Hi Im Lisa, Im An Alcoholic

Hours had passed. So many that you hadn't noticed when the moonlight began to bathe the room in its pale glow. Shadows lengthened, stretching into strange forms, as if they meant to hide what daylight had no fear of revealing. But instead of unease, a quiet warmth spread through your chest, gentle as balm on a raw wound. You had grown used to the night—more than used to it. It felt like your soul had found rest in its quiet embrace, the kind of rest you hadn’t known you needed. And with that came the certainty: you no longer feared the monsters that came with dusk… because you had become one of them.

A breath shivered in your chest but never reached your lips, smothered by the weight of something watching you. You let your hands fall to your sides.

He was watching. Studying you. That pulsing curiosity in his eyes, like a flame just barely contained. His eyelids drooped lazily, as though it cost him something to hold them open. The trace of a smile rested on his lips—not quite there, but near enough to cast a shadow. His body looked utterly at peace, fully sated.

Something inside you stirred, restless. As if it wanted out. You took a deep breath to ease the pressure rising in your throat, trying to push down the storm that always swelled in his presence. When you opened your mouth to exhale, the sound came out as a soft gasp—and you saw how it landed on his face. His eyebrows lifted, surprised. He should’ve expected that reaction by now. Your body always responded to him the same way.

He moved slowly. Dragging each step, delaying what your body seemed to crave. You could tell he savored your impatience, every twitch of your nerves lighting him up like the final note of a song. He looked down at you with quiet amusement, then gently took the instrument from your hands, now turning his attention to it.

“What were y’tryin’ to do?” he asked, adjusting the strap over his shoulders with casual ease. His voice wrapped around the words like smoke—thick, warm.

He passed his fingers across the strings. The sound that came was soft, rich, aching. You forgot to breathe as you watched his fingertips—how effortless it looked. You weren’t sure if the tension rising came from the melody or from your own body, tightening under the weight of that simple motion. You wanted to squirm when you saw the care with which he touched those threads—threads that somehow still felt connected to you.

“I was trying…” The words caught on your tongue. His expression—brows furrowed in concentration, eyes fixed on his hands—scattered your thoughts. You cleared your throat, hoping to collect them. “…Trying to do what you showed me.”

He nodded, slow, still chasing something in his mind, still coaxing the strings.

Then he sat down in front of you. You heard your heart pounding—and so did he. He tilted his head, as if listening to the rhythm. A half-smile pulled at his lips, and he set the instrument aside. The gesture that followed needed no explanation. Your legs moved before you gave them permission.

You stepped toward him, your movements hesitant, until your toes nearly brushed his knees. He opened the space between his legs for you. You lowered yourself into it, leaning back against his chest. A shiver ran down your spine as his cold body met yours. Then came the sudden weight of the instrument on your lap again, placed there without warning.

His arms wrapped around you, like an embrace made of frost. Instinctively, you held the object you’d been struggling with all afternoon, still hunting for whatever secret kept it from obeying you. Then his hands—rough, frozen—settled over yours. The tension in the air tightened, like a string pulled to its breaking point.

You longed to touch him. Not to learn. To feel.

And he knew it.

Instead of guiding you, he simply held your hands for a moment. Stroking gently. Calming the tremor born of want. The storm inside you rose higher. You leaned back into his chest—cold, lifeless. Let your head rest on his shoulder, your brow nearly brushing his chin. Closed your eyes. Drew in his scent, that wild thing that woke your soul and made it hum for the right note.

Then, he began to move your hands.

A melody rose between you—sad, raw, fragile. His breath, icy, grazed your temple. It shook. Faltered.

“You’re forcin’ it too much,” he whispered, low and broken. “Thinkin’ too hard.”

You kept playing, guided by his touch. But your mind drifted when you felt his chin lower to rest against your skin. The cold didn’t matter anymore. You were used to it now. You bit your lip, fighting the urge to beg him to drink from you.

You’d learned something strange in these nights with him: when he fed, his body warmed. And sometimes—just sometimes—there was something like a heartbeat, faint but present, pulsing inside his chest. You were addicted to it. To that spark of life, that shared moment when the music wasn't the only thing passing between you.

You opened your eyes when he spoke again.

“Didn’t use instruments back then…” He stopped breathing, like he always did when the past crept too close—like admitting he was here with you meant he couldn’t share the shadows he came from. “We just… listened to the music inside our own bones. Wild. Raw. Like the earth under bare feet.”

You’d learned something else, too.

In another life, Remmick had been like you. Music had been his gift, his bridge to his people. But that had died with his body, and his soul had stayed behind, stuck in this world of silence and shadows. You couldn’t imagine that kind of loneliness—cut off from the voice that once called his kin back home.

You thought he sighed through his nose. A learned gesture, maybe. He didn’t need to breathe, after all.

Then, he pulled you tighter.

"You don’t need any of this."

He pulled away from your touch, slipping the instrument gently from your lap. But his fingers found you again. One ghosted over your hip, the other pressed lightly near your sternum, feeling the beat of your heart. You tensed, but you didn’t pull back.

"No," he said, and his voice was softer now, almost reverent. "You've a gift inside you, lass... like others have blood in their veins."

His hand traveled slowly up your chest, coming to rest at your throat. You knew what he was going to ask—he always made that gesture when he needed it. Listening wasn’t enough for him. He needed to feel the music inside you, vibrating through your bones.

"Try," he breathed, and the word wrapped around you like fog on a winter morning. "No instruments. Just you."

But there was an instrument. You. That’s what you became when he touched you right, when he held you a certain way.

You opened your mouth to begin, but he was everywhere—his scent, his body, even the echo of his voice. It felt like opening your lips would let your soul escape, would send it searching for a place to live inside him, so starved it was for his presence. His eyes fluttered closed when a timid note hummed in your chest, as though your voice had woken something ancient in him, something half-forgotten.

Now he was the one trembling. You felt his forehead press gently between your shoulder blades, like he needed grounding.

"Again," he whispered.

And you did. Because every note drew him closer, because you reveled in the strange, exquisite power you held over this creature who fell to his knees for a handful of songs. You didn’t know if the moan that broke the silence came from you or from him—but it didn’t matter. Bliss hit you the moment your souls touched. That was your gift: to summon his spirit back from wherever the dead wait, to let him live again for a moment.

"That’s it," you heard him hiss. "That’s all that matters. No more strings, no more wood. None of them can match what you carry inside, lass."

The storm inside you was rising, spiraling, craving release—craving him. For a heartbeat, you felt your bodies align in a single note, bathed in moonlight.

You felt him move behind you, his hand still cradling your throat. Then his mouth brushed your jaw, soft and deliberate, like he was thinking about kissing you.

"Your voice…" he said slowly, as if dredging the words from somewhere painful. "...it reminds me of summer breeze. That warm air fillin’ your lungs, carryin’ salt from the sea. I can almost taste it."

His voice turned low, rough, almost raw. You felt his fingers flex at your hip.

"Can nearly smell the first spring rain. Hear waves hittin’ the rocks. Feelin’ the grass reachin’ up for the sun. That kinda warmth… that’s what you sound like."

You swallowed hard. The melody on your lips stuttered to silence.

"Don’t stop," he murmured.

His lips slid toward the tender skin of your neck. He lingered there, barely touching, as if torn between hunger and reverence.

You tilted your head, granting him access, and the scrape of his fangs against your exposed pulse made you sigh.

"This is the curse, girl," he whispered. "You sing, and my soul claws its way back from the grave. Just hearin’ you breathe… makes me remember I was once a man."

Without moving his lips from your neck, he pulled you tighter to him—as if close wasn’t close enough. The hand that had rested, restrained, at your hip now wandered forward, slow and deliberate. Fingertips mapped your abdomen, tracing sacred paths, needing proof that you were alive—so that he could be, too.

And then… he drank.

Not like before. Not the desperate, savage feeding of a monster starved.

This time it was slow. Reverent. Devotional.

His lips, once cold, warmed against your skin with each drop he took, like your blood lit a fire in him. You felt the heat spreading through him—his hands no longer trembling, but burning. His fingers curled with urgency, pulling you closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

His breath—once the chill of the grave—turned warm at your collarbone.

And then you felt it.

Not your heartbeat.

His.

Slow. Deep. A drumbeat echoing from somewhere far and forbidden. Like something long-dead was stirring inside his chest. Like your blood was not just nourishing his body, but dragging his soul back to life.

His body wasn’t stone anymore. It was flesh. Tense. Wanting.

Your back arched instinctively as he shifted beneath your hands. He groaned softly against your throat—a low, almost grateful sound. His tongue licked the edge of the wound with an unexpected tenderness, and then he spoke—his voice a breath against your skin.

“Damn you,” he murmured, every word soaked in something older than time. “You taste like warmth. Like breath. Like fuckin’ sunlight.”

His fingers clutched your waist, trembling now with something other than hunger.

Where once there had been stillness, now there was life. Heat. Motion. His thighs tensed beneath yours. His arms molded around you, every muscle pulling you in. His hips rose gently, insistently, as if desire itself were part of his rebirth. He didn’t just crave your blood now.

He craved you.

The warmth you offered. The life you returned.

And the worst part—or maybe the best—was that you loved it. It made you feel powerful. Divine. Needed. Like with every drop he took, you were shaping him back into something real. Giving him form. Giving him soul.

“Every drop of you pulls me back, girl,” he growled. “You’re in me now. Not just your blood—you. You’re makin’ me feel… alive. And it shouldn’t feel this good.”

But it did.

For both of you.

Because bringing him back—feeling him wake in your arms, feeling his skin grow hot beneath your fingers, watching breath rise again in lungs that had no right to breathe—was addictive. It was beautiful. It was yours.

