And while some avoidance does not have to be proof on its own, calling your relationship not that serious ties it for you nicely.

“What are you talking about?” Enjin rubs his face, trying not to get aggravated with the fact that you're on verge of crying looming above him. “Some conspiracy theory now? Are you bored and trying to pick up some drama?”

Your mouth opens with disbelief. His eyes close with small regret. Calling any woman dramatic is the worst way to talk to her, he does know—he’s been slapped for that by them many times.

“No, wait, I… I can tell this bugs you,” he claims, placing a hand on your shoulder in some poor gesture of assurance. “But I’m not so sure if you’re not exaggerating either—”

And this attitude, shifting blame on you… your tears finally flow down, a sob coming down like a thunder.

“You said I can be a pain in the ass,” you bring up with a hiccup. Why be with someone you dislike?

Enjin tenses up visibly, seeing your wet eyes. Oh no no no—

“Yeah, but… I didn’t mean anything bad by that,” he mumbles, massaging your shoulder stiffly. “Everyone can be annoying. Nothing personal. No need to be crying over something so dumb.”

“That’s not even the main issue here!” you exclaim, clenching your fists. “You said our relationship is not that serious!”

“Yeah, maybe I did. I said it’s not that serious. A dumb mistake.” He pats your shoulder, as if saying ‘there’. “You’re going to hold it over my head now?” he asks dryly.

“A mistake?” you whisper back, looking for any humor in his eyes. There’s none. “How do you say it’s not that serious by a simple blunder, as well the rest of the stuff?”

If anything, the alcohol is likely to get him more honest. It’s as if he can’t make up his mind, fluctuating between what you want to hear and what he wants to say. Rather telling on its own.

Unfortunately, you're unable to handle the pressure and yank yourself free.

And he lets you go, perhaps relieved he doesn’t need to deal with your tears.

There’s no follow-up. Even if that’s what you wanted, it still crushes you.

Six months ago

The atmosphere after the fact is weird. Well, on a side note, what you did together is no small thing, something you are meant to think about and analyze constantly.

Losing your virginity to your coworker and somewhat-friend, who also has hots for you? Write that down in a calendar.

Enjin doesn’t avoid you per se—a huge relief—yet he’s certainly acting awkward around you. Not meeting your gaze properly, unable to form a sensible sentence, and getting all stiff just by standing near you—while simultaneously trying to play it cool.

And here you thought you’re the one who lost their virginity.

So much it bothers you, that, unable to handle the pressure, you corner him in a laundry room one day.

Which he doesn’t expect that at all, to be pinned in the middle of the drying clothes. While you can be passionate, this must the most straightforward you have been with him. If anything, he suspected you to be afraid to face him after what you two have done a few nights ago.

Unfortunately for you, it only gets him hot, enough to cover a small discomfort that comes from being pressured in such an intimate manner.

“Enjin. Can we finally acknowledge the elephant in the room.” You take on a cringed expression.

Deciding to be adults in the name of you two, you have to finally figure it out.

“And mind giving me some space first?” He cocks his brow, seeing your hands on the wall behind him, effectively trapping him on his sides.

“And what if you flee the moment I let you go? I’m tired of running in circles. You and I— we need to talk,” you say sternly. “You’ve been driving me up the wall. No pun intended.”

He could just push you away and tell you to leave. But it’s getting weird for him as well.

“Okay. Let’s talk,” he replies nonchalantly, even as his heart skips a bit.

Only then do you let him go.

But as another person joins the room with a basket full of clothes, you two separate even further, jumping away from each other in a blink of an eye, trying to act casual.

Enjin nods with his head at the entrance, abandoning his laundry. You follow a good minute after for the effect.

He then takes you outside, to the basketball court where no one currently resides to bother you.

Sitting down on the bench, you anticipate his presence next to you. Instead, that buffoon grabs the ball he bounces off the ground a few times—safely away from you.

“Are you kidding me.” You deadpan.

“What?” he asks right as he dunks the ball, his height giving him advantage.

If you squint, you can see him looking back for your approval.

You don’t praise him, having a bigger fish to fry.

“Are we seriously going to talk like this?”

“Well, how do I know you won’t bite my head off if I come close?” he mocks.

“Just come here. Stop the childishness.” You sigh with exasperation.

Reluctantly, he drops the ball before approaching you. He throws himself on the bench, taking up a big spot with his broad shoulders, but his gaze doesn’t turn to you. He only stares ahead, his legs spread wide.

“Spill it out,” he encourages casually.

“Don’t you wanna say something yourself first?” You turn to him, crossing your legs and draping your arm over the back of the bench.

“Like what?” he scoffs.

“Anything?” you accentuate with annoyance. “Look, I’m not asking you to date me after what we did. But we can’t act like it didn’t happen either. I just want to know if…” you tap your fingers, “…you feel any different about me now.”

Hearing that question, only then does he look at you, taking his time to answer with mouth hanging open.

You don’t think you’ve seen such expression on him before. You’ve seen Enjin distressed when something didn’t go his way during a mission, but him appearing as though he’s almost tormented—by what you said or perhaps even you—is unheard of.

It stops you in tracks of urging him to finally say something.

“I don’t know if I feel any different about you,” he eventually speaks, shoving his hands into his pockets, “but I know I still want you. And this crap been messing with my head like hell,” he delivers rather frankly despite that struggle.

You gulp, feeling a lump in your throat. The truth is, your body naturally started to anticipate even more sex, and since he made the first one remarkably good, of course your thoughts go straight to Enjin.

“I… I think I feel the same,” you blurt out. No reason to beat around the bush, if the feeling flows both ways.

His eyes open wider in surprise. You’re not sure why, considering it’s been made abundantly clear that you two have a thing for each other.

What seems accurate is him having been waiting for this opportunity, seeing how fast he springs into action.

“Then…”

His face leans closer to yours.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You feel your guts churn at the thought.

“Say no and I’ll drop the topic,” he says nonchalantly. “Won’t complain and whine, even it’ll be damn difficult to forget you.” The offer comes rather easily to him.

“Okay.” You agree as easily.

“Okay?” He blinks rapidly.

Just like that? He’s either lucky or in big, big trouble.

“Yes. I have my needs. You have yours. It’s only beneficial, no?” You try to be casual on your own, leaning back, even if your heart races just as fast as his.

Or so you two agreed.

Therefore, the next weeks are spent in no less than debauchery after you two reach that agreement. As fuck friends. Friends with benefits. Whatever you might call it, you two don’t stop after that one night.

And he’s gotten comfortable. Sex is sex. No commitment, no ties, but it’s enough to keep you in his orbit, that he supposes you won’t get anywhere else for at least some amount of time. As selfish as it might sound, he’s glad it’s only he you come to. He keeps trying to make it worth your while so you don’t feel the need to look elsewhere.

Until one fateful day.

Near death experience meets you. Of course, Eishia manages to repair you in no time. However, a certain thought keeps haunting Enjin’s mind, not even entirely incorrect: what if next time it’s too late for you to be saved? There’s crucial only few minutes between being saved and dying from a grave injury. You’re one thin line from death.

Life. It’s so ephemeral. Enjin hates the constant reminder of it, even if he values his own life less than the ones of others.

That day he hears about you getting hurt, he nearly loses his mind and vomits from panic. The feeling of raw fear, while no foreign to him, still was long forgotten until then. It envelopes him out of nowhere, spinning his anxiety further when he realizes just how attached he’s becoming.

He’s seen a handful of people die in the recent years, and it might be a pill hard to swallow, but you’ve got to learn how to live with it. He’s seen children of his age die prior to that. He learned how to tune out the feeling, even if guilt tries to scratch with its claws at the surface.

But a lady he’s a bit crazy about? Apparently, suddenly his thoughts go haywire, evoking a nasty encumbrance on his nervous system.

It’s scary, realizing how much he started to care about your presence in your life, way beyond simple lust.

This is why he doesn’t do shit like this. This why he shouldn’t.

And yet, his feet drag him to the infirmary like a lunatic, each step faster and faster. He can hear that damn clock clicking in the background.

When he sees you, you’re lying in bed, letting your body heal up the rest on its own when he finally visits you.

There’s no pool of blood below you. Your tongue isn’t sticking out, your eyes aren’t busted open, and your body isn’t frozen in an unnatural, rigid formation. Your limb isn’t lying somewhere far off from you.

Much to his relief.

“Hey,” he greets quietly.

“Hi, Enjin,” you greet back nicely, even if you’re still aching.

He drags the chair right next to your bed, and assesses you with something serious for a moment.

You can only offer him a small smile, not wanting him to worry about you like you know he must.

“How are you feeling? Did they feed you glop and goo again?” he asks dryly as he throws his leg over another.

You snicker at his words. A good sign, seeing you have enough energy to laugh.

You’re not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

Just alive.

“No. Rudo was really sweet and sneaked in something for me.”

“Yeah? That’s good. Smart boy.” His shoulder relax a little.

You’re back. But what if one day you’re not?

For a few minutes, he distracts you with endless talk—himself as well—taking every comfort in the fact you're still there, physical and speaking.

His heart skips a beat a bit too much every time he makes you laugh.

Eventually, he can't keep it in himself any longer.

“Listen...” Enjin stares awkwardly, adjusting the pillow behind your back.

“Yes?” You lean back comfortably.

“Do you wanna…” he trails off as he sits down again.

“Hm?”

He draws out his cigarette packet. Plays with it around his hand, rotating it until the blur of colors gets him dizzy. How he itches for a smoke. But he can’t. You wouldn’t like it—

You make an assumption.

“No, Enjin, I don’t wanna smoke.”

“That’s not even it, woman,” he says rapidly.

“Oh.”

You can tell something is troubling him.

“Then what is it? You can tell me, I won’t judge you.”

“Oh, you just might,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, looking up at you hesitantly.

“How bad can it be?” you ask wryly.

