Ikaru⁷

“More than people?”

“Depends on the people.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.

Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.

Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.

Do not say you're full.

And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.

You had asked what the soup incident was.

He had started to walk faster.

Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.

“Valko,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm not shaking.”

“You are.”

“I’m containing myself.”

“From what?”

“Hereditary embarrassment.”

The door flew open.

A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.

A slow smile cut across her face.

“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”

Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.

“I changed once.”

“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”

His ears went red.

The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”

“Unfortunately,” Valko added.

“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”

“It isn't optional.”

“Because of me.”

You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.

Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.

Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”

Valko muttered, “We were.”

She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”

You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.

Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.

“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”

You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.

“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”

“I hear everything,” the old woman said.

Valko went still.

Milena smiled into her shoulder.

The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.

“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.

She, of course, ignored him.

Instead, she took your face between both hands.

Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.

“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”

“I eat,” Valko protested.

Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”

“That was taken out of context.”

“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.

Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.

Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”

Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”

No one listened to him.

You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.

“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.

Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.

The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.

Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”

“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”

Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”

Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.

Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.

Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.

“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.

You obeyed.

The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.

You chewed. Swallowed.

“It’s delicious.”

Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”

Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”

Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”

“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.

“No.”

“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”

The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.

“That was private.”

“You said it in the kitchen.”

“That makes it private.”

Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”

Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.

The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.

He had spoken of you here.

At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.

Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.

“He was always like this,” she said.

“Baba, please.”

“He was a strange child,” she said.

Valko groaned. “Please.”

“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.

“A dramatic child,” Luka said.

“A biting child,” Milena added.

Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”

“You looked biteable.”

“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”

There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.

You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.

He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.

There he was.

Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.

Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.

“Are you keeping him?”

The kitchen stopped.

Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.

Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”

“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”

His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.

You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.

Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours at once.

“I’d like to,” you said.

The house held itself still for half a breath.

Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.

“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”

Valko bowed his head.

His shoulders shook.

At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.

Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”

Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”

Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”

“For Valko?” you asked.

“For all of us.”

Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.

Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.

“That's just Valko,” Milena said.

“I am not a dog.”

“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”

Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.

A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.

You noticed on the fourth offering.

His family noticed on the first.

Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.

“Ah,” she said.

Valko froze.

It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.

“What?” he said.

“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”

Mika threw his head back.

You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”

He looked at the cake.

Then he looked at you.

His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.

Milena saw it.

Her teasing quieted.

For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.

Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”

Valko blinked. “Me?”

“Her.” Milena pointed at you.

Valko frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It has worked on you for years.”

You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.

She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.

Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”

The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.

For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.

“He likes you,” she said.

You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”

“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”

A laugh escaped you.

Milena folded her arms.

“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”

Your throat tightened.

From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”

Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”

“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”

Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”

You laughed softly.

She looked at you again, sharper now.

“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”

“The goat?”

“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”

You glanced back towards the kitchen.

He had asked if his laugh was strange.

Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.

You looked down.

“He didn’t need to worry,”

“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”

“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”

There it was.

The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.

“I’m not here to hurt him,”

“Most people aren’t, at first.”

“Milena.”

Milena’s gaze narrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.

“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”

Milena stared at you.

Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”

You looked down, caught.

She seemed satisfied. “Good.”

“Is that approval?”

“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”

“You were being difficult?”

“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”

When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.

His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”

Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”

“I’m not.”

“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”

He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”

You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”

“That was Baba.”

“Family consensus.”

His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

“You were supposed to be intimidated.”

“By Mika?”

“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”

“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”

Valko sighed.

You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”

He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His smile softened.

For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.

“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”

“I do”

“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.

“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”

Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.

“No.”

“Yes,”

“No photographs.”

“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.

Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”

Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”

He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”

You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.

“Sit,” she said.

Valko sat.

It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.

For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.

Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.

There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.

Each photograph was another small door.

You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.

At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.

“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.

You turned a page.

A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He stared at you.

Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.

Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.

The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.

Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him. “For what?”'

“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”

“I like Milena.”

“That means she behaved.”

“She said she was being polite.”

He winced. “Then she liked you.”

You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.

Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.

She waved back.

Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”

“She loves you.”

“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”

“It’s a good one.”

He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”

The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.

You reached for him.

This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.

“I meant it,”

His eyes searched yours.

“For tonight?”

“For longer than that.”

He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.

Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”

Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”

You laughed.

He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright. Something almost boyish

“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.

You touched his cheek.

You touched his cheek.

Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.

“Welcome home, Valko.”

You look up, expecting to be met with your 6’2 hunk of a boyfriend. Maybe in loungewear, with his glasses resting low on his nose, a book in hand. 

Instead, an older woman looked at you with fear, disgust, and confusion all at once.

“Can I help you?” she asks condescendingly.

You stutter, still shocked. 

“If you’re just going to stand there, then get off my property. I won’t hesitate to call the police.” she huffs.

Her property? What the hell was she talking about? 

“Go on then.” she shoos you away, closing the heavy wooden door right in your face.

You remain standing there, baffled, before slowly turning around and looking at the cars in the driveway. Three sleek Mercedes’. And Valko’s jeep was nowhere in sight.

Your hands start trembling as you slowly make your way back to your own car. Shutting the door behind you once you sit in the driver’s seat, you pull out your phone again.

You decide to call his aunt. Surely she’d know where he was. 

You sigh in relief once she picks up, and immediately ask her about Valko’s whereabouts, without even bothering to greet her properly.

She’s quiet on the other side of the line before speaking. “... Who?”

Your mouth falls agape ever so slightly, and your eyebrows knit together in a frown. “Valko. Do you know where he is? I’ve been trying to reach him all morning.”

She’s quiet again, but this time breaks her silence with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, did you hit your head? Who’s Valko?”

The hand holding your phone up to your ear falls in your lap, as tears start to well in your bottom eyelids.

Although you’re not on speaker, you can still faintly hear the sound of her voice. 

“Y/N? Are you still there?” she questions, before laughing again. “I swear if this is another one of your pranks―”

You hang up before she can finish her sentence. 

You stare down at your phone, and click on your camera roll.

There are no photos of him. There are no videos of him. Your album of him is gone. 

Valko is gone.

Lost on what to do, you break down. The tears instantly stream down your face, hot and heavy. Your heartbroken sobs echo through your car. You fold in on yourself, leaning forward until your forehead rests against the steering wheel. The cries that rip out of your throat only get louder as you close your eyes, blinking the tears away.

The next thing you know, you’re in bed again. The sheets cling to your body due to the sweat rolling down your back. It’s humid, and sticky, and you feel as though you’re suffocating. 

You immediately sit up and tear the covers off of you to catch your breath. 

That’s when you realize… Valko. Where is he?

Your gaze drops down to your right. 

There he is. Lying down with an arm propped behind his head, the other resting on his chest.

You nearly pounce on him, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders and shaking him awake. 

“Valko! Come on, wake up, please―” you mutter, your voice raspy and broken as you start tearing up again.

But he doesn’t budge. You pray it’s just him being his usual heavy sleeper self, and continue trying to wake him up. 

Eventually, he starts to stir, eyelashes fluttering open.

You stop your motion and stare down at him with wide eyes, and tear streaks adorning your cheeks.

Once his vision focuses and he takes in your appearance, he immediately sits up.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, large hands already moving to cup your face.

But the second you feel his warm touch again, the dam breaks and you sob even more. Your hands move to rest against his own, as you lean into his palms. “I―” you start but choke on your words. 

His golden eyes dart back and forth between yours. “Hey, it’s okay, take your time. Use your words.”

You sniffle repeatedly, catching your breath. He continues wiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, remaining silent.

Once you feel more calm, you speak up. “You were gone… you left–you left me.”