And you wanted it all.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, lost in a sea of thoughts, his mouth still wet against the skin he’d just broken.

You trembled. One hand reached up, tangled in his hair, guiding him back to your throat, pleading silently for him to continue. To give you both life again with a bite. He groaned, sinking back into the hollow between your neck and shoulder.

"I could live in your throat forever," he breathed, and the softness of it struck you like a wave. "Feedin’ on the sound alone."

“Remmick.”

You breathe his name again, softer this time—like a secret slipping from between your lips. A whisper not meant for this world, but for something older. He hears it anyway.

His hands roam, reverent and unhurried, gliding from your waist to the curve of your thighs. Calloused fingers drift over the fabric like he’s tasting you with his palms, committing you to memory—inch by inch. There’s no urgency in him, only awe. As if each part of you is a sacred hymn, and he’s learning the verses by touch.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, voice low and trembling. “Let me hear how your voice sounds when it’s only mine.”

You shift, slow and intentional—pressing yourself down into his lap, not to tease, but to offer. To feel. A rhythm builds, quiet and hungry, drawn from some deep, aching place neither of you have named. Your hands stay at his neck, not for balance, but to feel the breath that shouldn’t be there—his chest rising, falling, living beneath your palms.

And his hands... lord, his hands. They slide beneath your dress, dragging the fabric up your thighs like he’s unveiling an altar, not a body. His breath brushes your skin—warm. Alive. The sound he makes when your skin trembles under his touch is not a groan of desire, but of wonder.

“Is it me makin’ you tremble?” he asks, voice rough-edged, like he’s afraid of the answer.

You try to speak. “I want—” But the words fall apart the moment his fingers skim the edge of you, barely touching, a ghost of a caress.

He looks up at you then, and you see it all—want, worship, devotion.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Let me give it to you. Let me be what you need. Please”

“You,” you breathe. “I want all of you.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale through his nose, like he’s been holding it for centuries. And then he moves—lifting you in his lap, straddling his thighs, your bodies pressed so close you forget where one ends and the other begins. You feel him, hard and pulsing beneath his clothes, and when you grind down with a gasp, he breaks.

His mouth returns to your neck—not to bite this time. No, this time he kisses you, open-mouthed and desperate, tasting the place where your blood still sings beneath the skin. Where his mark still lingers.

One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring himself in your warmth like a drowning man clutching the shore. His other hand—still shaking—finds the space between your thighs, seeking, never demanding. He asks for you without a word.

And when you press down again, needing him, his moan is wounded. Grateful.

“You gave me breath,” he chokes out. “Now give me sound. Let me hear every piece of life still burnin’ inside you.”

You gasp when his fingers slide the fabric aside, exposing you to the cool air—and to him. And when he finally pushes into you, slow and deep, the only sound that escapes is his name, broken on your lips.

He curses under his breath—not in pride, but in disbelief. In reverence.

“You feel...” He doesn’t finish. He can’t.

He holds you like you’re the last tether to the world, his forehead pressed to your collarbone. His thumb finds your clit, circling in time with the rhythm of your breath, your heartbeat, your pulse.

You tilt his head up, fingers curling beneath his jaw. His eyes meet yours—and they are wide, overwhelmed, human. His cheeks flush with blood. His lips are pink again. Your blood. He looks alive, but not because he fed.

Because you let him.

“Say it again,” you whisper. “Tell me what I am to you.”

He swallows, and it’s like a prayer. “You’re breath. You’re earth. You’re the sound that makes my bones remember they once belonged to flesh.”

His voice is wrecked. “And I’ll give you anything, if you’ll keep me.”

Something fractures in you.

You move without thinking, chasing the rhythm he offers. His hands tighten, his body trembling. And with every ragged gasp, every moan against your skin, you feel it—him—being stitched into place inside you. You arch, not for control, but because you need more.  Every thrust, every kiss, every murmur—draws you closer to the edge.

And then he says, softly, like a vow:

“You sound like home.”

Your body tightens, the pleasure surging through you like fire in your veins. You break with it—voice cracking open as you come, your body convulsing, your cry shattering the silence like a psalm.

He gasps. Stillness. Then—he shudders, once, so deep it rocks you both.

Like your climax dragged him back from death. Like your voice tore through the veil and brought him home.

He clings to you, arms trembling, chest rising and falling—not a mimicry. Not an echo.

But breath. Real breath.

He stays there, his face buried in your neck, as if afraid to let go of the moment.

Then, hoarse and smiling faintly. “I was right.”

You blink down at him, breathless.

“Didn’t need an instrument after all,” he says, meeting your gaze, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Though if you still want lessons… I’ll teach you. If they all end like this.”

You laugh—quiet and stunned—as you brush damp hair from his forehead.

But then you feel it.

The warmth you gave him… pulling back. Retreating, slow as a tide returning to the sea. His skin cools beneath your touch, no longer flushed with blood. But still soft. Still real.

He feels it too. You see it in the way his lashes flutter. In the way his chest stills.

No fear.

No regret.

“Didn’t think it’d last,” he murmurs, hand resting gently at your side. “Never does.” He looks up at you, reverent. “But gods, lass… for a moment, you made me feel like I had a heart again.”

You swallow hard, your throat tight with something you can’t name.

You don’t speak. You just hold him.

And this time, he leans in not for warmth, but for closeness. For the memory of what you gave him. The echo of your voice still resonating somewhere in the hollow of his chest.

The heat may fade, but the bond does not.

It lingers. It hums.

Not with blood. Not with breath.

He was on his knees.

Not like a man prayin’, but like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Remmick rasped, voice low and cracked, like gravel dragged through honey. His hands hovered near mine, never quite touchin’. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

The rain hit the ground like it was tryin’ to drown out the past.

I stood there, silent. Watchin’ the same man who once turned my blood to fire now tremble like he ain’t felt warmth in centuries. His eyes flickered red. Still beautiful. Still dangerous. Still mine—once.

And then the memory came back sharp as bone:

His mouth at my throat.

My scream shatterin’ the quiet.

The taste of betrayal on my tongue before I ever knew what betrayal truly was.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation and became his punishment.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick's Pov

The smoke from the baker’s chimney curled lazy into the grey mornin’, twistin’ up toward a sky that hadn’t yet made up its mind. Pale, dull, hangin’ low like grief. I shifted the crate on my shoulder, feelin’ the dig of wood through damp wool. My boots were slick with yesterday’s rain, slippin’ now and then on the cobbles that shone like a drunkard’s teeth—wet and crooked.

I passed the butcher, same as always. He gave me a nod stiff as his apron. Behind him, the meat swung on hooks, pink and heavy, lookin’ like saints in some holy place I’d never set foot in. I hated that shop. Too many flies. Too many mouths left open, waitin’ for a prayer that’d never come.

The crate weren’t much—few bottles of oil, sacks of dried lavender, and somethin’ sealed in wax I didn’t bother askin’ after. I just hauled it. Dropped it off with the woman behind the counter who didn’t look me in the eye, and left. No lingerin’. Places that smelled like sickness and sorrow weren’t ones I liked to haunt long.

I’d lived in this village long enough that most folks stopped whisperin’. Didn’t mean they trusted me. Just meant I was another fixture—like a broken fence or an old gate that still held up in a storm. I worked. Didn’t drink myself blind. Didn’t steal. Kept to myself. That was enough for them.

But it weren’t enough for me.

Some days I wondered if I was real at all. Or just a shadow they let move through the fog.

I took the back path out, cuttin’ ‘round the edge of the market square. Didn’t care for crowds. The noise. The eyes.

That’s when I saw her.

Not all at once. Just a flicker first—somethin’ movin’ slow near the trees where the path opened wide. A figure bent low, rearrangin’ a basket. Her movements were deliberate, like the world could wait its turn. Like she had all the time God ever gave.

Her dress was simple, but it carried different. Lighter. Like she came from somewhere the sun hit softer. And her—

Christ.

I don’t know the word for what she was.

Not just beautiful. No.

Marked.

Like the earth itself had touched her, pressed a thumbprint right into her soul, and said: this one.

I should’ve kept walkin’. I didn’t.

She straightened, basket shiftin’ easy on her hip like it belonged there. The light caught her skin, and it weren’t fair, how it looked. Her eyes passed over me once—just a blink—but they didn’t flinch. Didn’t linger.

That’s what did it.

She didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or cursed. Or nothin’. She looked past me. Like she’d seen worse. Lived through more. Like she carried the memory of fire behind her ribs and still breathed easy through the smoke.

And me?

I forgot the path. Forgot the ache in my shoulder and the filth on my hands. Forgot the hinge I was meant to fix, the roof that needed patchin’. Forgot the name I answered to.

She turned.

Walked into the crowd and was gone.

And my chest—quiet near a decade—stirred like somethin’ old had woken up in it.

Somethin’ dangerous.

Somethin’ like hunger.

Or recognition.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, it was rainin’.

Not the sort that passed in a hush and vanished clean. No, this was the old kind. The kind that settled in your bones and made the village feel more graveyard than home. Clouds hung low, heavy as guilt. The air smelled like peat, smoke, and wet wool.

I hadn’t planned on cuttin’ through the square. Meant to head straight to the chapel—Father Callahan’d cracked a hinge clean off the sacristy door again, and I’d promised to fix it. Hammer tucked under my coat, hands still black with soot from cleanin’ out the baker’s flue that mornin’. My back ached. My boots were soaked.

And then—

I saw her.