“You might hate me for this. Or decide you don’t want to see me outside of the missions again.”

“Hit me with it,” you challenge him.

He’s wondering if you are being foolhardy, or if you genuinely are willing to hear something potentially burdening. But seeing that familiar look of conviction, he decides to indulge you.

In the worst case scenario, you hate him and cut off any ties with him.

“Do you…

wanna be my girlfriend?”

As soon as he says this, he immediately regrets asking. Even more when he sees your astounded look.

“Your girlfriend? I thought you…”

“Don’t do relationships? Yeah, I don’t. But…” He nearly crushes the box in his hand. His eyes dart between it and you. He lets the talk continue, needing it off his chest. “Maybe you’re worth trying. At least, I don't think I can keep it strictly casual between us anymore. So we’ve got to make a decision.”

You get what he means. Either stop fucking each other before real feelings can develop or… take it further, properly.

“I…”

Seeing your moment of hesitation, Enjin decides to evacuate.

“Sleep on it,” he throws back at you.

But you stop him in motion the moment he touches the door handle.

“Hold on for a moment. You can’t say something like this and just leave,” you scold with indignation.

Enjin turns around with a sigh. To his surprise, the answer is given to him immediately.

Did you think about it yourself already?

“But I’m gonna take you up on that offer.”

The thing about Chokers is that they have this one annoying quality: anyone blood-bonded with can hit you up any moment.

So does Enjin.

Therefore, you had to reach for extreme measures: yelling into the equipment every time he tries to communicate, making his ear hurt, effectively stopping him in bothering you after he finally made an attempt to communicate with you.

What sort of conversation it is anyway, talking to you from afar?

Or so you thought you’re free from him. His legs and pride still work, after all.

It’s the third time that Enjin comes to your door. It takes you that third time to finally open said door, but the consequences that open along like a Pandora box are far less pleasant than he imagined.

At first, he had left you to your own devices for days, thinking that whatever it is that you’re mad at him for will pass. Or, nearly cockily so, that you will come back to him on your own—unable to stay away from your beloved boyfriend for too long.

Alas, you didn’t. You have only spent your time in hurt and anger, trying to rationalize what you heard with your own ears.

Whether you are by part playing stubborn, or are genuinely hurt in entirety, your distance and silence have left him with a feeling of uncertainty he dreads more and more with every breathing moment.

He doesn’t like when things fluctuate too much, go outside of linear, shaking the foundations he worked hard in order to keep steady.

He is a strong tree, but a tree still can be set on fire like any wood.

Enjin might like people who stay themselves—unapologetically, no matter how far they might be bent out of norm. Flamboyant ones are welcome especially. Yet he still hates them unpredictable situations, now more than ever.

You, his girl, is currently fighting him. Not a title of self-made claim. Actual girlfriend. He would have laughed at the thought of entering any relationship months ago. Now he’s deep in the mess he has dug himself.

Feelings are messy—as to be expected. Expectations are messy. Boundaries are messy. But it’s all worse when it’s him who caused some type of mess, as it is he who has to take the responsibility.

It’s only sex that doesn’t demand too much when you get lost in the heat of it easily. It’s no feat to get lustful and show desire.

It’s unshackling, to be able to forget unpleasant truths and feelings of the world, every darkness and greed waiting around the corner to have you in their clutches.

And you’ve been fucking everyday. Honeymoon phase and all, you yourself catching up with sex life too. If he’s tired, you get on top of him while he’s smoking. If it’s you who’s tired, he prone bones you into a nice and deep sleep. If you both are, you cuddle- or shower-fuck. You make his head spin, you rock his world, and he’s constantly reminded how good this slice of heaven can get.

“What do you want from me?” you ask impatiently, bringing him down to earth.

When he told Rudo he likes women with a stupid capacity to forgive him, this is not what he meant. Expressions of regret so he’s not deemed as cold, apologies even are acceptable, but hopefully without bigger dwelling over the issue from the other side.

But simple sorry won’t do it for you. Apparently, he screwed up—big time.

The guy you lost your virginity to! The guy you’ve been taking seriously, personally, trying to be accommodating.

The guy who you now suspect has been here only for sex.

This room of yours, even if his favorite space, is now smaller than ever, every corner of it swallowing him with your anger hanging in the air.

“I’m sorry. Really am,” he says with some regret, even if he doesn’t have enough confidence to prop it.

Enjin scratches the side of his tattooed neck, leaning against your windowsill. It’s getting increasingly difficult to look at you—standing in front of him with your arms crossed, glaring at him, looking for something specific and certainly humble.

“It is serious, I guess,” he acquiesces.

To you, he’s more sorry about being caught. You're in disbelief, hearing nearly verbatim words from the days before.

“You guess?” you ask incredulously.

His hesitation easily leads you on to believe it is actually not that serious, him warranting you the right to read his own claim as such. He didn’t change his perspective much.

“No, it is serious, okay?” he blurts out quickly, trying to minimize the fallout. “If that’s what you want to hear.”

If that’s what you want to hear. Like those people who say “you can come if you want” instead of being eager to have you.

You should just kill him.

“Okay,” you acknowledge suddenly, exaggerating your understanding. “Sure.” You smile mockingly.

He blinks twice in surprise, but he takes you up on that. “Okay, and…?”

“Well, what do you expect to hear from me?” You cross your arms, taking in his pathetic cowardice with disapproving eyes.

“I don’t know… that you’re not pissed off at me?” he asks hopefully, placing his hands against the windowsill for some stability.

You look at him with all the more disbelief.

“I don’t forgive you. You think sorry is enough to cut it? You have me questioning everything about our relationship! You insulted me! You’ve said all of this so casually and now you almost repeated yourself! You’re not even trying to explain what you apparently saw differently. I don’t think you are taking us seriously at all.”

Maybe if he apologized to you properly instead of acting like you're holding him at gunpoint, talked to you about his issue with you, that you would then consider making amends. Instead, you get some excuse of apology, and relatively little acknowledgment of how hurt you felt by him.

“Well…”

“Go on. Tell me. If you didn’t mean it when you said our relationship isn’t serious, then tell me what else you meant.”

And yet, you don’t hear any answer.

“Come on, it’s water under the bridge, babe—” he tries to pull you into a hug. You like his hugs, he knows that much, especially that the fully affectionate ones come rarely. Not to say he’s entirely cold to you, but Enjin enjoys independent women over needy ones for a reason.

You only push him away.

“I’ll shove your cigarettes up your ass!” you yell. “You said our relationship is not that serious, you act like it, and yet you expect me to simply move on? I had to nearly beg you to say it, like you’re not sure yourself at all!” You move further away, sitting down on the edge of your bed, tugging on your hair. “Do you even like me? Maybe I should just break up with you instead of having you waste my time?” you ask hysterically, feeling that chest pain again.

It’s a nightmare. Four months or even more was enough to have your heart that stupid for him.

Enjin recoils, a bit scared of you. He’d tell you how good you look when you’re angry any other time, but now obviously is not the time.

He’d also laugh at the irony of how Gris seems to be the center of his issues if it weren’t for the scary notion he’s hearing. At first, you willing to offer your virginity to him. Now, you hearing him talk to Gris about your relationship.

But now he has a steeper cliffs to climb— you’re damn right to think about breakup. Many women hearing his words straight after getting attached would feel taken granted of and lead on. Except, that’s not how things are for him in reality—and yet… saying this with his chest feels impossible somehow.

“I swear, Enjin…” You tear up.

You like to think communication in relationship is the key to success. That fighting won’t resolve anything. But when a man in front of you has so much audacity, and when he doesn’t seem desperate to redeem himself, what do you even do? You can acknowledge the fact that, sometimes, Enjin says some dumb stuff without necessarily meaning to, because that’s just how he is. However, hearing your boyfriend might not be that serious about you, or that you’re some sort of hindrance is plainly hurtful.

A bomb of this indifference was dropped on you so suddenly, yet you ought to be grateful you heard it now instead of wasting even more months with him.

Enjin sighs, concluding he should have thought so, as he stands under that window uselessly, not sure whether he should try to pull you close again or just let you be—the light outside tracing his body shies no clarity at him. He stupidly assumed that you having feelings for him would make you softer—enough to be forgiving. In reality, it seems he crossed a line no love can defend, or simply put you’re that tough, going against his usual type.

“Then what do you want me to do?” he asks quietly. He rubs his face, looking at you through his tattooed fingers with some type of ache of his own.

If you break up with him… maybe that’d make his life easier.

Not really.

He’s used to being with you by now. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to romance; or rather, many parts of it are difficult to work with. Especially the part about being vulnerable. Therefore, there being someone willing to have him back at the end of the day is much more beneficial than someone testing him or having bigger expectations. But he’s not sure if he’s capable of staying away, now that you’ve made yourself a guest in his heart. Take that part out, and it might crumble entirely.

“I don’t care. Figure it out! I’m not your mommy, and if you can figure out anything else, that should be easy too!” you say harshly right before you start crying.

It should be easy… in theory. If he can go on all these missions and think fast during them, how hard is it to properly apologize and make it up to you? To prove he does care?

In practice, that’s when feelings make it impossibly difficult. Letting their roots take somewhere is dangerous, for variety of reasons, and now he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place.

You then point at the door. Great, you’re even kicking him out.

He moves like you wanted, giving you a longer look before he’d get out.

And now… he can either let you go or seriously go figure out something.

Although, he takes you not breaking up with him immediately as some sort of sign, worth clinging to.

Enjin wakes up to a nightmare. With a trembling hand, he goes for a smoke.

It’s been a while since he slept alone. Without you around, he keeps dreaming about bad things happening to you. Reminding himself of that time you got scratched badly; the catalyst comes with yesterday, as you went on a mission you came slightly bruised and exhausted from.

Slightly, yet enough to provoke. He hates this irregularity you keep imposing in him without even trying.