Now it’s his turn to frown, but he still says nothing.

“You left. Like you never even existed.” your breath hitches. “I tried calling you but I couldn’t find your contact on my phone—and there was an old rude lady living at your house, and I called auntie to ask about you and she was acting like she didn’t even know you.” you ramble, your words occasionally getting cut off with your sobs and voice cracks.

He lets out the breath he was holding before pulling you in. You immediately bury your face into his chest.

“I’m here, baby.” He whispered against your ear. “You hear my heartbeat? Smell me?” he presses kisses to your head. “I’m right here. Not goin’ anywhere.”

Pressing your ear to the spot right over his heart, you listen to it beat against his ribcage, focusing on the familiar and comforting rhythm. Your crying eventually ceases, and you’re left hiccuping and letting out deep breaths. 

His hands continue caressing up and down your back until he feels you’ve really calmed down.

You’re the first to pull away, and you wipe your tears while staring down at your lap. 

He notices how distant you look and cups your jaw with one hand to make you look up at him. 

“Feelin’ better?” he asks, eyes unusually soft. 

You slowly look up to meet his eyes and shrug.

“It was just a bad dream, ‘kay? I’m not leaving you.” He leans down, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Ever.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you lean up so your foreheads touch, and you breathe him in. You immediately bask in his warm, inviting scent that you swore could wake you up from a coma. “... Promise?”

“I promise.” he whispers against your skin, letting his words sink in.

You look up at him through your wet lashes. He stares down at you in silence, his eyes half-lidded, before slowly and carefully leaning down. You try to meet him halfway and lean into him as well, closing your eyes. 

But instead of pressing his lips against your own, he swipes his tongue against the corner of your left eye, licking your tears away. 

Your eyes snap back open and you stare at him in shock. “Valko.” you reprimand, yet your voice is soft and still exhausted.

He pulls back, and looks as though he’s deep in thought. “Salty.” he finally comments, the corners of his lips tilting into a smirk.

You continue to stare at him with parted lips. “... You’re gross.” you scoff.

But he’s quick to lean in and lick the tears from your other eye. You yelp, moving away and trying to push him off, giggling in the process.

His hands move to grab your waist, pushing you back against the mattress as he climbs on top of you.

You shield your face from him, arms coming up to hide it.

His fingers slip under your shirt to tickle your skin, making your defenses drop. He takes the opportunity to lean in again and lick an annoyingly long stripe up the side of your face, tracing the tear tracks on it. 

Your laughter echoes through the bedroom as your legs start kicking up in all directions. “Valko, enough!”

He continues for a good two minutes before finally stopping. You’re caged between his biceps, staring up at him, while you try to catch your breath. He’s slightly winded too, and some of his hair has fallen on his forehead. 

“... I love you.” he mutters.

Your heart squeezes painfully, and you cup his face with both hands, caressing his jawline. “I love you too.” you respond.

He leans down, lips finally pressing against your own. 

Reminding you that he was real, present, and that nothing would ever change that.

he is used to this, he tells himself.

watching pups in the pack play rough never bothered him, as it is a natural part of growth. essential for development. necessary for success. he used to believe that other children would benefit from the way a wolf is raised.

and yet, here he is at the edge of his seat— nails digging into the poor armrests as lucian wavers and wobbles on the beam, threatening the false sense of safety of his twin, who would not speak to him, and most definitely would not appreciate him moving him.

ready to leap and catch, should a wrong step emerge victorious.

even if he were to fall, valko should think not to worry.

as these ones smell different.

milk, blueberries, sweet cereal and cream. but beneath, fire and smoke, a distant field, a buried memory.

surely, they would be like their father. formidable, indestructible. too large to touch, too mythical to fathom.

the twin blinks sleepily at him. still refusing to speak. head lolling forward, out of his control.

surely…

“ah!” lucian’s foot slips. valko lurches.

lucian is snatched from his momentary free fall, and cradled into safe arms.

valko’s tongue knows no cage. “told you.”

lucian’s knows no manners, but sticks his tongue out at him cheekily. “bleh!”

valko tilts his head. amused.