She stood quiet as a shadow in front of the apothecary, tucked beneath the narrow eave that dripped steady at her feet. Her dress was simple, the color of river clay, clingin’ to her like the rain knew better than to touch her skin. A basket sat on the crook of her arm, filled with wild garlic and herbs, and her other hand held a cloth to her lips—like she was keepin’ something back.

A cough. Or a secret.

I oughta have kept walkin’.

But I didn’t.

I stood there like a daft fool in the muck, starin’ at her like the rain could wash the sense back into me.

She looked up.

And this time, she saw me.

Really saw me.

Her eyes—dark as peat, clear as glass—locked with mine. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t carry the same weight in her stare that most folks did when they looked my way. There was no pity. No suspicion.

Just stillness.

She wore it like armor.

Like maybe the storm belonged to her.

“You alright there?” I called, my voice louder than I meant over the hiss of rain.

Her gaze dipped for a breath, then came back. She lowered the cloth. “Far as I can be, considerin’,” she said. Her voice was even, lower than I remembered. The words came proper enough, but the sound of her was not local. Something about it curled at the edges. Like she’d learned the language well but carried a different song in her throat.

“You’re not from here,” I said. The words left me before I could think to swallow ‘em.

Her lips twitched, not quite smilin’. “Neither are you.”

She weren’t wrong.

Folk around here called me the outsider. Came in after my brother passed, and I stayed—fixin’ broken fences, sharpenin’ shears, patchin’ roofs after windstorms. I kept to myself. Said little. Answered less. Most folks left me be. Grief has a way of makin’ ghosts of the livin’.

But she—she was no ghost.

She was too solid. Too certain.

“You deal in herbs?” I asked, noddin’ toward her basket.

She glanced down, then back. “Some for trade. Some for me. Depends who’s askin’.”

“Folk here don’t always take kindly to unfamiliar hands mixin’ medicine.”

“They don’t take kindly to much at all,” she said. Her tone didn’t shift. Didn’t get sharp or soft. “But I’m not here to please them.”

My mouth twitched. Could’ve been a smile. Could’ve been a warning.

“They call me Remmick,” I offered, though I don’t know why. She hadn’t asked.

She nodded slow, like she was tuckin’ the name somewhere safe. “I’ve heard of you. Fix things, don’t you?”

I gave a short nod. “Try to.”

She tilted her head, studyin’ me like I was a nail half-driven. “Can you fix what ain’t made of wood or iron?”

I blinked. “Suppose that depends on how broke it is.”

That made her pause. Her eyes lingered, like she was weighin’ my words on a scale only she could read.

“Good answer,” she murmured, and stepped out into the rain.

She moved like dusk—quiet, certain, untouched by the cold. Her shoes sank into the mud, her hair clung to her nape, and still she didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

I stood there a long while after she’d gone, hammer still clutched in my hand, like I’d forgotten what I was doin’.

Something about her wouldn’t let go.

It wasn’t just her face, though it was a face worth rememberin’.

It was the way she made the world feel like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Like she’d stepped out of some place older than time.

And my soul—fool that it is—reached for her like it already knew the fall was comin’.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, I was carryin’ a sack of empty flour tins and cussin’ at the wind. The path out toward the edge of town had turned near to muck from the week’s worth of rain, and the soles of my boots were caked thick with it. I’d been sent by old Mr. Fallon to fetch a bundle of dried thyme and wild caraway for his bread—claimed the flavor wouldn’t be worth spit without it. Gave me a half-torn scrap with the address written in crooked scrawl and waved me off like I didn’t have ten other things to fix today.

I followed the directions, takin’ the narrow road past the blacksmith’s, past the place where the woods leaned too close to the path, until the town itself felt far behind me. When I reached the cottage, it was tucked back in a thicket of elder trees, vines curlin’ up its stone sides like time was tryin’ to reclaim it.

Didn’t seem like the sort of place anybody lived.

But there was smoke risin’ from the chimney, soft and pale.

I knocked on the door. Didn’t expect her to answer.

But she did.

The door creaked open slow, and there she stood. Same earth-toned dress, sleeves rolled up this time, fingers stained green from somethin’ she’d been grinding. Her hair was wrapped back, loose pieces stickin’ to her temple from sweat.

I blinked. She didn’t.

“You here for the baker’s herbs?” she asked, before I could speak.

“Aye,” I said, a little too quick. “Didn’t know it was you who put ‘em together.”

She gave a small shrug, half-turning back into the house. “I make do with what I can. Come on in. It’s dry, at least.”

I hesitated on the threshold.

Then stepped inside.

The cottage smelled like cedar smoke and mint, sharp with somethin’ bitter beneath it—wormwood, maybe, or sorrow. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars and cloth bundles, herbs hangin’ to dry like prayer strings. Light came in soft through the foggy windows, catchin’ on the motes floatin’ in the air.

I watched her move through the space like she belonged to it. Like the walls were built to her shape.

“You live alone out here?” I asked, settin’ the tin sack down by the door.

She nodded without lookin’ back. “Folk don’t visit much. Suits me fine.”

“Bit far from everything, don’t you think?”

Her hands didn’t stop as she tied a bundle of dried leaves with twine. “Distance keeps peace. Or at least quiet.”

I hummed low. “Seems lonely.”

She paused, just a moment. “Lonely’s better than bein’ caged.”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

She turned then, handin’ me the bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here. Tell Fallon I added wild rosemary. He’ll complain, but he’ll use it anyway.”

I took the bundle, our fingers brushin’ again. Brief, but not unremarkable.

“Thank you,” I said. “For this.”

She nodded. Her eyes lingered on mine longer than they should’ve.

“You always this polite, or just when you’re in someone’s home?”

I let a ghost of a smile tug at my mouth. “Only when I’m talkin’ to someone who don’t scare easy.”

She raised an eyebrow, a corner of her lip curlin’. “Good. I don’t trust men who only speak sweet to the meek.”

There was a silence then—an easy one, somehow, but it sat heavy with things unspoken.

“You never gave me your name,” I said, shifting the weight of the herbs in my hands.

She looked down, then back up. “That’s ‘cause I haven’t decided if you’ve earned it.”

And damn me, but I liked the sound of that.

“Well,” I said, stepping back toward the door, “if you ever reckon I have, I’ll be around. Usually fixin’ things folk’ve broken.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed now. “Maybe I’ll break somethin’ just to see if you’ll come.”

The door creaked shut behind me before I could think of somethin’ clever to say.

Outside, the air smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke. I walked back down the muddy path with her words echoing in my chest—soft as silk, sharp as flint.

And somewhere in the quiet between my heartbeats, I realized I’d be lookin’ for reasons to come back.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The morning stretched soft and gold over the village, sun filterin’ through a sky still patched with the pale hush of dawn. It’d rained heavy the night before, and now the earth smelled like moss and old stone, like every breath belonged to something older than me.

I took the same path I always did, worn into the hills by habit and need. A leather satchel slung cross my shoulder, tools knockin’ gentle against one another with each step. The hammer I used for roofs, the little brush I used for oilin’ hinges—all packed like I was some saint come to bless broken things.

Only I wasn’t goin’ to the chapel today.

The note had come from the baker, scribbled mess of ink sayin’ one of the herb women needed her ceilin’ patched. Didn’t give a name, just said “the dark-eyed one what don’t smile easy.” I knew then.

Didn’t tell myself that out loud, but my chest said it plain.

Her.

The woman who spoke like secrets. Moved like the rain followed her for warmth. I’d seen her twice now, and still she sat behind my eyes like a prayer I couldn’t finish.

Her cottage sat just beyond the low bend of the road, tucked behind a line of cypress trees with their roots grippin’ the wet soil like they feared bein’ torn up. Ivy climbed the corners of the stone, and a little row of jars lined the windowsill—dried flowers, maybe. Bits of lavender. Or bones.

I knocked soft. Once. Twice. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, the wood thuddin’ beneath my fist.

“Comin’,” came her voice, muffled but steady.

The door creaked open and there she was, standin’ barefoot on the wood floor with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her dress was a muted brown, plain as river mud, but it clung to her like she’d shaped it herself from dusk and silence.

“You’re the one with the leak,” I said, tryin’ to keep my voice level, casual. “I was sent from the bakery to patch it up proper.”

Her eyes flicked down to my satchel, then back to me. “Figured someone would show. Just didn’t think it’d be you.”

I raised a brow. “That a complaint?”

She didn’t smile, but her lips twitched at the corners. “Not yet.”

She stepped aside, lettin’ me in with a tilt of her head. The air inside her cottage was warm—herby, thick with dried thyme and somethin’ sweeter beneath it, like burnt sugar.

“Ceilin’s in the back room,” she said. “It leaks when the rain hits from the east.”

I followed her down the narrow hall, tools shiftin’ with each step. The floor creaked beneath our weight, and the walls held the quiet hum of a lived-in place—one made by hand, not bought with coin.

As I entered the room, I looked up at the corner where the water had left its mark—dark ring bloomin’ like rot in the ceiling. I set my satchel down near the edge of a low table and rolled up my sleeves.

“You don’t strike me as the sort who sends for help,” I said, climbin’ onto the little stool below the leak. “Let alone a village man.”

“I’m not,” she replied, movin’ to the table and startin’ to sort herbs into small bundles. “But I’m also not the sort who lets water make a home where it don’t belong.”

“That so?” I grinned. “Maybe you oughta carve that on a stone outside. Might keep trouble at bay.”

Her hands stilled a moment on the stems before resummin’. “Trouble always finds its way back. Whether you carve warnings or not.”

There was somethin’ in her tone—like she knew the feel of trouble’s hands around her throat and had stopped bein’ afraid of it.

I scraped at the softened wood, lettin’ silence settle between us, comfortable as an old coat.

I was halfway through tightening the last hinge when she spoke again.