He wipes a single tear before throwing the covers off, all clammy and buzzed with negative energy he considers taking off with a cold shower.

The water here is cold half of the time anyway. You make it a bit warmer, and you two have a habit of showering together to save water. The empty space beside him in the bathroom makes him feel even worse, filling itself with droning noise he cannot escape.

At the very least, those sort of emotions he’s been storing only fuel him further to keep approaching you. And at this point, he’s stubborn himself, unable to leave this situation as it is. Two can play this game.

Still in the morning—and he woke up remarkably early for himself on a morning off—he waits under your door until you’ll crawl out of it. Since knocking on your door became useless, so did trying to reach you through his Choker, he prefers to catch you surprised.

“Hey—” He even smiles, seeing you again.

Alive. Lively.

Your eyes narrow when you spot him. The moment he comes closer, arms open, you dodge him with a finesse of a fly avoiding being hit by a swatter, walking past him.

“Where are you going?” Enjin asks with a sulk to his voice.

“Away from you.” You’re short with him.

“You should eat first. Come on, let’s...” He trails you like a shadow.

“I will eat on my own.”

Great. And yet, he tries again.

“That mission yesterday was tough on you, wasn’t it? Glad to see you in one piece,” he manages to say, except it comes out awkward.

That stops you for a moment. You even catch something hopeful appearing in his eyes.

But suddenly remembering his last words, you worry about honesty of the new ones. Maybe it’s just him being ingenious. Evolving, adapting to your needs only because he was caught lacking.

“Get out of my hair,” you say brusquely. With that said, after few more steps, you disappear around the corner to face the world without him.

They were right about rose-tinted glasses. Things are far worse without them on.

As he watches you go with a weird, hollow feeling creeping up his chest, he suspects you’re not so mad as him, as much as you are hurt. He can act difficult, deflect, but he’s still quite observant, noting each of your dislikes.

Part of him enjoys the fact you’re this rough on him. There wasn’t anyone to coddle him when growing up and he had to constantly self-evaluate in order to grow as a person. But this still is a true push comes to shove type of situation, an obstacle difficult to bypass.

“Trouble in paradise?” Enjin turns out to the source of the voice, drawing him back from the haze of yearning for you.

It’s Semiu, who leaves her own room, already pretty and prepared for the day.

“No. She’s just… having a bad day,” he says dismissively, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling.

He was doing much better harboring emptiness. You just had to crack the walls and let mythological to the Ground sunlight shine through.

“She must have had many bad days lately then,” Semiu deadpans. “And a bad day right from the beginning of the day… what could have happened already? She stubbed her toe?”

“Very funny, Semiu.” Enjin crosses his arms, looking genuinely offended. “What are you getting at anyway?”

“People talk.” She leans against her door, unbothered by his attitude.

“That’s what they do.”

“They talk about you, dumbass,” she says dryly.

“Don’t tell me you people are shittalking behind our backs.” Enjin heaves a sigh. “Nosy freaks.”

Of course, no one in the headquarters can ever mind their business. Perks of living in a community.

“The word spreads quickly. Of course if a known couple suddenly avoids each other…” she gestures to the corridor. “Not that anyone was giving you two much faith.”

“Mean,” he mumbles.

“Is it?” She laughs dryly.

Maybe he did jump into this relationship out of panic for losing you, arbitrarily. For once, didn’t think things through and rationalized them before asking you to be his, ten times to be extra sure. The idea would probably dissolve. But now…

Seeing Enjin struggling with proper response, she adds her own two cents with exasperation, “You two should have a proper talk. How hard is it to lay it out.”

“I tried talking to her though,” he says absentmindedly.

“And what did you tell her? How did it go?”

“That I suppose it is serious,” he blurts out honestly. “It went as terribly as you might imagine.”

Looking back at things, he does realize how it must have sounded to you. He’s not an idiot, he reflects a lot, and if he were in your shoes, he would probably be disappointed if you said that about him himself.

And still, he’s hoping for some magical solution.

“You suppose,” she repeats. “It’s as if you can’t make up your mind. You two need to be on the same side or it simply will not work out for you. How hard is it to tell her you’re not ready? Don’t waste each other’s time.” She’s deadly serious about this.

There is no other golden medium.

“But—” Enjin peeks at Semiu again, torn.

Their conversations usually don’t go there, so she can tell it matters to him.

“But what.”

He doesn’t want to—

“I don’t… want to let her go,” he says reluctantly, looking to the side. He moves a bit closer to your door.

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

“I know, Semiu.” He nods his head. “I know that annoyingly well.”

“Then act like it. No one will keep that spot warm for you all their life. It’s not fair to expect them to do that either.”

Enjin laughs wistfully. “Then what I do?”

“Figure it out. I’m not your counselor. Hardly anyone gets answers served on a silver platter.”

With that said, Semiu walks away, forcing him to focus on his thoughts.

He stares at the floor blankly.

He remembers the childhood hunger pangs that would wretch his bones and cause pain; pain that ended one day. The first taste of happiness and hope. Only to be halted shortly in, as the price caught up with him and other kids in the orphanage quickly.

He’s been used in the past. A big mistake that follows him till this day. And while he doesn’t believe you to be as evil as that man and other were, his body remembers the feeling and anticipates it.

He’s not sure how much he was lying when he said you might get bored of each other any day either. What if he’s a passing fancy to you? Or what if he’s not enough. What worth does he have to you, other than a pretty face? Maybe you’re nice for the sake of maintaining appearances.

Above all, he's worried about having to leave you one day. If he dies, it’s the type of pain he wishes to spare you from, even if he would believe his role was fulfilled. Worse to him, what if it’s you who dies.

And yet, there’s moments you simply hold his hand, and you giggle, and your breathing slows down as if you feel safe with him. Your body rests on top of his and he can tell you’re here willingly, spreading tickling kisses over his throat like you are sharing a piece of yourself with him, hopelessly waiting for a piece back.

You’re so good to him he often doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s an unusual feeling, though not entirely unwelcome. Warm, both intrusive and both seeping through him like rain.

Freedom can also feel like a burden, after all. Every choice becomes your own responsibility, along with its consequences. You have the power to shape your own path, yet it also means carrying the weight of uncertainty, mistakes, and accountability. It’s a neverending challenge.

Then he realizes something, looking back at your door with a frown.

It’s been probably a long time since you two have spent time alone outside that room. Mostly tired after work, you didn’t really bother to do much else than be lazy.

Just lying and talking next to you was enough for him, but hopefully you want a bit more for once.

Enjin’s head hurts so much. August yelled at him plenty—his own almost-cousin, mind you. Everyone just yells at him these days, the headquarters being mad.

Hopefully, what he managed to negotiate was worth his eardrums bleeding.

“Heeeyyy… look what I got ya.”

Enjin crosses your route in the middle of your walk to the reception, all grinning like his old version.

There’s a pile of clothes in his hand you eye suspiciously. A skirt and a shirt, in two matching colors—something he believes you’d like. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them and no actual apology. The last one he gave you was rather halfhearted.

“What is that?” you ask with almost revulsion. By this time, you cannot tell what he’s trying to accomplish or what point to drive home.

A bit disappointed by your reaction but nonetheless still eager, he explains:

“August’s work. He doesn’t like to be rushed but I managed to convince him to whip it up in time when I told him what’s the occasion.”

“I don’t need clothes made only for you to ogle me,” you say sharply, that Enjin winces.

It’s as though majority of your relationship was sex and fooling around. You didn’t expect Enjin to immediately open up to you, but still… it begins to look suspicious. Because why else would he stay with someone he doesn’t take seriously?

If he didn’t want more, he should have been more transparent. You honestly have no clue why you're still entertaining him.

As for him, he believes you’re jumping to conclusions again.

That angry, huh.

“… It’s not for me. It’s for you. I want to take you out,” he says less confidently, still showing you his gift.

“Where? Somewhere you can show me off?” you scoff. Now he wants to be a good boyfriend?

“No...” he disagrees with slight annoyance. Even he’s not that dumb. You’re not something to flaunt either. Not an item, not a property, not a product. “Only somewhere where I can spend time with you.”

“Now you want to spend time with me,” you say skeptically, crossing your arms.

“Yes. That’s the idea.”

It’s not that Enjin refuses to spend time with you. He likes to group up people so coming up with an idea for a date is not that difficult. He’s not that ignorant to keep you home like a pet either. But… expressing his feelings during those is a more difficult part—going beyond fun conversations to hold.

Perhaps he bit more than he could chew jumping into relationship with you, but something ugly tells him that if he lets you go he’ll come to regret it forever. If he must shove these clothes at you, he will.

“I don’t know why I should go with you.”

He’s right about to say how dumb this question is until he realizes something… You are testing him-since you didn’t say “I’m not going with you”. Assuming he’s just himself, constantly spilling words that are like shooting himself in the foot, is the only reason why you keep giving him the tiniest bits of benefit of the doubt.

Or maybe you are reluctant to let him go, in spite of everything, that it turns you delusional.

Whatever it is, he accept this benevolence.

“Because…” Sweat breaks on his forehead, him trying to say his words. It’s dumb to him—how hard can it be to show one woman that you care without committing mental gymnastics? “I think you deserve it, and… we still didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” you prod further.

“Have our first month anniversary,” he blurts out, feeling embarrassingly hot in his face.

“First month anniversary?” you repeat after him incredulously. You’d never take him for someone who’d care about just one month long duration of relationship. It’s enough to forget about your anger.

“Yes. Isn’t that what couples do?” he asks awkwardly.

“I think mostly teenagers do,” you reply as awkwardly, a bit thrown off.

“Tsk.” He grumbles, shaking his head. “Whatever. We don’t need any occasion,” he says with false bravado.

“That’s rich.”

“Oh, come on,” he nearly whines, needing the end of it, “I’ll make it worth your while…”

His voice turns into a purr, as he takes a step closer to you.