“woosian,” finally, his twin speaks. peeking over the edge of the armrest to look at them. “be nice.”

“am nice!” lucian protests. in support valko grins and tickles his belly.

“he is.”

the little one gasps when he is acknowledged and bends his head back down to hide away.

“come on, little hatchling, i don’t bite.” valko says, placing lucian on his shoulder and leaning over to kyros slowly. “my name is valko.”

he places a finger on the upholstery, an olive branch.

the little one shifts on his knees and stares at the bejeweled hand— big, strong but not unsettling. slowly, he emerges and places his own fingers around it and shakes. “i kee-wo.”

“keewo?” valko’s chest blooms at the first sign of trust. something ancient and instinctive stirring in him that tells him now he must protect.

“no, kee-wo!”

“kee-ro?” valko tries again.

confirmation never comes.

“why have eews?” kyros asks instead. now having broken the wall, he begins to quickly forget he was even shy in the first place. he hovers his hands over his own head, where he sees the faint glow of phantom ears on this stranger’s head. “vakoo, why have eews?”

“you can see them?” he should worry. but he smiles broadly, fangs glimmering in delight. he made sure to use most of his active efforts to hide his true form when in public. and up until this point, he believed that he had a pretty good talent at looking unremarkable.

“ee-yors?” lucian scrambles in his arms, climbing a sturdy shoulder to get a closer look. “where, ee-yors?”

“mhm,” kyros stands on the chair now. he swishes his hips in a cute wiggle to visualize, “and taiw— wish wish.”

“like fox?!” lucian climbs and crawls over his new friend as if he were magnetic.

“hey!” valko yelps when the little ones circle him. one inspecting his tail closely while the other desperately tries to find it. “slow down! careful!”

he pauses his shuffling to watch kyros sniffing him. so… wolf-like and yet not.

intrigued, he asks. “what do you got?”

kyros sniffs the air in small snorts— like he’s congested but taking everything in still. “woofy.”

valko’s eyes widen at the simple conclusion. brows pinching, he thinks: these children are definitely different.

“ah! gotcha!” lucian squeals when he finally spots the faint glimmer of his tail. in an instant, the once hatchling transforms into a kitten, chasing a tail that refuses to be caught.

valko, contrary to the look on his face, revels in the discovery of other creatures that lurk in the dark. and that these very creatures, so different and yet so similar, can also thrive in the light.

he doesn’t know of the little ones’ evols, nor does he understand how they can see him as he truly is.

but the longer lucian lingers and scrambles to catch his tail or pet his ears— the more kyros sinks into the comfort of his presence and beams at the joy of his interactions; glows with a golden mist that brings clarity to illusion— the more certain small horns and wings begin to take form in their silhouettes.

You tightened your arms even more around him, neither of you stopped dancing too scared that the moment would shatter and reality would take you away from each other if you did.

“Still” you sniffled softly “it'll put me at ease if I knew you received them”

His lips touched your temple “it'll put me at ease knowing you didn't forget about me too”

“I'll never do that” You looked up at him, your lips a mere breath away, and you leaned into him.

“I'll take a rain check on that kiss until I come back “ he announced at the last minute, stepping back and carrying his bag.

“I'll wait for you” You walked him to the door, not bothering to wipe your tears anymore. They'll come down again anyway.

He stepped outside, putting his hat atop his head, and your gaze held onto each other.

“Sylus … don't die”

“I'll be back” he gave you his signature smile, but the look in his eyes gave him away, he didnt want to leave either, but he had to, for the both of you. And you understood, you would have rathered the both of you to stick together, but once Sylus made up his mind, there was no changing it.