“You always this quiet when you work?” she asked, voice soft, but not shy. There was somethin’ in it—like a cat stretchin’ in a sunbeam. Casual. Watchin’.

I glanced down from the stool I’d set beneath her ceiling, my sleeve wet with old rainwater and plaster dust stickin’ to my arms.

“Only when the job’s worth concentratin’ on,” I muttered, brows knit, screwin’ the final nail in. “And when the roof don’t behave.”

She made a small sound—almost a laugh. “Should I apologize on its behalf?”

“If it gives me a bit o’ peace, then aye.”

She leaned her shoulder to the doorframe, arms folded, basket still on the table behind her. The light from the window framed her in pieces—forehead, cheekbone, collarbone. Dust floated between us, and outside, the wind shifted the branches in her little garden.

“You’re better at this than the last fella they sent,” she said after a while. “Didn’t even last long enough to hammer twice before he said the house gave him a bad feelin’.”

“Most things give folk a bad feelin’ when they ain’t lookin’ hard enough,” I answered, setting the hammer down and wiping my hands on my trousers. “Or when they’re daft.”

“And what about you?” she asked, that same not-smile flirtin’ at the corners of her mouth. “You get any feelin’ from this place?”

I turned, finally facing her proper. “Aye,” I said. “That you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened.

“I mean,” I added, before she could speak, “that you don’t talk much, yet you’ve got books stacked on herbs that don’t grow this side of the sea. Things bundled in your basket most folks wouldn’t know to pick. You knew I’d come back for the ceiling before I even told you I would.”

She tilted her head, lips pressing together. “I listen. I pay attention,” she said simply. “People show who they are even when they don’t mean to.”

“And what have I shown, then?” I asked, stepping down from the stool, slow.

She hesitated only a breath. “That you’re more than you say,” she said. “And you carry your grief like it’s welded to your spine.”

I stopped cold. And for once, I didn’t have somethin’ clever to say. Just stood there, feelin’ the weight of her words settle where they landed—deep.

She walked past me then, to the table, and pulled a small dark glass jar from the corner beside a bound book. Set it in my hands.

“For the cold,” she said. “Rain’ll catch up with you sooner than you think, and you smell like someone who won’t rest long enough to sweat it out.”

I looked down at the jar, then up at her again.

“You trust me not to drop dead drinkin’ this?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

“If I wanted you dead,” she said plainly, “I’d’ve let the ceiling fall.”

That made me laugh, a dry sound I hadn’t heard in my own throat in some time.

“Fair ‘nough.”

She moved toward the door to open it for me, but I didn’t walk out just yet. Still holdin’ the jar, I looked back at her, searching her face like the name might rise from her skin if I stared long enough.

“You gonna tell me your name, or do I keep callin’ you Moonflower in my head?” I asked, the smirk creepin’ up despite myself.

She blinked at that. “Moonflower?”

“You only bloom at night. Got a scent that lingers. And I reckon you’ll poison a man if he ain’t careful.”

That made her pause. Then, a smile—real this time, curved and quiet.

“Don’t know if I oughta be flattered or offended.”

“Both, maybe.”

She nodded, opening the door wider. “See you next time, then… handyman.”

“Remmick,” I reminded her, steppin’ out into the daylight again.

“I know,” she said, leaning on the frame. “Still deciding if you deserve to be called by it.”

And then she shut the door.

But the air behind me stayed full of her voice. Of rain. And herbs. And somethin’ that hadn’t yet been named.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The woods had a hush to ’em that day—like even the birds were holdin’ their tongues to listen. Not a drop of rain on the ground, but the air was thick with damp, like the earth’d been cryin’ in secret. I weren’t lookin’ for her. Not exactly. But I took the long path from town anyhow, boots slippin’ over moss and roots, hands deep in my coat like I didn’t care where I was headed.

Truth was, I hadn’t seen her in three days. And it felt like somethin’ gnawin’ at the hollow in my ribs.

I told myself she was off gatherin’ or restin’, that folk like her didn’t owe nothin’ to folk like me. But the stillness where she ought to’ve been—it sat too long in the pit of my chest.

Then I saw her. Perched on a fallen log off the trail, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm. Her basket laid beside her, near empty, just a few stringy greens hangin’ on like stubborn ghosts. The wind played gentle at her scarf, and she looked like she’d been carved outta stillness. A woman built from pause and ache.

“Thought the trees’d gone and swallowed you,” I said, easin’ around the bend with a crooked smile tryin’ to pass as casual.

Her gaze met mine. Slow. Sure. “They tried,” she said. “But I told ’em I still had things to finish.”

A laugh threatened my throat. I let it sit behind my teeth.

“Was beginnin’ to think I imagined you,” I said, shiftin’ my weight through the soft earth. “Like somethin’ dreamt up on a fevered night.”

She looked me over like she could tell I meant it. “You dream often, Remmick?”

“Only when I’ve got somethin’ heavy on the soul.”

She didn’t answer that. Just scooted over and tapped the space beside her.

So I sat.

We let the silence settle between us for a time, let it stretch long and deep. She played with a blade of grass, foldin’ it in half, then again, ’til it split. I watched the way her fingers moved, careful but worn.

“I been thinkin’,” she said after a while, voice quiet but steady. “How a place can be full of people and still feel empty.”

My eyes shifted to her, to the way her jaw set like she’d swallowed too many truths. “This place do that to you?”

She shrugged. Not quite yes, not quite no. Then after a beat, “My home wasn’t kind either. But it was mine. Then it weren’t.”

I didn’t say nothin’. Just let her speak.

“There was a war. Not one with drums and soldiers, but somethin’ quieter. Slower. Took everything soft and left the bones.”

Her fingers stilled. Her face didn’t change, but I saw the weight behind her eyes.

“I ran,” she said. “Kept runnin’. Learned to talk like I belonged. Learned to walk like I wasn’t watchin’ every step.”

“You shouldn’t’ve had to,” I muttered, voice rough. “No one should.”

She looked at me then, like she weren’t expectin’ that.

“Folk back home say runnin’ makes you weak,” she said. “But it’s what saved me.”

I nodded slow. “I ran, too. When my brother died, I packed what little I had and left. Not just the grief, but… the hunger. Crops were failin’. Bellies were empty. We were ghosts by winter.”

She blinked, brows drawin’ together.

“Ireland’s a beautiful place, but she’s cruel when she wants to be. The year before I left, there was rot in the potatoes—black and wet, like somethin’ cursed the fields. Folks buried more kin than crops that year.”

I swallowed.

“I couldn’t stay and starve with the bones of my family.”

She watched me. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

“So I came here,” I went on, voice low. “Thought maybe fixin’ things might fix me, too.”

She tilted her head. “Has it?”

I looked down at my hands. Calloused. Dirty. Then I looked at her.

“I’m still cracked,” I said. “But I don’t feel so hollow when you’re nearby.”

Her lips parted, just a little. Eyes softenin’, like she didn’t know what to do with that.

“You always say things like that?”

“Only when I mean ’em.”

The breeze stirred again. Her scarf lifted and fell.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” she said, voice low. “What I’ve seen. I’m not made of mercy, Remmick. I’ve got sharp edges.”

“I ain’t afraid of a cut,” I said, leanin’ forward. “Not if it means gettin’ close to somethin’ real.”

She reached into her basket then, pullin’ out a folded cloth with a little vial inside—amber-glass, stoppered with care.

“More, For the rain,” she said. “To keep the cold outta your bones.”

I took it from her gently, thumb brushing hers. “You always takin’ care of me.”

She smiled, barely. “You look like someone who don’t know how to ask for help.”

“And you look like someone who’s tired of watchin’ folk suffer.”

She stood, dustin’ off her skirts.

“Walk me home?” she asked.

I stood too, tucking the vial safe in my coat. “Aye. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And I meant it. From the ache behind my ribs to the silence between her words—I meant every damn word.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Days passed as I began to see her more and more. Every time was like a dream I didn’t want to end—just like today.

The clearing sat just beyond the old stone wall, tucked where the trees thinned and the wild things dared bloom without asking permission. The sun poured itself across the earth like warm cream, catchin’ on petals and blades of grass, paintin’ everything gold.

She was already there when I arrived—kneelin’ low, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, fingers brushin’ through stalks of green like she were coaxin’ secrets from the dirt. Some of the flowers were in full bloom, heads high like they knew they were worth praisin’. Others drooped, wilted from the heat or time. Still, she moved between them with care, never avoidin’ the ones that’d gone soft at the edges.

“You’re late,” she said without lookin’ at me, voice light but pointed.

I knelt beside her, restin’ my tools down with a soft thump. “Was mendin’ a crooked stair, not flirtin’ with the baker’s daughter if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

She smirked. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Aye, but you thought it.”

She shook her head, then held up a stem with tiny white buds. “Chamomile. You pick it now, when the sun’s at its highest. Any later, and it starts losin’ its strength.”

I took it from her, turnin’ the stem between my fingers. “Looks like nothin’ special.”

She raised a brow. “And yet it calms nerves, soothes bellies, and can ease nightmares.”

My lips curled. “Maybe I oughta be stuffin’ my pillow with it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

The way she said it made me glance sideways at her—how the sun lit up her cheekbones, how the wind caught loose strands of hair and played with ‘em like a lover. She looked too alive to belong to the quiet.

“Which one’s next?” I asked, clearin’ my throat.

She reached out, pluckin’ a stem from the base of a nearby cluster. “Yarrow. Good for wounds.”

“That for folk like me who get in fights with doors and lose?”