You take one back tentatively.

Realizing you’re about to be trapped against against the wall behind you, you move to the side.

Yet as you do, Enjin dexterously moves to stand behind you. And then that bastard actually hugs you from behind, holding you even as you nearly thrash in his grip. It’s sort of cute to him, and he could admit he enjoys holding you.

“Don’t squirm or you’ll crumple the clothes.”

“What are you—”

“Let’s make a deal,” he says awfully close to your ear, tightening his grip on you.

“Huh?” You manage to turn your head around, even if craning your neck like this nearly hurts, just so you can glare at him.

“You let me take you out,” he begins, looking down at you seriously, “and if you don’t like it, I drive you back right here, right now.”

Or he’ll never hear the end of it. Or worse, he’ll lose you entirely.

You should say no, probably. But that awful man starts tickling you.

Much to his success, as his persuasion has you uttering desperately, “Fine, fine, but let me go now!”

“Hmm…” He acts as if considers. “No. Not yet.” The tickles stop, but he keeps his hold on you, his face buried in your nape he inhales.

You’ll probably disappear until the date and so he gladly takes advantage, even as you foam at your mouth and try to push him away.

Even more when he dares to call you adorable.

Being ruthlessly tickled aside, you are missing a certain reason as to why you have agreed to this date. Perhaps some part of you is still stuck in a reverie of a better relationship. At this point, you don’t have much to lose. It’s bittersweet too, having to reach this point for him to wake up; while hoping you spoke about this issue sooner rather than assuming he needs time to spread his wings open.

Enjin is currently driving you both to the city…. and he’s oddly careful about it. Not perfect though—smooth driving is still beyond his capacity.

Even he got dressed up nicely—no long sleeves or jeans. A nicer sweater and slacks were donned on his body instead.

There’s no music playing either. Just an awkward silence and the rumble of the jeep’s engine.

“Sooo…”

More silence.

Enjin clears his throat, waiting for you to answer. You don’t, staring ahead, in return waiting for him to say what he wants.

“The air is not so bad today. Almost as if…”

“As if…?” you repeat lazily.

“As if it decided to be kind for the sake of our date,” he says optimistically, albeit awkwardly, as if speaking a foreign language.

The results are still not the desired ones.

“Hm. At least one thing is less annoying today,” you reply dryly.

“I’m annoying you?” Now he’s annoyed too.

“You’re sitting there looking all constipated as if I put you on time out.”

His mouth opens in disbelief, though he almost laughs, hating himself for finding your insult funny. “Okay, that’s one way to describe it.” Well, he tried to be nice, but if you think it’s weird—

“I just wish you’d stop trying to butter me up,” you mumble, sinking lower into your passenger seat.

“That is not what I’m doing!” he says defensively, giving you a side eye.

“Yes? I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”

He’s speechless. Here he was trying to be genuine. “Forget it.”

“Yeah, now it’s forget it.” He often does that. “It always is, isn’t it?”

The question leaves him dumbfounded for a moment. He looks stupid, furrowing his brows in contemplation. “What do you mean?” He grumbles dramatically.

“You try something. I don’t fawn over it in a span of few seconds and so you decide it’s not worth trying further,” you say with a frown. And that’s not how you make a habit. “You don’t even give it a chance. You don’t let me give it a chance.”

And then your lip trembles and he’s about to panic.

“Hey, don’t cry again—”

“Then stop being a coward!”

He nearly smashes his head against the steering wheel from frustration.

“You’re so confusing. You say I’m doing this to manipulate you and then you get mad at me for stopping. What do you even want from me?”

“That’s apples and oranges. I mean those times before!” you argue with a shaky voice. “Not when you feel like you have no choice but to. When I was hoping for you to…”

He waits, trying to understand you, and beginning to even.

All in vain.

“Forget it,” you use his line against him like a devil you are.

He finally slaps some music on. For the sake of you two’s sanity. The meal at the restaurant better be good or this date is ruined entirely.

Occasionally, his gaze still wanders to you, as if his nose is lead by your perfume permeating the car. You do look pretty in your outfit, which normally would be substantially distracting, but now the sight of you fills him with a different type of yearning:

For you to turn your head and say that you’re not done with him.

But it seeing it happen not, he gazes back at the road. Not killing you in a car accident is the least he can do.

“So… do you come here often?” Enjin asks you, drumming his fingers against the table as he waits for your orders to come.

You're hosted at a nicer place, that serves actual food Vianders create, rather than whatever trash beast was killed that day. The walls around are bare brick, yet decorated with black frames in a way that makes it seem as if it was a deliberate style decision. The dark floors below your shoes at the very least appear to be regularly mopped, safe from the dust constantly entering with people passing through the door.

With you seated across from him, for once he can take in your face and remind himself you are still here.

“You brought me here because I wasn’t here before?” you bring up with confusion.

He’s really nervous. Saying anything, fumbling over his words. Is this what love is supposed to do to a man, knock out any brains and rationality?

“Right…” he trails off, wiping off some salt leftovers by sliding it off the burgundy table. “You know. You look really nice.”

“I know.”

Enjin presses his lips tight at your frank response. “Good…” he nods, “but I’m not saying this to flatter you. I’m being genuine here.” He thinks you’re about to say it’s probably just lust, and so he nips that possibility in the bud. “And no, it’s not about me being a horndog… You’re just so…” His heart races in a familiar way.

Unless he’s become delusional, he believes he catches your eyes suddenly lighting up for a moment—a horribly good sign.

“Yes?” You raise your brows in anticipation, even leaning a bit closer towards him which only leaves him more discomposed.

Come on, he can do better than this. Yet he suddenly finds himself speechless. Is there a single word to describe you that would be strong enough? Are there sentences that convey your nuance to no fail?

“You look amazing,” he says awkwardly.

“You kinda said it already,” you bring up.

You, his girlfriend, are carry an astounding and astonishing skill for making him lose his temper and getting under his skin, and he’s not even an aggressive guy. Still, for your sake, he tries to reach for another plausible explanation:

Maybe you don’t want him hiding behind flattering words.

He’s hopefully well-read in your language.

“Right.”

And so…

While it comes with some hesitation, him grappling with his own limits, Enjin grabs your hand across the table and staples his fingers with yours. He starts rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

Something they would do in a romantic movie, he supposes.

You blink in surprise.

To his own surprise, as well delight, you don’t push it away. Very promising.

He looks down at your joined hands, a smaller palm disappearing in a bigger one like they're meant to be. He then looks up at you hesitantly.

“I know I’m an idiot,” he says tiredly.

“Say something I don’t know,” you mumble under your breath.

“I’m a huge idiot?”

He manages to make you laugh. The sound of your laughter stirs his guts with warmth. It also finally eases your guard down a notch.

You two look at each other communicatively.

“Enjin…” Maybe it’s high time you give it bluntly to him. You’re tired of waiting and only getting disappointed.

You look around, having enough dignity to lower your voice and avoid making a scene. Thankfully the table is placed closer to the back as well.

Not letting go of your hand, only squeezing it harder, Enjin straightens his posture, being all ears.

You take a deep breath, finding it difficult to speak about your pain.

“I want to know if you're actually serious about this relationship,” you speak solemnly. “Unless you’ve been treating our relationship as nothing more but a companionship and free sex. Have you even been taking me seriously?”

You’re not sure yourself anymore. He keeps sending you mixed signals which throws you off a lot.

“Of course I was!” rips off from his mouth, visceral. While it feels uncanny to say, he decides to push through. “That was a misunderstanding,” he says rather seriously. “I meant it when I said that.”

He just didn’t show it properly.

“Those who it may concern seems to have been told otherwise. Aka me; and Gris.” You sigh. “I mean, it's just hard not to take your words at face value, and…” you stumble over your own words, “I tried to imagine any other context and couldn't find it.”

“That’s…” You make a good point. He regrets not being upfront about it from the start.

“Enjin, I am honest when I say this:”

He prepares himself mentally for this decisive moment.

“I don’t want to waste my time with someone who doesn’t feel the same about this relationship. I don’t expect you to be the best boyfriend in one day, but… if we’re not on the same page, what is even this relationship? Maybe we didn’t discuss our exact expectations… but I am telling you at least now. I don’t want a half-assed relationship.” You feel that sting again. “If you’re not ready, then just tell me,” you add shakily.

You’re not forcing anything. You’re giving him a choice, which he finds relieving; it’s just a difficult one to make. He can’t make it in a haste, but letting you wait much longer feels unfair as well.

“I really didn’t mean it like that,” he admits. “That it’s a joke of some kind. Or that I actually find you the pain in the ass.”

“Then what did you mean?” You press on with confusion. “Do you even understand how hurtful it was to hear?” You sniffle. So much for this date.

And he’s not sure if he can handle you crying again. Not just because he’s not best at this sort of comfort.

He doesn’t want you to be sad again. So he makes another confession. You can hate him all you want for the truth, just don’t cry because of him.

“I was… downplaying it on purpose. Without actually meaning it,” he says honest enough.

That surprises you. A possibility you didn’t anticipate. And yet befitting him.

“On purpose? So you’re ashamed of me or something?”

“No!” He disagrees instantly, shaking his head. “I… suck at this. Genuinely. Nor do I know how to be good to you…” He looks away, slight flush on his cheeks. He got away with this for twenty eight years. Until now. “Oh man…” he mumbles under his breath, feeling like a teenager again.

His day of reckoning is here. He has to explain himself and stop hiding. That’s just annoying.

“What are you trying to say? Please, look at me, Enjin,” you plea with him.

He finally faces you. A bit softer on his wrinkles. “I was scared to admit it might be serious serious.”

“Might be again?”

“No, it is serious. That’s the problem.”

“How is this a problem?”

You seem genuinely confused. If he wanted to date you, is this not the desired outcome?