He turned around and disappeared into the night, and you just stood there not caring about the coldness that seeped deep into your bones until Violet had to drag you back inside and tuck you into bed.

You didn't bother telling her it was useless, that you won't get much sleep anyways, that you wouldn't be able to sleep with the half of your soul on the other end of the world amidst danger and no longer immortal.

The first letter was you asking him if he was safe, if he ate well, slept well, if he missed you as much as you missed him, if he felt like half of his soul has been ripped away.

The paper was stained with you tears but you assured him that he didn't need to worry about you, that you would be strong for him, you remembered tp use a fake ally of his that you agreed on to avoide suspicion, Skye, a distinguished fruit vendor.

It went un-answered as he warned you, still you didn't let that crush your morals, for a month you wrote him one everyday, telling him about the mundane events of your days, how the war affected the town and how even in his absence he made sure your will be safe from it, you told him about a dream you had about the two of you in an alternate universe where you worked as a hunter and him as the boss of a criminal place called the N109 zone and how you were in love there as you were here.

Every morning, you checked the newspaper and connected the dots of the mysterious man who tipped the balance of the war with his information network, and every night, you slept hugging the picture you took together.

And you kept your promise to him for managing his information network and your winery work.

Until your prayers were answered and he replied to you, well not replied per se he sent back your letters to you with Skye written at the bottom and a doodle of a… kitten?!.

And so your communication for 6 months has been like this. You, talking about everything and nothing, and him letting you know he reads everything with his doodles of various animals with different expressions and even annotating your words and signing Skye under your name.

Until one day it all stopped again, your letters weren't sent back, you assured yourself that he did it at first, maybe he was busy, or maybe it was too risky now and you kept your routine for a week, until Violet came running holding the newspaper with glee and announcing that the war Is finally over, your heart fell. Why wasn't he back then?

You snatched the paper to find that, indeed, it was over. You didn't feel the happiness you should have felt as you looked for any clue about the mysterious Informant.

No, you shook your head. He must be safe. He had to. Otherwise, what would be left for you? Of you?

You rushed to change your clothes and back your bag, clutching the photo of the two of you, you Knew you had to go yourself, find him.

You opened the door, and just as you were rushing out, you pumped into a wall.

You stepped back from the momentum and raised your head to see the wall… the man.

“Sylus” you whispered

He took off his hat and bowed “miss”

You couldn't believe your eyes, finally after 6 tortures months he was here, in front of you, safe

You touched his face with both hands to make sure you're not dreaming, your vision blurring, as you drew his features with your fingers, and he kept his head lowered in obedience as his eyes took their fill from you.

You flung yourself at him, and he wasted no time scooping you up and taking the kiss he was promised 6 months ago. Neither of you cared to stop as your breaths disappeared into each other.

You jolted at the melancholic music playing in the theatre. You looked around you to find that you were back in your world, your cheeks still damp. and heart racing.

A shaky breath drew your attention to the man beside you, Sylus was breathing hard, his eyebrows furrowed, probably startled by the memories he got back.

He didn't give you a chance to speak as he stood up sharply and carried you racing to his car outside, he made sure to put the seat belt on you and wasted no time in getting in himself and racing to his place.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but your state was no better. The experience was too raw and personal, and you couldn't get yourself to say anything.

As soon as he scooped you out of the car, he was on you, mouth chasing whatever he could reach as he walked with wide strides to his bedroom, _your mouth, neck, chest_, he didn't let you go even as you two fell into the bed.

And you weren't any better yourself as you kissed him back with the same fervour. Your hands tugging at each other's clothes, the ripping sound echoing through the room.

You gasped “ You… forget …a about me “ you managed to say.

“I'm sorry” his voice was hoarse and raw “let me make it up to you” he said as he kneeled in front of you, each of your legs embraced by his huge hands in opposite directions.

And you just knew that there was no way you would be able to go to work tomorrow… from intuition…and experience.