She gave me a sidelong look. “It’s for those who carry hurts they don’t speak on.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

We moved in silence for a while, fingers grazin’ blooms, knees in the soft earth. I watched her more than I watched the plants, truth be told. There was a rhythm to her. A kind of stillness that weren’t born from silence but from knowledge. Like she knew exactly where she stood and why the world moved around her.

“Why d’you teach me this?” I asked finally.

She shrugged. “Because most folk pluck what’s pretty and leave what’s useful.”

“And you think I’m worth teachin’?”

She looked at me then. Really looked. “I think you listen when I speak,” she said. “That’s rare enough.”

My chest pulled tight at that. Not from surprise. From feelin’ seen.

“I like hearin’ you talk,” I said, softer than I meant. “Even when you don’t say much.”

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either. “What else do you like?”

“Your hands,” I said before thinkin’. “How sure they are. How you never flinch when you touch things other folk avoid.”

Her gaze flicked down to the herbs between us. “And what if I touch somethin’ dangerous?”

“Then I reckon it’d be lucky to be held by you.”

The wind stirred again, rustlin’ the trees, bendin’ the tall grass in waves. A butterfly danced between us and didn’t land.

She exhaled slow, like maybe she’d been holdin’ her breath. “You’re a strange man, Remmick.”

“Aye,” I said, smilin’. “But I’m learnin’ from the best.”

We sat there till the sun dipped just low enough to cast long shadows. The air thickened with the smell of lavender and crushed thyme. She handed me one last sprig—something bitter, sharp to the nose.

“For the headaches you pretend not to have,” she said.

I tucked it behind my ear like a fool.

She laughed, the sound as soft as the breeze through yarrow leaves.

And I thought—if this were all I ever had of her, it’d be enough.

But some part of me already knew I’d want more.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun was dippin’ low, spillin’ orange light across the field like it was tryin’ to make somethin’ holy outta the ordinary. We’d wandered farther than usual — past the woods, down near where the blackberry bushes crept wild along the stone fences. Grass brushed at our ankles, and the air smelled like dust, crushed fruit, and late summer.

She’d been hummin’ under her breath again. I never knew the tune, but it stuck in my head all the same.

“Careful now,” she said, glancin’ back at me with that half-grin. “These brambles’ll catch your trousers and your pride in one go.”

I muttered somethin’ about her bein’ the real menace, not the bushes, which made her laugh — that soft, real kind that made my chest feel too small.

We settled on a slope where the hill dipped shallow. She sat cross-legged without a care, skirt flared, one hand restin’ against a warm rock. I sat beside her, knees bent, boots diggin’ into the earth. Not too close. Not too far.“You always find the best places,” I said, watchin’ the horizon melt.She shrugged like it weren’t nothin’. “Places don’t gotta be grand to be good. Just quiet. Just safe.”

I glanced at her, and for a second, she looked made of the light itself — all gold and shadow, like she belonged to a world I hadn’t earned yet.

“How come you never told me your name?” I asked, leanin’ back on my elbows. “Might start thinkin’ you ain’t got one.”

She chuckled, pickin’ a stem of clover and twistin’ it between her fingers. “Maybe I was waitin’. Maybe I needed to know if you’d ruin it.”

I arched a brow. “Ruin it how?”

“Some folk take your name like it’s a possession,” she said, serious now. “Say it too often. Say it wrong. Say it like they own it.”

I nodded slow. “And you think I’d do that?”

She looked at me then — really looked — and whatever she saw there must’ve settled somethin’.

“No,” she said soft. “I don’t think you would.”

The breeze picked up. She reached into her basket, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Bread and somethin’ sharp-smellin’, maybe a bit of goat cheese.

“Payment,” she said, handin’ me the bread. “For carryin’ all my baskets last week like a proper mule.”

I grinned. “Best damn mule you ever met.”

“You might be right.” She took a bite of her own bread, chewin’ slow, like she had all the time in the world.

Silence sat easy between us, stitched together by cicadas and the rustle of the grass.

Then she said it, casual as the weather.

“My name’s Y/N.”

I turned to her, blinkin’. “Y/N,” I repeated, like it was a word I already knew but hadn’t tasted proper yet.

“Don’t wear it out,” she warned, smirkin’ over her bite of cheese.

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said, and meant it.

We watched the last of the sun sink behind the ridge, the sky bruisin’ with twilight.

“Y/N,” I murmured again, like a prayer I hadn’t realized I’d needed.

She didn’t look at me this time. But I saw the way her smile turned soft at the edges.

And that was enough.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun sat high, spillin’ gold all across the yard like it’d been poured straight from God’s own pitcher. Cicadas were hummin’, lazy and loud, and the stump tree in front of her little place offered just enough shade to make sittin’ there feel like somethin’ sacred.

She was bent over a wide wooden bowl in her lap, sleeves rolled to her elbows, grindin’ the herbs we’d gathered just the day before. Her wrists moved smooth, slow—like she was coaxin’ the medicine out with patience instead of pressure. The scent of rosemary and dry lavender clung to the air. I sat nearby on the grass, a small pile of weeds beside me I’d promised to pull up while she worked, though I’d barely made a dent.

Didn’t matter much.

I wasn’t here to work.

I was here to watch her.

To listen to her hum low under her breath, not a tune I knew, but soft enough to settle the ache that’d been coiled in my chest since the last time she’d gone quiet on me.

She reached for another bundle of dried stalks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist.

“You done plannin’ on helpin’ or you just gonna keep starin’?” she asked, not lookin’ up.

“Both, maybe,” I said, leanin’ back on my elbows with a grin. “Can’t blame a man for admirin’ the view.”

She snorted, but her lips twitched. “If you’re tryin’ to be smooth, you’re slippin’, Remmick.”

“Me? Slippin’?” I let my accent thicken, feignin’ offense. “I’ll have you know I was voted most charming back home. ’Course, that was by a goat and my granda.”

That earned me a laugh. Not loud, but enough to stir the birds in the tree overhead.

I watched her as she went back to work, the sun catchin’ on her skin and her voice hummin’ again. My hand found a stray flower near my boot, tugging it from the grass. Yellow, scraggly thing. Not as pretty as the ones she kept hung dry above her stove, but it reminded me of her in some crooked way—sturdy and soft at the same time.

“You ever think about stayin’?” I asked, real quiet. “In one place, I mean. Lettin’ somethin’ root you instead of always runnin’?”

She paused, mortar stillin’ in her hand. “You mean lettin’ people in?”

“I mean lettin’ one in,” I said, twirlin’ the flower between my fingers. “Just one.”

She turned her head toward me, squintin’ a little like the light was in her eyes and not the words. “That what you’ve been gettin’ at this whole time?”

I didn’t answer. Just tucked the flower behind my ear with mock grace.

“What d’you think?”

She looked at me for a long time. Then smiled. Not wide. Not coy. Just somethin’ soft and real, like the kind of smile you give someone you ain’t afraid of no more.

“I think you talk too much,” she said, goin’ back to grindin’. “But I like it.”

I didn’t need more than that.

Didn’t need her to say the thing out loud.

Not yet.

The breeze picked up, stirrin’ the dust, the herbs, the ache in my chest that didn’t feel quite so heavy no more.

I pulled the flower from its place on behind ear and putting it neatly on hers and she smiles shyly.

And beneath that old stump tree, under the watchful hush of midday, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe I weren’t the only one feelin’ it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The smell of sugar and sun-warmed fruit clung to the cottage like a promise. Late afternoon spilled through the kitchen window in golden sheets, catching in the little dust motes that danced above the wooden counter. The bowl between us was nearly full—fat blueberries she’d hand-picked that morning, now tossed in flour and cinnamon, waiting for their crusted cradle.

I stood elbow-deep in dough, arms dusted white, sweat at my brow and not just from the heat.

“Careful,” she said, reaching across me. Her hand brushed mine. “You’re foldin’ it too hard. Gotta coax it, not fight it.”

I glanced up.

Sunlight hit the side of her face, turned her lashes gold. She was smiling soft—barely there—but it pulled somethin’ straight outta my ribs.

“Aye,” I muttered. “Didn’t know you trained with the Queen’s pastry cooks.”

She snorted. “Didn’t need to. Just had a gran who’d bite your fingers if you got heavy-handed with her dough.”

“Sounds like a wise woman.”

“She was mean as vinegar and twice as sharp.”

I tried again, slower now, and she nodded her approval. The next few minutes passed with quiet hums and giggles. I couldn’t help but sneak glances—at the curve of her neck, the smudge of flour on her cheek, the way her fingers moved like she were tellin’ a story only she knew.

Then I caught her lookin’ at me.

We both froze.

Neither of us said nothin’, but somethin’ heavy and warm unfurled between us, soft as steam off a pie fresh from the oven.

She turned first, busyin’ herself with the tin. I took the chance to toss a pinch of flour at her back.

It hit her scarf.

She whirled. “Oh, you didn’t—!”

I grinned. “Didn’t what?”

She grabbed a handful and threw it square at my chest. The puff exploded, dustin’ my shirt and the air between us. I lunged with a laugh, and she shrieked, giggling as she dodged around the table.

We wrestled, gently. My hands found her waist, hers pressed against my chest, and when she stumbled, I caught her.

Held her.

Our breath caught in the same place.

“You’ve got… flour,” I murmured, brushing her cheek.

“So do you,” she whispered, staring up at me.

I don’t remember leanin’ in. Just that my lips found hers like they’d been waitin’ their whole life.

She kissed me back slow—like she weren’t sure she should, but couldn’t help herself.

Then it changed.

Got deeper. Hungrier.

She tugged my shirt, I backed her into the counter. My hands ran over her hips, then up, tanglin’ in her hair as she moaned into my mouth.