“Because…” He’s not exactly sure himself. There’s many things he has rationalized and reflected on over the years, but pinpointing exactly why it’s hard to be in love is difficult. Because of betrayal? Losing control? Losing you? You losing him one day? “I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

You begin to have a hunch that, whatever is making him so avoidant, is likely not connected to him being a stubborn mule alone. For someone who hides his past, his real name, while also knowing many people on the Ground get hurt regularly, you wouldn’t be shocked if something had happened to your boyfriend as well.

It’s not an excuse, but it is some explanation, and something incredibly human.

Something to give you relief about whether he truly doesn’t care about you.

You decide to tackle the issue from another perspective. Something more meaningful.

“Then why did you want to be my boyfriend?” You interlock your fingers tighter. He squeezes your hand with one pulse.

His next answer is surprising as well, even if it shouldn’t have to be.

“Because I like you. More than I’d like to admit,” those words are said with the most earnestness he can muster.

This is probably the most straightforward he’s been with you so far. It’s not the other four letter word yet, but you wouldn’t want it thrown carelessly either.

You try not to smile, even if somewhere you still feel mad at him. Hard not to, considering the anxiety he put you through.

“I like you too. Obviously.”

“O-obviously?” he repeats with small disbelief, gulping down at how effortlessly the confession leaves your lips. He doesn’t know what to do with it, looking at you like a startled deer.

He supposes that in hindsight, it is indeed obvious, yet hearing it aloud is different.

You actually like him. You’re not sticking with him out of any other unpleasant reason.

“Yes. And I think I like you this way more.”

“You do?” He’s surprised that’s all it took to make you feel better, nearly beaming as he adjusts his hand in yours. Maybe it’s exactly what you needed. “I mean, what way exactly?”

“Yes. What do I care for a macho behavior? I don’t need a boyfriend to have that. I want… a partner, not a performer,” you say warmly.

A partner, not a performer. The words ring in his head. It’s not that Enjin thinks he was performing an act in any way or shape; perhaps you mean the whole way of being untouchable.

He’s not. Certainly not by you.

“And what if… he must perform for a reason. What if the truth is uglier than you’d like?” he asks what he dreads, with difficulty tightening his throat.

“It’s not up for you to decide,” you utter in a scolding manner. “And it probably wouldn’t be anything I haven’t heard before. People do what they must do here.”

Some kind of relief fills his chest, heave boulders being lifted off. Being all stern, you still provided more understanding than you could imagine.

Soon, the meal finally comes—your favorite.

“You remembered.” Your eyes light up.

Enjin reluctantly lets your hand go so you could eat.

“Well, yes. It’d be hard not to, considering how much you blabber about it,” he mumbles sarcastically, handing you a cloth.

In other words, he’s been paying attention.

Since you can’t afford ruining this date fully, you two decide to set the main conversation aside.

You eat with more freedom than before, so does he. The meal doesn’t feel like something he has to force himself to consume.

After the food, you don’t leave the restaurant immediately. There’s simply no rush.

Enjin tackles the last topic immediately, wanting it off his chest.

“You don’t have to… forgive me immediately.”

“Really?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Really,” he confirms seriously.

“Like really really?” You place your hands on the table and lean forward, as if trying to read honesty in his eyes.

“Yes, really really,” he says until his tongue almost tangles itself and he laughs.

“That’s…” you lean back, “so you expect me to give you another chance?”

While he hasn’t vocalized that, he believes it’s the most important thing to him at the moment.

He nods his head solidly. “Just one more time. One. If I screw up, I let you go.” His hand raises…

You know that tic of his. Placing it behind his head. You grab it instead, nearly starling him.

But he doesn't yank it away, curious (and suspicious) of what you’re doing.

You bury your face in his hand, looking at him with a small pout, while sneaking in some touch you’ve been missing. “I’ll hunt you down if you mess up again.”

He scoffs with disbelief and shakes his head, yet ultimately smiles.

“Wow. Scary. I should probably listen, hm?”

You nod.

And your cheek feels nice in his palm. Warm, coming from another person he sometimes thinks he doesn't deserve, who stayed despite.

Yet it is so overwhelming, especially when you turn his hand to the side and kiss it, to which he wrestles your flat down.

So after a longer minute of you trying to one up each other in teasing, he has to quickly get up.

“Hey, where are you going?” you complain.

“I’m gonna hit the head.”

You see him walk fast toward the restroom’s direction.

You’re too cute, he thinks as he stares in the bathroom mirror and wipes his face. Not even sexy—even if you are. It’s just… you getting all passionate, enjoying your food and all somehow working its way through his heart. This must be that cuteness aggression.

When he leaves, he comes out to something, or rather, someone trying to disturb your peace.

“Buy more or get out.” The older man, gray-haired already, a supposed owner nearly shouts at you. “This isn’t a place for lounging.”

“Lounging is part of eating experience.” You argue with your arms crossed.

“Not for this long! I have to make money somehow. Make space for other guests!”

“Fine, get us a dessert, old man.” Enjin interferes as he joins you again. “Stop yelling like an idiot.”

He thankfully saved up a bit. Cleaner work tends to pay a tad bit more than an average, so he can spoil you today.

Leaving the restaurant, upon the gush of wind that blows, you huddle closer to your boyfriend.

“We’re going back already?” You sound and look disappointed.

That pretty much was the original plan, with Enjin assuming one meal is a good starting point to get back in your good graces. But seeing you like that, about to give him some puppy eyes that might the most cunning tactic ever, he decides to extend the outing.

“No,” he lies. “I still wanna show you something. We just gotta have a walk first. Come on.”

The smile given in response is worth it.

The route you take through the city is more difficult to approach at this hour, with the crowd growing denser, walking all helter-skelter as if it’s their first day on earth.

“Suddenly everyone is social,” Enjin complain quietly.

All the more when, once again, you bump into another person who he glares at, even if he’s not sure whose fault it really was. To him, only you and he exist in this city at the moment. Even those murky walls and dying neons appear more bright.

“Careful. It seems to be a hot spot today.”

His arm goes around you therefore—well excused, and definitely well played out as you lean into it.

Feeling natural.

It’s nice. Safe. Grounding. Definitely relieving after you avoiding him for days, feeling your physical form and knowing that you’re safe.

Passing by a mirror hanging at one of the stalls outside, he fixes his hair, making sure he still looks good for you.

But you only pout at him.

“What?”

“I like it when it’s down. It makes you look cute.”

“Cute? I’m not supposed to be cute. I’m supposed to be handsome.” He flicks your forehead and snickers at your resulted expression.

You massage it while scowling. “You can be both.”

He acts like he has to consider it for a while, ultimately agreeing before you make more fuss. It’s your day, after all.

“Fine.”

He doesn’t like the look of hair after the rain, though if you like it… he can make some sacrifice.

As you pass by different businesses of the rundown city, you occasionally window shop different items. With work keeping you busy— the Raiders especially—you didn’t have much time for fun purchases.

He stops you by the one you stare at particularly intensely. Some type of keychain, with a big plush hanging off it.

“You want this?” he asks.

“No.”

“You were eyeing it.”

“Yes, but…”

“I’ll take it, boss,” he says to the seller anyway. “Be grateful,” he says to you with a grin.

You have no choice but to accept his gift.

Thinking it’s the least you can do, you stand up on your tip toes and kiss his cheek.

Enjin’s eyes open wide in surprise, especially considering that you did this in public, a hot feeling overcoming him.

“Thank you,” you offer softly.

“Yeah. Don’t mention it,” he mutters, scratching the shaved back of his head.

You smile, observing a slight flush as you come down. You spare him from at least the tease about it.

Getting back in motion, only growing excited about what he wants to show you, you try to clip your kitchen to your bag.

“Nah.” He stops you, zipping the bag for you. “Keep it safe. Someone will steal it and I’m not gonna chase half of the town for it.”

He probably would.

Eventually, you reach the designated destination. The wornout building appears unassuming at first, so you imagine the best part of it awaits you at the top of it.

Enjin helps you climb the rooftop, not asking you if you need help—hoisting you up by your waist so you can grab the edge and climb up.

You still offer him a hand from above.

The sights somehow nearly stunts him. You’ve been in similar position during missions, extending your hand to help him get up from a cloud of dust. Yet now, it’s just you smiling, as if willing to take him back, looking all radiant to him.

His own angel.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he grabs it and uses his legs to climb himself up.

As you two settle down, you finally allow yourself to look ahead carefully. This rooftop shows the rest of the agglomeration, illuminated brightly by all kinds of lights, with tiny ant-like people moving along their given currents, searching for more as well for nothing but noise. Enjin picked the perfect hour, as it’s past dawn by now.

It must be like those Christmas trees you’ve read about in some older books. Spectacular.

You could feel like a queen and king on top of the world here.

“So, you like it?” Enjin asks excitedly, all boyish.

He comes here often. He doesn’t tell you that, but maybe, you’ll try looking for him one day, remembering this Enjin-spot. Hopefully he’s tucked cozily in your head.

“I do,” you say in awe, then turn to him with a huge smile.

He smiles back at you, all content you’re happy, gazing at your lips…

Only to notice your teeth chatter.

“You cold?”

“It’s a bit chilly, yes.”

It gets hot during day, but nights can be ruthless. And none of you bothered to remember to bring a jacket—it was supposed to be a shorter date anyway.

“Come here, then.”

You end up sitting between his legs after he gently brings you down, your back to his chest. Closer to the edge of the building but safely so.

“The view is much nicer here than on any other building. Even if it’s a terrible view anyway, in comparison to some better-doing settlements.” Well, the view beside the one of you—this one is plenty enjoyable—and seeing your face upclose is distracting. Especially when you’re glowing from happiness he wishes to freeze in time forever.

“Hm. I still like it.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I literally said that.” You chuckle.

“I guess you’d find beauty in every dirt.”

You would probably find beauty in him too; or rather, you do so already. He doesn’t dare to ask about it yet—not today.