“Y/N…” I whispered against her jaw.

She didn’t answer. Just pulled me toward the bedroom like it was a decision already made.

The room was dim and warm, the last of the sun stretchin’ long through the window. She peeled her top away first, the thin cotton fallin’ to the floor. I watched her chest rise, eyes dark with want but soft, too.

I pulled my shirt over my head, dropped it, then stepped close.

“Sure ‘bout this?” I asked, voice low.

She nodded. “Been sure.”

That’s all I needed.

I kissed her again, slower this time, carryin’ her back until her knees hit the bed. We sank down together.

Our clothes came off like pages turned, deliberate and slow. My hands traced every inch of her, commitin’ it to memory like scripture. She gasped when I kissed her collarbone, whimpered when I moved down, when my mouth found the place that made her hips jerk and thighs tremble.

“Remmick,” she breathed, fingers in my hair, head tipped back.

I could’ve died in that moment and called it heaven.

When I slid inside her, she clung to me like she’d fall apart otherwise.

We moved together like we’d been doin’ it forever. Like we were born for it. Her nails scraped down my back, my mouth found her throat. I whispered her name like a hymn, like a confession.

She cried out when she came—legs locked around me, eyes wet, lips parted.

I followed close behind, buryin’ my face in her neck with a groan, her name spillin’ from my mouth like a prayer I’d never learned to say right.

After, we didn’t speak.

Just laid tangled in each other, the sound of our breath and the warm hush of evening wrappin’ around us.

I pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

And I swear—right then—I could’ve stayed there forever.

But forever’s a long time.

And fate, as I’ve learned, don’t ever keep still.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The first whisper came from the well.

A woman claimin’ her husband’d died after takin’ a tincture from Y/N. Said it were meant to calm his fever, but he didn’t see the next mornin’. She left out the weeks of coughin’ blood, the yellow tint in his eyes, the black along his gums. She left out the death already settin’ up house in his chest. No, she only spoke of the bottle. And the woman who brewed it. The quiet one, with dark hands and darker eyes, and a garden full o’ herbs no one dared name.

By midday, more tales grew teeth.

A child gone pale after tastin’ sweetroot she’d sold. A cow miscarryin’ out near the woods. An old man mutterin’ in his sleep that he’d seen a shadow slip past his window—and his joints ain’t been right since.

That evenin’, someone carved a jagged symbol into the bark of the tree outside her home.

The kind meant to ward off evil.

Or invite it.

I heard the talk at the forge. At the tavern. At the bloody baker’s shop, while I were settin’ a hinge right on their back door.

“She don’t age,” one man whispered.

“She don’t bleed,” said another.

“Heard her kiss tastes like rusted iron,” a third muttered, voice thick with ale and foolishness.

“She’s a witch.”

“She’s the reason the sickness won’t lift.”

I laid the hammer down slow. Let the nails clatter onto the bench one by one. Didn’t say a word. Just slipped out the back, fists clenched so tight I damn near split my own skin.

By the time I made it to her cottage, dusk had painted the sky grey and mean. I found her in the back garden, tendin’ her herbs like nothin’ was crumblin’ ‘round her.

“Evenin’,” she said when I stepped through the gate. Her voice soft, same as always, but her shoulders were stiff.

“You been into town lately?” I asked.

“Two mornings past,” she said, still kneelin’. “Why?”

I moved closer, my jaw grindin’. “Folk are talkin’. Sayin’ you’re the reason that man’s dead.”

She stood slow, wiped her hands on her apron. “He was already dyin’. The brew was to ease his passin’. I ain’t the one who filled his lungs with rot.”

“I know that. But they don’t. And they’re lookin’ for someone to blame.”

“They always are.”

I swallowed hard, shakin’ my head. “They carved a mark outside your gate.”

She turned to me fully then. “Let ‘em.”

“They’re callin’ you a witch.”

“And what do you call me?”

My throat tightened. “I call you brave. Foolish, maybe. But brave.”

She held my gaze. “I’ve run before, Remmick. I’ll do it again if I must.”

“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant to. “Don’t run.”

She looked back to the herbs. “I won’t beg to keep a life I built with my own hands.”

“You won’t have to.” My voice dipped low. “But promise me—no more goin’ into town alone.”

She hesitated. “Alright.”

But I knew, right then, she were already thinkin’ of leavin’.

Three days passed.

She didn’t listen.

Said she needed sugar. Cinnamon bark. Said she’d be quick.

A boy came runnin’ to my door before midday, breathless. “She’s been hurt,” he gasped. “They said she cursed their land. Threw stones. She bled.”

I didn’t ask. Just ran.

When I reached her home, she was packin’. A bandage round her brow, blood stainin’ the edge of it. Her hands moved fast, throwin’ jars and vials into her satchel.

“You went alone?” I barked, stormin’ into the room.

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” I snapped, “you didn’t.”

She didn’t stop movin’.

“You plannin’ on runnin’, then?”

“What choice do I have?” she hissed. “You said it yourself—they’ll burn the source.”

My chest hurt. “Don’t go.”

She paused. Just for a moment.

Then kept packin’. “You can’t save me from all this.”

“I can try.”

That night, I left.

Didn’t tell her where I was goin’. Only knew one place left to turn.

Deep in the hills, past the boglands and the stone-faced ruins. A place folk didn’t speak of unless drink loosened their tongues. Said there was a woman there, old as death, who could grant power—if you paid the price.

And I paid it.

Gave up my last ounce o’ peace for it.

“Give me what I need to protect her,” I said, kneelin’ in the dirt.

The voice that answered sounded like it had no mouth, no shape.

You’ll have it. But you’ll never be what you were.

I woke with fire behind my eyes.

With hunger in my chest.

And power under my skin.

I ran back.

Too late.

Blood painted the porch. A poisoned arrow stickin’ out her side. Her breath shallow. Barely holdin’ on.

“Y/N,” I choked, fallin’ beside her. “No, no, no—stay with me, darlin’, please.”

“They came,” she rasped. “Said I brought plague…”

“We’ll leave. I’ll carry you. I’ll get you out—”

She smiled. Weak. “You’ve got to live, Remmick.”

“I ain’t livin’ without you.”

She tried to lift her hand. Failed.

And I broke.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears runnin’. “Forgive me.”

I sank my teeth into her throat.

She gasped.

Horrified.

“You didn’t…” she whimpered as blood began spraying a bit from the wound. “You didn’t ask…”

“I couldn’t lose you, Moonflower.”

The torches were comin’. Voices behind the trees.

But I held her tighter than I’d ever held anythin’ as she stopped breathing.

And I cursed myself with every breath.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Y/N’s Pov

I woke with my mouth dry and the taste of iron sittin’ heavy on my tongue.

The ceiling above me weren’t my own. It sloped too sharp, boards too clean, the scent of smoke and earth clingin’ to the beams like old ghosts. The air was still—too still—like the house itself was holdin’ its breath.

I sat up slow. My limbs moved strange—lighter, too light, like my body forgot how much it used to weigh. My skin felt tight over my bones, raw at the seams, like somethin’ inside me had been stretched too far and stitched back wrong.

The blanket slid off my shoulders.

I was wearin’ someone else’s dress.

Not mine. Not torn. Not bloodstained.

But that’s what I remembered last.

Blood. The color of it flashin’ under the moonlight. The ache of it tearin’ through my ribs. The sound of Remmick’s voice, tremblin’ as he cradled me like I was already gone. And then—

My throat closed.

I remembered his mouth on my neck.

His whisper. His kiss.

The bite.

And suddenly it hit—like a storm comin’ in sideways.

The pain. The fire. The way my body twisted from the inside out, like my soul didn’t wanna be here no more but the rest of me refused to let go. My hands clutched the mattress. Breath comin’ fast, sharp.

He turned me.

He turned me without askin’.

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, bare feet hittin’ cool wood. The room around me was dim but familiar in a way that made my stomach knot. It was his. It had to be. One of the places he used—clean, hidden, a house that didn’t remember its own name.

A chair was pulled close to the bed. A half-burnt candle melted into the table beside it.

He’d been watchin’ me.

Waitin’ for me to wake.

And yet he was gone now.

Good.

I didn’t want him to see me like this—split open from the inside, grief sittin’ heavy in my chest like a second heart.

I rose, legs unsteady beneath me, and caught sight of my reflection in the small mirror above the wash basin.

I froze.

My eyes—black at the center, rimmed in red like coals just startin’ to burn. My skin a bit discolored as early frost, no warmth left to hold. My lips, faintly stained.

I touched them.

They still felt like mine.

But they weren’t.

A sound left me. Not a sob. Not quite.

Somethin’ between a growl and a cry—like grief wearin’ new teeth.

I should’ve been dead.

That’s what I chose. That’s what I meant.

I told him to run.

I told him to live.

And instead, he tethered me to this life—this curse—with his own teeth.

My hand found the edge of the basin and gripped it tight.

The wood cracked under my fingers.

I let go, heart poundin’ louder than thought.

This wasn’t love.

This was control.

A man holdin’ too tight to what he couldn’t bear to lose.

He’d rather unmake me than grieve me.

And yet—beneath the rage, beneath the betrayal—somethin’ else stirred.

Somethin’ I hated more than him in that moment.

I didn’t feel dead.

I felt strong.

Feral.

Awake.

Every sound in the woods outside was clearer. The creak of the beams. The wind slippin’ under the door. I could smell the ash in the hearth and the echo of blood that once lived in these floorboards.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because I knew what came next.

The hunger.

The ache.

The war I’d have to fight inside myself, every minute, every hour.

All because he couldn’t let me go.

I stepped away from the mirror.

The next time I saw Remmick, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna kiss him…

or kill him.

So I ran.

Not for the first time.

But this time, I crossed oceans.

The Atlantic didn’t welcome me. It didn’t whisper comfort. It roared—salt-raw and cruel, like it knew what I was carryin’. Not just the hunger. Not just the curse. But the truth: I wasn’t runnin’ from a man.

I was runnin’ from the memory of one.

I didn’t look back when Europe disappeared behind fog. Too many ghosts in the soil. Too many names I couldn’t say anymore. Too many faces I’d borrowed and buried.

I took the long way to nowhere.

Lived beneath borrowed roofs and behind shuttered windows. Spain. France. Portugal. I spoke like them, walked like them, bent like them. But my voice never quite fit right. My skin whispered stories the villagers didn’t know how to read. And when they couldn’t read you, they made you into somethin’ to fear.

So I disappeared again.

City to countryside. From the coast to quiet farms. I slept in cellars. Fed in alleyways. Hid my teeth like a shame. Covered my eyes when they burned too bright. But no matter where I went, I couldn’t bury what he’d done to me. What I’d become.

Vampire. Woman. Stranger.

Sin.

Then came America.

I heard tales of it in the mouths of men too poor to own boots but rich enough to dream. A place where no one knew your name unless you gave it. Where you could vanish on purpose. So I boarded a ship under another name and crossed a second ocean.

They didn’t see me.

Didn’t ask what land I came from.

Only that I kept quiet. Paid in coin. Kept to my corner.

And I did.

I stepped off that boat like a shadow lookin’ for a body.

Years blurred. The states changed names and faces. I moved where the fear was low and the sun easier to dodge. Pennsylvania. Georgia. Louisiana. Tennessee.

But nothin’ felt like mine.

Not until Mississippi.

The Delta didn’t ask questions. It didn’t blink twice at a woman whose hands knew how to soothe fever, or whose voice carried like river water over stone. It didn’t care where I came from—just that I came with honesty and stayed with my head down.

And Lord, the pain here… it sang.

You could hear it in the soil. In the fields. In the bones of folk who worked the land like they were tryin’ to forgive it for all it had taken. The joy didn’t come easy here—but it came. It bled through laughter, through music, through bodies swayin’ in defiance of grief.

Here, sorrow didn’t hide from joy.

They danced together.

And for someone like me, that meant maybe I could belong.

I found a room behind a narrow house with warped floorboards and a window I never opened. Miss Adele, who owned it, looked me over long and low before passin’ me the key.

“You ain’t from here,” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

She nodded. “But you wear the heat like it’s home. Just don’t bring no trouble through my door.”

I didn’t make promises. But I paid in full.

I stayed quiet. Covered my skin when the sun rose. Fed when I had to—clean, discreet, never twice in the same place. I helped when I could. Tinctures, poultices, teas. I kept to myself. Most folk didn’t know my story.

Didn’t know I once had a man.

Didn’t know he turned me with a kiss and a curse and then begged me to thank him for it.

Didn’t know I used to love him.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive.

I hadn’t seen Remmick in over a century. Hadn’t heard whispers of him. Sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, I swore I could smell the cold of his coat, the copper of his breath. But that was just memory. Just the mind playin’ cruel.

He could’ve turned to dust for all I knew.

I prayed he had.

Still, I never let myself settle too deep.

The room I rented had no roots.

The name I gave was borrowed.

But the juke joint?

That felt like a church.

When Annie smiled at me and Stack nodded toward the dance floor, when the music rolled through me like a hymn with no preacher—I felt human again. I let my body move. I let myself forget. Just for a night. Just for a song.

And when it was over, I stepped back into shadow like I never left it.

They didn’t know what I was.

Not yet.

But I knew what they were.

Wounded. Brave. Alive.

Mississippi didn’t need my past. It didn’t ask for blood oaths or confession. It let me be.

And for the first time in over a hundred years, that was enough.

But peace?

Peace don’t last for things like me.

Because the past got claws.

And I knew, deep down—

if he was still out there, he’d find me.

What I didn’t know… was that he already had.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The air smelled of fried grease, wet moss, and wood smoke—the kind of southern night that clung to your skin like sweat and memory. I’d just left Miss Lila’s porch, her boy burnin’ up with fever again, and her nerves worn thin as dishwater. I’d left her with a small jar of bark-root and clove oil, told her to steep it slow and keep a cool cloth on his head. She didn’t ask what was in it. Folks rarely did when they was desperate.

The street stretched quiet before me, the dirt packed down by bare feet and Sunday wagons. My boots scuffed low as I walked, the hem of my skirt brushing the edge of dust and dew. The stars hung low tonight, strung like pinholes across a sky too tired to hold itself up.

I passed shuttered windows and sleeping dogs. Passed rusted signs and flickering lamps, the ones that leaned crooked like they were listenin’. I clutched my shawl tighter, the chill sneakier in the spring—evenin’s cool breath slidin’ down the back of my neck.

And then I saw it—the juke joint. It sat tucked behind a bend in the road like a secret meant to be found. Light spilled out through the cracks in the wood like it couldn’t bear to be kept in. Music pulsed low from inside—bluesy and slow, like sorrow had found its rhythm.

Cornbread stood out front like always, arms crossed, leanin’ on the doorframe with that half-grin like he owned the night.

He spotted me before I hit the steps. “Well now,” he said, voice smooth like creek water. “Evenin’, Miss Y/N. Came to bless us with your presence?”

I gave a quiet chuckle, noddin’. “Only if I’m welcome.”

He laughed soft, pushin’ the door open. “Girl, you family by now. Don’t need to be askin’ no more.”

“Still,” I said, steppin’ closer. “Mama always said it’s good manners to ask ‘fore walkin’ into a space that ain’t yours.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna question your manners,” he muttered, wavin’ me through. “Now get in ‘fore the music runs out.”

Inside was a rush of warmth—smoke, sweat, the sweet bite of corn liquor, and somethin’ else… somethin’ close to joy. The music crawled under your skin ‘til your hips remembered how to sway without askin’. Voices buzzed like bees in summer heat, laughter rollin’ like dice across the room.

I eased onto the barstool I always took—third from the left, right where the fan overhead spun lazy—and let my bag fall soft at my boots. Didn’t order nothin’. I never did.

Annie caught sight of me behind the bar, swayin’ easy as ever with a tray of empty glasses tucked on her hip.

“You bring what I asked for?” she asked, duckin’ behind the counter.

I reached into my satchel and handed her the cotton-wrapped bundle. “Steep it slow. Sip, don’t gulp. Should ease you through the worst of it.”

She winked. “Law, I owe you my life.”

“Nah,” I said, settlin’ onto the stool near the end of the bar. “Just owe me a plate of cornbread next time you cookin’.”

That got a laugh out of her, quick and sweet, before she vanished into the back.

I turned back toward the floor, just as Mary’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade through hushpuppies.

“Y’all hear ‘bout the farmer boy gone missin’?” she said, leanin’ into the group crowded ‘round the far end of the bar. Smoke was there, elbow propped, brows knit low. Two more men sat hunched close—quiet, listening.

“Wasn’t just him,” one said. “Old Mabel from the creek road said her nephew ain’t been seen in two days. Said his boots still sittin’ on the porch like he vanished mid-step.”

Smoke grunted. “I say it’s a man gone mad. Roamin’ through the woods, takin’ what he pleases. We’ve seen worse.”

One of the others leaned in, voice hushed. “The natives been whisperin’ it ain’t a man.”

That brought stillness. Even the music in the back room seemed to hush a beat.

“What they say?” Mary asked, brows raised.

“They say somethin’ old woke up,” the man said, voice nearly swallowed by the crackle of heat and distance. “Somethin’ that walks like a man, but ain’t. They leave herbs and ash circles at the edge of the trees again—like back in the old days.”

Mary scoffed, but it sounded unsure. “Old tales. Spirits don’t need bodies to raise hell.”

“They said this one’s lookin’ for somethin’,” he continued, eyes flickin’ toward the windows like the night itself might be listenin’. “Or someone. Been walkin’ the land with hunger in its bones and a face nobody can seem to remember after seein’ it.”

I sat quiet, still as dusk.

“Could just be some drifter,” Smoke said. “Folks get riled when trouble comes and ain’t got no face to pin it on.”

“Then why the sudden vanishings?” Mary pressed. “Why now?”

“Maybe it ain’t sudden,” I said before I could stop myself, my voice low and calm. “Maybe it’s just the first time we’re payin’ attention.”

Four heads turned my way.

Mary squinted. “You heard somethin’ too?”

I shook my head slow. “Just a feelin’. The kind that settles in your back teeth when the wind shifts wrong.”

They didn’t say nothin’ to that. Not directly. But Smoke nodded once, solemn, like he’d felt it too.

The conversation drifted back to softer things—music, cards, the preacher’s crooked fence—but I sat still. That ache behind my ribs hadn’t let up since the moon turned last. The way the air felt heavy even when it wasn’t humid. The way dogs stopped barkin’ at shadows like they knew they couldn’t win.

It weren’t just madness.

And it sure as hell weren’t random.

I could feel it deep.

Like breath on the back of my neck.

Something was here.

Something was comin’.

And this time, I didn’t know if I’d be able to outrun it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick’s Pov

It started with the absence.

Not the kind that’s loud—grief flung sharp across the soul. No. This one crept in slow, like rot behind the walls. Quiet. Patient. The kind of missing that don’t scream. It whispers.

I walked to an empty room. No blood on the floor, no broken window, no fight to mark the leaving. Just cold air where her warmth used to linger. Her scent still clung to the linens. The floor creaked where she last stood.