“We don’t exactly live in a palace,” you argue, lolling your head back to look at him. The city lights up his honeyed eyes nicely, and for a moment, you get lost in them.

“This place might not exist tomorrow,” he starts quietly, as if ensuring only you can hear him. Those eyes watch you all relaxed. “Some trash beast manages to sneak inside— and then everyone has to evacuate.”

“Wow. You know how to doom,” you mock.

“You think I can’t appreciate nice things too?”

“If the shoe fits.”

He shuts his eyelids, trying not to laugh at another repartee between you.

“I’ll be straight with you. I can appreciate many things,” he claims proudly.

“Like what?” you tease, earning a squeeze to your check.

“Like my penny-ante umbrella. Ugly or not, it is my umbrella. No one else’s. No one can take it away from me,” he says ardently, making your smile wider.

He hopes for you to be his too one day. Not as some cheap show of an ownership, dehumanizing to you. He wishes for you to be someone he can have without having to tear himself apart in the process. No coveting can make up for you being by his side willingly.

“Vital Instruments don’t count.” You roll your eyes. “But, if we’re at the topic: how did you get it anyway?”

Enjin hesitates with answering. But seeing your genuine eagerness, sparkling your eyes more prettily than the city does, he decides to answer.

“Someone special gave it to me… to keep me dry from rain on a day it when it was most unbearable.”

Finally something, shared between you two.

Perhaps he’ll tell you a full story one day. The idea scares him the most. Maybe the contents will scare you too.

People being exploited on the Ground is no news. It happens all the time. Some people do it because they have no other choice. Some do it because they see the opportunity. It’s not an unknown topic to you, but he doesn’t want you pitying him or treating him like he’s a wrack.

Yet what’s most important currently is: if rain was imminent, for once, he wouldn’t feel the need to hide. He would let it soak you both and remove all the dirt of this world.

“Special person? An old lover perhaps?” you banter again.

“No. Geez.” You get to see that flush again. It’s precious. “Unless you’re jealous.” He sounds kind of hopeful.

“I’m not jealous,” you reply defensively, looking straight ahead again.

“Are you sure.”

“Says mister jealousy who took my virginity because he was so jealous—”

His cheeks turns even more crimson and he scowls, moving his hand to muffle your mouth.

“Nuh uh. Not jealous. I was just making sure it’s a good time.” He squeezes your waist harder. “Now, repeat it after me—”

You lick his palm until he wriggles and lets your mouth go.

“Cheater.”

You just smile again, settling your head against his chest again. Then you say, “It was a good time though,” staring ahead as if you could see some bright future.

“Yes?” Enjin adjusts his grip on you, ensuring you’re still warm.

“Mhm. Even if I couldn’t walk straight for a week,” you remark lightly.

He grins. Then it falls. “But… you weren’t hurt too badly, right?”

He didn’t ask back then, assuming you don’t want him to baby you. Now the question leaves effortlessly.

“Nothing I couldn't have walked off,” you reassure.

“Hm. Good.”

“So you were worried for me?” you still ask smugly, never letting him rest.

He’s about to say he no, yet realizing that if he does you might think he’s uncaring again, he decides against it. He can’t throw everything repaired away for a little joke, believing the crisis in your relationship is yet to be surmounted.

“Just a bit.” You weren’t a couple back then, so the amount is reasonable.

“Just a bit, he says. How disappointing.”

For a moment, he thinks you’re genuinely mad at him again. But when you see his face, you dare to laugh in it.

“Wow. Fuck you,” he says all bark no bite—mostly embarrassed.

A comfortable silence falls soon. Not a one leaving him full to the brim of anxiety, whispering tauntingly, “she’s gone, Enjin.”

You go back to watching the city, ignoring the cold biting at your ankles.

“I like this,” you mention dreamily.

“What exactly?” His head falls onto your shoulder.

“Me. You. Just the two of us. No one to bother us.”

And with those words, your shoulders start shaking before you sob hard.

It takes him by surprise, but considering all you went through, the dam must have finally cracked open.

Without a word, Enjin slowly turns you around and brings your head to his chest, feeling bitter taste in his mouth.

His hand goes to stroke your back as you clutch his sweater.

For once, he knows how to comfort you, letting you cry your heart out without any complain—it’s the least he can do.

And the most you’re grateful for.

On your way back, Enjin can’t keep his hands off you, some older desire being reignited. With his hand creeping up your thigh, your skirt moves along, but every time he wishes to take it higher, frustratingly to him, you grab it and place it back onto his own leg.

“Not so quick, Enjin.” You tut.

“Huh?”

“You think I’ll suddenly give myself up just because you seemed apologetic?” You smirk.

“No.” He rolls his eyes as if he was obviously joking. “No at all.” So he grips the steering wheel properly again, nearly breaking the thing in two pieces.

But he glances at you every so often. Nearly like a sad puppy. He’s prone to some occasional fit of dramatics, after all… and it’s just now how he’s realizing how much he missed being near you, as much as it’s difficult to admit.

And it’s not even about your body.

“Stop staring at me,” you scold playfully.

“I’m not staring.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you aren’t.”

“No, I am—”

He looks at you with offense. “Not fair.”

“Life isn't fair. Eyes on the road.”

The dirt road outside is dark indeed, the path illuminated only by the car. Even if it’s a part of safe zone, you never know. It takes a few years to get used to the sight, trying to hack your brain into knowing that all these shadows are no more than phantasmagoria of the mind.

You get sleepy eventually, not just from the late hour, if mostly committed to the relief that at least some part of your relationship crisis is over. Even with your seatbelt on, your body awkwardly bends and your head directs itself onto his shoulder.

Enjin frowns, looking quickly down at you. “Wake up. You’ll get a neck pain and then complain to me about it.”

Nothing.

“Hey, I said wake up.”

You only nuzzle more closely.

“Wake up.” He pokes at your cheek. You only scrunch your nose.

He gives up. He can admit to himself it’s at least nice. Warm. Not burdening kind of warm.

He supposedly dislikes clingy women. But he also dislikes needy children, and yet, he then takes care of them.

Once you reach the base, he allows himself one more closer look at you, as well your cheek squished against his shoulder. This fuzzy feeling you give him, it nearly drives him insane sometimes, and yet he dares not to look away.

Only then does he attempt to wake you up.

“Wake up. We’re here.”

Seeing that doesn’t work, he leans close to your ear and whispers into it.

“If you don’t wake up right now, I’ll tickle you until you do.”

That does it. However, woken up so suddenly, your hand flies as if to remove the source of disturbance.

Enjin quickly moves back, squeezing himself against the car window and avoiding getting accidentally slapped just last second. It seems you’re yourself even in your sleep.

“Whoa. Easy here. ’m not your enemy.” He laughs at your groggy look, trying not to wheeze too.

“Yeah, I’m up…” you mutter as you open your eyes drowsily.

“There you are. Thought I lost you to a sleep coma,” he says as he undoes your seatbelts for you.

“I’m not you.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, it’s time to get your sweet ass up if you don’t wanna be crying about sleeping here all night.”

You only groan.

“Come on. I’m not carrying you.”

He probably would.

Getting out so sleepily, you don’t notice your skirt bunching up. He fixes it for you, smoothing it down.

“Perv,” you mumble.

“It’s the way I didn’t even look, you know,” he answers with offense.

“Did you?” You find enough energy to be mouthful with him again.

So he leans over you and presses you against the car. “Duh. But still…” he smirks handsomely, his dimples popping out, “can you say you don’t miss it?”

“Enjin!”

“Just teasin’ ya.”

Slapping his back just lightly, you start walking out of the parking lot all quick-paced.

He catches up with you in no time, falling into step behind you.

“So, we’re going to sleep already, or you wanna do something else first?” he asks curiously.

“We?” you return with surprise.

Right. He might have not earned this privilege back yet. So he asks you nicely, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

You feel inclined to say no. But if you’re supposed to give him another chance, and you did miss him…

“You may,” you permit with a soft sigh.

“Great,” he clasps his hands together, “let’s get to your room—”

“Oh no no, not my room. Your room.”

“Huh?” He halts his steps.

“I wanna sleep in your room,” you say casually, not willing to negotiate. “Mine isn’t a hotel.”

His room is a sensitive topic; it's the room where you lost your virginity at with him, and for some reason, it’s been hard to have you here after—despite the event occurring months ago.

The reason being he considers the moment very special and doesn’t want anyone interfering with your essence from that night, as stupid as it might sound. He’s oddly protective about it. Perhaps because you gave him a big part of himself he doesn’t want to tarnish with anything else, precious.

But it’s whatever his girlfriend wants, at least for this one night.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he acquiesces, knowing well the mock nickname will rub you the wrong way.

Enjin is glad that you went ahead to take a shower first. It gives him time to quickly clean up the depressed mess he’s left after moping around for days, and then hop into the shower with you to wash off the trash dust from his body. Saving water and all.

Even then, it’s difficult to ignore the press of your body against his. He does anyway; for the sake of keeping this night cozy, helping you wash your back and hair, and in return, you do the same for him.

Naturally, as part as of a girlfriend tax, you take his t-shirt and boxers for sleeping. Which tends to be dangerous on its own, having him see you parade around in his stuff, or even just the sliver of your skin. It oftentimes got you bent over.

Now he’s mostly happy to see you content.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he mutters grumpily.

“I’m not. Besides, you sleep shirtless.” Uncaring, you go as far as stick out your tongue at him.

He snickers.

Before you could leave the bathroom, he yanks you close and starts rubbing your hair with a towel.

“Dry your hair properly. Or you’ll get sick,” he scolds.

“That’s not how this works.”

“It does because Enjin said so.”

He yawns profusely as you step out of the joint bathroom. It’s infectious, making you yawn too.

He lifts the covers of his bed for you and you crawl onto the mattress. He joins you right after, groaning tiredly like an old man with severe back pain.

You realize just how much you have missed this place, sinking into the familiar surface, one smelling like Enjin’s musk perfume and tobacco.

“Nice,” you mumble faintly,

Before you could sleep, you place your head on his chest. His arm goes around you, while the other one hovers over his nightstand.

Ultimately, he decides to give up on the prospect of smoking for tonight.

“Now, go to sleep,” he murmurs sleepily on his own. He usually waits for you to. “Must be tired.”

“I will. Soon.”

Because you decide to trace his ribs slightly poking through the skin, as if counting them, finding comfort and anchoring yourself in his presence. Sometimes you wish you could just bury yourself underneath, and explore every wire of his heart.

Enjin squirms at first, ticklish, but sensing you mean no harm, he settles down.

You can hear his heart beating steadily. You usually sleep on the right side; tonight, you purposely picked the left one for this specific reason.

You could close your eyes and simply fall asleep like this, needing nothing else to be wrapped in the cocoon of his person; especially when he starts smoothing down your hair on top of it with his palm going down. But your cheek touching his chest, you find yourself wishing for more.

To reconcile.

With one more shaky breath spent in exhaling the leftovers of love agony, you raise your head and look at him. His eyes follow the same path, and he utters no words.

Your lips connect naturally.

It’s slow at first. Hesitant, as if you two are kissing are kissing for the first time. In a way, it is like that, for your kisses are usually far more heated.

Your shoulder slowly climbs up his chest as you sit up slightly, and you place your hand on his chest. His hand in return goes to the back of your head, keeping you close yet still with a bit of that circumspect distance.

Succumbing to his softness, you sigh sweetly, taking great delight in what you’ve been most starved of. He does not the same, having taken ages to realize how nice can it be.

Enjin withdraws for a moment. He looks at you, strokes your cheek, and then dives for one more kiss. It’s stronger, though charged with a different energy still.

It’s still no simple lust. It’s him begging you, to take him back and live in permanence with him.

It is only after a few minutes of nonstop mouth-on-mouth that he can tell you’re getting eager for more, leaning harder into his lips. So he goes down your throat, lifting your head by your hair for himself, and encouraged by the fact you don’t push away if only give in, he suckles a small hickey here.

You gasp, the small sting making you feel more alive. Sleep slowly becomes forgotten, and you replace an idea of bad pain with a good one. You don’t even question how this will be visible to others tomorrow—at least they’ll figure out you two made up and maybe shut up at last.

“So sweet you are,” he mumbles into your skin before kissing. “I,” a kiss, “am,” a kiss, “sorry,” another one.

You know he is now.

You sigh shakily, so pent up. Your hands trail his chest, checking on his heart again, and finding joy in how erratic it is for you.

“Let me make it up to you. However long it takes,” he half-whispers, glancing at you needingly.

“O-okay…” you reply with a tremor going over your body as he hits your sensitive spot in response.

Enjin is less controlled about kissing your neck tonight, desperate even. He doesn’t know where to start and where to end, so long every direction leads back to you.

“But,” a kiss, “at the very least,” a kiss, “stop being,” a kiss, mad at me.” He makes such ultimatum.

“I’m not mad at you—” you whine out, digging your nails into his skin.

“Just disappointed,” you both say at the same time.

You give him a pouty look, not appreciating the fact he’s learned how to read you already.

He withdraws from your neck to speak below you.

“I got that much a long time ago. And you are mad at me, like it or not.” Enjin grins.

“Like it wasn’t well deserved.” You huff.

“Wasn’t? So we’re finally past that issue?”

You stammer as you try to clarify, “No, don’t twist my words!”

“Yeah, I know,” he confirms gently.

He pushes you onto the bed, careful with you. With him on top of you, he stops any other foolish talk to look at you properly. Earnestly.

It has you flustered. “What? Why are you staring?”

For many reasons, he’d like to say.

Instead of answering, he lets the way he kisses you speak for him.

Madly. It’s not just him missing your body after you stayed away from him, even if you can feel his hardness pressing into your crotch; he’s really keen to make amends with you and show you he cares.

You can hear him sighing into your lips as if tasting the greatest thing he’s been deprived on, as his hands gently stroke your sides. And it’s hard not to give in, seeing his efforts.

Your hand goes to the back of his head, rubbing at his undercut until he sighs with another tiny pleasure to the one of his tongue rolling around yours.

His kisses go lower, down to your neck again, then across your collarbones. “Let me have you,” he implores like a madman. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

You find it increasingly harder to deny him. Especially that it feels different tonight.

So, so good. You find yourself nodding with glossy eyes.

He tugs up your t-shirt until your chest pops out. Wasting no time, he attaches himself right here.

You whimper as he kisses between your breasts and starts getting closer to the center of one of them.

“I know you’ve missed me too,” he presses these sure words into your skin, keeping his voice intimate.

“You missed me?” you ask gently.

“Yes,” he replies eventually, looking up at you for a moment. His eyes brim with something delicate and trembling, like a pool that is finally stirred. “I thought you were going to leave for good.”

Before you could reply, once again, he knocks out words from your mouth by wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard.

You mewl, weaving your fingers into his blond hair. You can feel the pleasure spreading down to your feet. “E-Enjin…” Your legs tremble at his side, especially feeling him pulse against your clothed cunt.

That’s more like it. He likes it when you say his name—this given one. This one he wants to earn fully by proving his worth and fulfilling his mission.

Then he gets all messy about working on your breasts, oscillating between both sides as he buries his face into there.

“Fuck…" he groans into your flesh, soon rolling his hips into the mattress to grind away his own tension for the sake of pleasing you.

You tug at his hair, sending more shivers down to his cock. He likes that slight pain, so long it comes from you. He pulls on your nipple harder, grazes it with his teeth, and sucks until the poor thing aches.

He goes even lower with his mouth, stroking your sides, immediately attacking your stomach with kisses. Your t-shirt falls over his head, hiding him where he feels the safest.

Right as you think he’s about to dive in between your thighs, he suddenly grabs you by your elbows and pulls you upright onto your knees. Then, lying down, he taps at his shoulders as if summoning you, his chest falling down in an irregular interval.

“What is it?” you ask with confusion. Whatever he wants from you, the wildness in his eyes is clear—so is the tent in his sweatpants.

“Come here,” he urges raspily.

“For what?”

“You’re gonna sit on my face.”

It’s quite funny, the dichotomy—Enjin sucks at describing his feelings easily but does not hesitate to deliver foul stuff like this with straight face.

“H-huh?” You haven’t reached that stage of relationship. He thinks it’s the perfect time. “I don’t wanna hurt you—”

“Don’t care. Sit on my face,” he says as if you have offended him somehow, throbbing in his sweatpants at the thought of tasting you from this angle.

Despite your small anxiety, needing him so boldly, you move. If you wouldn’t, he’d probably make sure you do anyway—knowing you’d be begging for more soon anyway.

You grab the headboard hesitantly, slowly moving on your knees until you get near his face. You throw one leg onto another side, over him. Enjin pushes you closer, gripping your thighs tightly until they rest at the sides of his head in their meant position.

He exhales shakily, feeling lightheaded at your compliance.

Before you could even start anything, he licks at your pussy through your borrower underwear, gathering the material with his tongue to stick to your outline.

You gasp and jolt, nearly falling forward but he keeps you locked in place. The fabric only adds friction.

He mouths at them too, enjoying your taste that’s been building up here for the last couple of minutes.

“W-wait—”

“Easy,” he murmurs in a pacifying way.

He pushes your boxers aside, finally sticking his tongue at your pussy that’s been soaking directly.

You mewl, your legs quaking around his head. Just a few days of being apart had you so wound up, it’s as though your nerves are being burned.

“E-Enjin...”

And then you hear a tear. He has no patience to remove these nicely, all the more hearing your call. He throws the shredded piece aside.

“Hey—”

“I’ll buy you prettier ones.” Despite the fact they belonged to his. What’s his is yours, apparently, and he seemed to finally make peace with it.

Your stomach clenches as he licks a stripe across your slit, ending it with his lips wrapped around your clit like a vacuum. He slurps on it gently before getting down again and licking around your hole where your nerve endings are fragile too.

“Fuck… you’re soaking for me…” He groans at the image above him.

You moan as his pretty nose bumps your clit.

“You’re enjoying yourself on top of me that much?”

You moan again, in agreement.

“Naughty girl,” he murmurs lowly, staring up at you with hooded eyes from where his head is protruding under your body.

“You—”

“Come on,” he chases you to it eagerly, words coming out muffled. “Sit. Take what you need.”

You could break his nose and he probably wouldn’t stop. Limited supply of oxygen is no deterrent either. Seeing that tiny hesitation linger, he grabs the front of your ass and pulls you closer—down. In return, your hands clutch onto the headboard with more grip, holding for stability.

It’s even better like this. His tongue’s structure scrapes at you more roughly, his mouth sucks harder, and Enjin’s noise of phantom pleasure vibrates all over your loins.

You finally ride his face, with more confidence, rolling your hips forward and back. Enjin grunts, his hold on your thighs tightening so much you’re sure there will be bruises. He even humps the air for nothing. Perhaps he has lied about this being about you only, an end to make up with you—as he cannot help but enjoy eating you out like this, his cock leaking pearls through his pants.

You can hear his ragged breath. You worry you’re hurting him, but before you could ease up, he pulls you down again. Enjin keeps fucking you with his tongue.

He eventually takes only one break before diving in again—passing out right now is something he’d come to regret.

You soon forget any inhibitions, chasing selfishly what you need, making sure your clit comes across his nose especially.

“Pleasepleaseplease—”

“Mhm. Do it,” he mumbles into your cunt, plunging his tongue into your trembling hole again.

You come hard on his face, crying out his name, nearly falling off with how hard the orgasm hits you. Your hole contracts around the tip of his tongue, and he recognizes what else you must be missing.

He licks everything your body produces in result, groaning at your taste, helping you come down until you gently swat at his shoulder, feeling overstimulation stinging you like a bee.

The moment he eases himself off you, you maneuver your hips lower.

Enjin gasps, inhaling fresh portion of air, smacking his lips clean.

Before you could ask him how he’s doing, seeing his disheveled state, you find yourself being hauled by him, then pushed down. Just one gasp from you and he’s already above you.

“I just have to feel you… or I might die…” Enjin speaks desperately as he fumbles with his sweatpants, wasting no time about getting rid of them. “You’ll let me, yeah?”

You nod, needing him to fill you up well. You’ve never seen him like this before, all feverish to fuck you.

Once you do, uttering a thank you, he sits up naked on his knees between your legs and draws you closer by your sore thighs.

His cockhead taps at your clit, and he sighs heavily from the wetness that reverberates; he then coats himself in you, quickly pumping himself. Even carrying that part of you somehow sets him frenzy.

You jolt at the sensation, feeling electrified. Wrapping your legs around his hips, afraid to let him go, you bunch up the sheets below your hands.

Enjin sighs deeply the moment he starts pushing in, parting your tight walls, even more loudly when he sinks into you fully rather quickly after. “Fuck, how I have missed this… missed you…” He gasps as you twitch around him, quickly grabbing onto your waist.

His head collapses on your shoulder as he slowly stretches you out, wide girth putting slight pressure on your abdomen. It feels so much different—not because it’s been a while—but because you are still here with him. And yet, it’s a torment all over—your pussy squeezing him so tight, swallowing his sensitive tip.

“So good…” he raps out.

“Y-yes…” you moan out.

“Can you feel it how I’m taking you deep?”

You nod your head rapidly. His tip constantly brushes against your cervix, just not enough to actually hurt you. You don’t even care about the slight sting that comes from the fact it’s been some a while and Enjin is naturally big. You stare at him with all your being, unable to get enough of his presence.

In return, he fucks you a bit harder—though he maintains a relatively slow pace, mostly getting himself balls-deep, deriving moans from both of you back n forth.

Your hands move to claw at his back, feeling as if you are being tortured on your own—in a good way, being rebuilt to handle him preferringly forever.

His head moves higher until his forehead can rest against yours as he keeps sliding out of you in and out, huffing and nearly hyperventilating from the sheer pleasure—never looking away from you, not beyond closing his eyes when you squeeze too hard and he can’t contain himself.

Enjin just can’t get enough of you. As if to make sure you don’t leave, his forearms go under your knees as he brings them closer to your head. His hands trail upward to rest at the sides of your head as he lets his hips do the work, keeping you in check that you don’t look away and hide any of your reactions.

“Fuck, baby… it’s like you came here to ruin me…” he says deliriously, eyelids hanging heavy from the bliss. You’re so good to him. He wants to cry from it.

“M-maybe I did… but… I can’t regret it…”

“Oh?” His pace stutters as he hears that, so does his voice. Won’t you just stop saying stuff that can easily kill him?

“Cause I don’t wanna let you go—” you heave, confessing these words, looking at him like a beggar.

He dreams of many things. To not be just the first but your last as well. To see your face not just like this but any other time as well. No frown, no anger, no disgust twisting your features.

Happy to see him and nothing else, be it through smile or teasing words.

Hearing your line, he feels a rush some crazy endorphins, driving him flustered. It’s been a while since he experienced something like that, if ever at all.

Not knowing what to do with himself, trying not to smile like an absolute idiot, he takes you onto your side. He spoons you, thrusting his length into you with his balls hitting your ass from behind, getting as deep as possible, his arm hugging you across your front.

You claw at the sheets underneath you. It’s dark outside already, but with a small lamp on, you can see your reflection in the window. He’s kissing at your neck, but you have a hunch that his eyes are glistening—if yours aren’t deceive you in this sorry lighting.

With that, you cannot stay like this for too long, no matter how good he makes you feel, pushing you closer to the edge and keeping you nice and full.

“Enjin…” you whine eventually, discontent with this position.

“Yeah?” he asks shakily, barely catching up with your question.

“Let me see you.”

Before he could even think of trying to refuse you, you push your hips to the front until his cock slips out, regardless of the hollow emptiness that suddenly bothers you and him. You turn the other way around, draping your leg over his.

“You can fuck me like this only,” you say petulantly.

His eyes go wide for a moment, but when he sees your needy expression, he can’t find it in himself to deny you.

His own surprises you a little, though it works on breaking the remaining hard shell of you. It’s as though he’s on verge of crying, yet his lipline is frozen in something like a smile of appreciation.

Getting out of his momentary stupor, for a moment disbelieving once more that you are here with him, he laughs it off dryly, dragging you closer by your ass as he slips into you again.

You moan, then kiss him, not wanting him sad—tasting yourself on his tongue again.

The slower pace of his long cock from before increases just slightly, leaving most space for the impact as he brackets your hips with his harder.

Withdrawing from your lips, he grabs you by your waist closer, until your head is tucked under his chin.

You feel that pleasant coil tightening in you, but you don’t want to finish yet. No matter how good it might be, you want to preserve and prolong this moment. The next one might not be as special.

“Wait for a moment…” you mumble.

Despite it being difficult, he stops moving, looking at you with an inquiry. You smile reassuringly and gently push him onto his back, still warming him.

While his eyes open wider tentatively, he keeps his arms around you; lets you be with less tension a moment after. “Little vixen,” he mumbles, with little to none spite to it.

Therefore you bounce yourself on his cock, filling yourself with him slowly—feeling his pubic hair rub at your swollen clit. Still with your torso against his, your naked chests sticking with sweat, never to be separated again, you only bother to move your hips up and down, unable to let him go.

Enjin groans, feeling your wet and hot heat swallowing him so sensitively. The weight of your body on his gets him dizzy too, grounding him in the holiness of your sanctuary.

Your hand grabs his throat, gently above his Choker, not squeezing if only caressing his pulse for the sake of engraving his presence into your head forever.

He tilts his head back for you, a show of vulnerability.

You prop your head up before you kiss him again.

Enjin sighs into your mouth—when did kissing get this amazing?

Then you do that thing he usually was the one responsible for, in a different manner too: you let a globe of saliva build up on your tongue before you let it drop on his.

He moans, swallowing it down, connecting you two; he grips you by your hair to seal it further. He’s so close, gasping for air.

He slowly sits up but he doesn’t let you go, still kissing you, as if he needs you impossibly closer, even if it becomes difficult with your moans taking up the space between your lips. He bounces you on his lap by your ass.

You withdraw only to make a plea.

“Enjin, I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he coos, letting one hand go so it can get between your thighs.

As he rubs his finger once and twice and trice more time, you crash for the second time, still so hard if not harder. Tears spill freely down your face in ecstasy, and your scream never vocalizes.

He’s not that far behind you. It’s been a while for you, and he really wants to be easy on your body, but he forces you to ride it out so he can give you another thing he knows you need so badly.

“Baby—” he calls you that again, feeling his balls twitch. With a high moan, he feels himself erupt, as fills you up to the brim, his warm load thicker than ever.

Your back arches, twisting in his arms as he forces you down onto his dick one more time for good measure.

You both collapse onto the bed, facing each other on your sides—with him still inside of you, just softening. You make a whiny complain when he tries to pull out, so he doesn’t, allowing you to keep him warm.

Your eyes tear up for one more time today.

His do too—mostly spent on relief.

None of you tease each other about it.

“You okay?” he asks breathlessly, gathering you in his arms until your head goes under his chin again.

“Yeah, you?” you reciprocate softly, out of breath yourself. You find yourself indulgent in listening to his heart rate.

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. I’m happy.”

Enjin squeezes you even closer at that, still coming down. You are right here as you should and he wonders if he’s dreaming.

He still likes your room much better; in general, he doesn’t like sleeping alone. However, your room is simply yours and that’s another factor why he likes it so much. However, having you in his is not so bad.

Suddenly, you surface your head up, and move your hand to you fondle his face between your fingers.

“Bastard,” you mutter grumpily.

For a moment, he thinks you’re about to slap him perhaps—to get that last word, even it’d be too cruel of what he believes you to be. But instead, you lean in to kiss his cheek.

“Now, what was that for?” he asks as if he didn’t enjoy it all.

“For everything,” you announce proudly.

“Very specific,” he scoffs, pursing his lips. “Also, I didn’t know kisses are a form of punishment now.”

“It’s because make a funny face when I kiss you.”

“I literally don’t,” he says as he literally frowns.

“Yes, you do.” And so you kiss his cheek again. And again. And again.

And he lets you, even if it feels foreign for a moment, even when his hand considers pushing you away, even if his heart might escape his chest and fly out of the window—

Until you two get sleepy. He seems to be the one losing to that battle first.

“Hey…” he mumbles, his face now buried in your breasts.

“What?” you ask quietly.

“Can you scratch my back?”

You have created a monster perhaps.

But you oblige, raking your nails gently and avoiding crossing the zones you created yourself.

He’s the first to sleep indeed. Like he was first to gain feelings for you. Thinking that, while maybe you won’t forgive him outright tonight… The day you do, he’ll be a content man.

You fall asleep soon after, one last bit of your consciousness thinking that you just might let him fall down as many times as it takes. So long he stays right here tomorrow, and then after tomorrow, and…

a/n: finito! thank you for reading, especially if you perhaps sticked with me for two parts!! in any case, i hope you enjoyed the story ❤️❤️ comments and reblogs are appreciated

btw, i was listening to umbrella by rihanna while writing this. i know this song is often treated as a joke when it comes to enjin, but i genuinely think it fits him well if you focus on the lyrics and their ongoing theme — like sticking together through thick and thin and having each other’s backs hehe

+ he’s so cute when grumpy. just wanted to say that ^^ i imagine he gives reader this face quite often

BYE!!!