I called her name.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—barely a whisper. Like maybe she’d come back if I said it soft.

But she didn’t.

And God help me, I searched.

I turned over every rock in that cursed country. Asked after a woman with a strange voice and steady hands. A healer. A ghost. I heard stories that might’ve been her—always just a breath behind. A girl boardin’ a carriage to Marseille. A woman leavin’ a parcel at a chapel in Lisbon. A stranger with dark eyes and no surname passin’ through Antwerp.

I missed her by hours. Days. Once, by a damned blink.

The trail always went cold. But I kept followin’. Because somethin’ in me—somethin’ older than this cursed body—knew she was still out there.

I stopped feedin’ off folk unless I had to. Couldn’t stomach it. Not with her voice echoing in my head, the way she looked at me that night—betrayal writ clear on every bone in her face.

I never meant to hurt her.

I only meant to save her.

But what I gave her weren’t salvation. It was a cage.

A century passed me like smoke through fingers. I lost track of time, faces, cities. Learned to blend into the edges. Changed my name more than once. The world changed, and I watched it like a man outside a window he couldn’t break through.

Then word came.

A dockhand in Barcelona. Drunk off his ass. Said he’d seen a woman walkin’ off a freighter bound for the States. Said she didn’t belong to nobody’s country. Said she looked like a shadow stitched to the sea.

That was all I needed.

I took the next ship out. Didn’t care where it landed—so long as it took me west. Toward her.

The ocean ain’t merciful.

The waves came like judgment. Ripped through the hull on the second week. Screams. Salt. Fire where it shouldn’t be. They said none survived.

They were wrong.

I clung to the wreckage ‘til the sky cracked open with morning. Drifted on broken boards and rage. Burned here and there by the time I reached land—ain’t proud of that. But grief makes monsters outta men, and I already was halfway there.

I moved through towns like a ghost with teeth. New York. Georgia. Tennessee. Small towns and big cities, never settlin’. I listened to whispers in back alleys and watched for her in every market, every dusk-lit chapel, every face turned away from the sun.

Nothing. For years.

But I could feel her.

She was here.

Like the heat before a storm. Like a name you ain’t heard in decades but still makes your gut twist.

It led me to Mississippi.

The Delta pressed down heavy on the chest, thick with memory and blood. And that’s when I knew—she was close. Her scent was buried in the clay. In the river. In the music that throbbed outta them joints deep in the trees.

I watched from the shadows first. Didn’t trust myself not to shatter somethin’ if I saw her too soon.

She danced now. She smiled. But I could see the armor in her eyes. She never looked back when she left a room. Never stepped through a door without pausin’. Still runnin’. Even after all this time.

And me?

I’d come too far.

Burned too much.

So I waited. Watched.

And when the moment was right, I’d step out of the dark…

…and she’d never be able to leave me again.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

There was somethin’ stirrin’ in the wind lately. Not loud, not sharp—just enough to make the back of my neck prickle, enough to keep my eyes glancin’ twice at shadows I used to pass without a care. Folks round here would say it’s just the season changin’. The cotton bloomin’ slow. The river swellin’ with too much rain. But I knew better.

I knew what it felt like when the past came knockin’.

It started with a weight I couldn’t name. Not sorrow, not fear. Just… a tightness in the air. Like the calm right before a storm that don’t care how long you prayed.

I was sweepin’ the porch when it hit strongest. Sun had already gone down behind the trees, but the sky still held that warm blue gold, thick and low, like honey drippin’ off the edge of the world. The breeze carried the scent of pine, of distant smoke and a sweetness I couldn’t quite place. My broom slowed. My breath did too.

I didn’t see nobody. Didn’t hear a damn thing.

But I knew. Somethin’ was watchin’.

I didn’t flinch. Just kept sweepin’, let the wind pull at the hem of my skirt and carried myself like I hadn’t just felt old ghosts shift under my ribs.

Come nightfall, I made my way to the juke. Same as always. Parcel of dried herb tucked in my satchel for Grace. A wrapped cloth of rosehip and sassafras root for Annie. Folks counted on me for that, and I didn’t mind. Gave me a reason to keep movin’. Gave me an excuse to slip past the ache.

Cornbread tipped his chin at me when I reached the door. “You late, sugar.”

I grinned easy, lifting the edge of my shawl. “Didn’t know there was a curfew.”

He stepped aside with a smirk. “Ain’t one. But if you keep showin’ up this late, I’m gon’ start worryin’. Com’ in.”

“Now you sound like Adele,” I teased, brushin’ past him.

Inside, the world came alive. Warm wood floors thrummin’ underfoot. Smoke curlin’ from rolled cigars. Sweat glistenin’ on cheeks mid-laugh. A fiddle cried through the room like it’d been born from somebody’s bones, and I breathed deep. I needed that sound.

I didn’t dance. Not tonight. Just eased myself onto the stool at the far corner and let my satchel rest on the floor. The room buzzed around me, voices rollin’ like riverwater.

Then I felt it again.

That chill. That soft press of a stare at my back. Not unkind. But heavy.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show on my face. But somethin’ old shifted inside me. Somethin’ I’d buried centuries deep.

Not here, I thought. Not now.

I caught Annie passin’ and handed her the pouch. She squeezed my arm with a thank-you, unaware of how tight my chest had gone.

“You feelin’ alright?” she asked.

“Just tired,” I lied, soft. “Been a long week.”

She nodded and moved on, bless her.

But my eyes didn’t move from the corner of the room, where the light barely touched.

Nothin’ was there.

But I felt him.

Or maybe I was just tired.

Maybe.

I left earlier than usual, sayin’ my goodbyes with a smile that didn’t quite touch the bone. The walk back was quiet—too quiet for a town this close to midnight. I kept to the edge of the trees, let the dark wrap around me like a veil.

At my door, I paused. Looked over my shoulder.

Still nothin’.

Still that weight.

Inside, I lit one lamp and sat down slow on the edge of the bed, unwrappin’ my scarf. My hands were shakin’, just a little.

There’s a certain kind of fear that don’t come with panic. Don’t scream in your ears or rush your breath.

It settles.

Like a coat. Like a second skin.

And I knew that fear.

I knew it like I knew the taste of ash on my tongue. Like I knew the look in his eyes the night he chose for me what I would never have chosen for myself.

I leaned back, arms crossin’ my chest.

If it was him, he wouldn’t show yet.

Not ‘til he was ready.

Not ‘til I couldn’t run again.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I waited.

And in the silence, my soul whispered one word.

Remmick.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The grass whispered under my steps as I walked. Basket on my arm. Sun barely peekin’ through the trees. I’d meant only to gather herbs ‘fore the day grew too hot—rosemary, some goldenrod, a few stubborn mint sprigs for Annie’s cough. But the air felt… wrong.

Not wrong like danger.

Wrong like memory.

Like grief wearin’ another man’s skin.

The woods around me were still—too still. The birds had hushed. Even the wind held its breath. And I knew. Same way you know a snake’s behind you without seein’ it. Same way your spirit clenches when the past is near.

I stopped by the creekbed, crouched low like I was studyin’ the mint. But my breath’d already gone shallow. I didn’t need to see him to feel him. The air had thickened, the way it always did before a summer storm. Thick like honey gone too long. Like hunger waitin’ in a dark room.

“I know it’s you,” I said, not even botherin’ to turn. My voice didn’t shake. Not even once. “Ain’t no use hidin’ in the shade. You was never no shadow.”

No answer.

Not yet.

But I felt him in the stillness. In the hush between my heartbeats.

“Come on out, Remmick.”

His name cracked the air open like thunder.

And then—branches shifted.

I turned slow.

He was leanin’ against a tree like he’d been grown there. Pale, still, boots clean despite the mud. Hair tousled like sleep or war. Those eyes—red as dusk and just as dangerous. But his face…

His face looked like grief tryin’ to wear calm like a disguise.

“You always did know how to find me,” he said, voice low and silk-slick, but it cracked under the weight of memory.

“I didn’t find you,” I snapped. “You been followin’ me.”

He smiled—sad and sharp. “Reckon I have.”

The basket slipped from my hand, landin’ soft in the dirt. My jaw clenched.

“You survived.”

“Aye,” he said, never lookin’ away. “Didn’t think I would. But I’ve always been hard to kill.”

I laughed, bitter. “Too stubborn for death, too stupid to know when to quit.”

He took a step. Measured. Careful.

“I looked for you,” he said, breath catchin’.

“And when you found me,” I cut in, “you hid.”

He flinched. “I wasn’t ready. You left, Y/N. After everythin’—”

“You turned me!” I snapped, voice shakin’. “You took my choice and dressed it up like mercy.”

“I saved you.”

“You cursed me.”

Silence. Heavy and wet like the air.

“I woke up hungry, Remmick,” I whispered. “Starvin’. Scared. Watchin’ my own hands do things I couldn’t stop. You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t know what it would do to you,” he said. “But I couldn’t bury you. Not you.”

I took a step back. My heart was thunderin’ in my ears.

“You should’ve let me die.”

His eyes shone then—not from the red glow, but from somethin’ older. Somethin’ breakin’.

“I couldn’t,” he breathed. “I’d already lost everythin’. My brother. My home. And then you—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I’d have nothin’ left if you died.”

I stared at him, tears burnin’ the backs of my eyes. “So instead you dragged me into this hell and called it love?”

“I loved you.”

“I loved you too,” I said. “And that’s what makes it worse.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare.

“You think I ain’t felt you watchin’ me these last few weeks?” I said, steady now. “Think I didn’t know the air changed when you came near?”

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, voice ragged. “Not after what I did. Not after you ran.”

“I had to,” I said. “You made me a monster. I couldn’t look at you without hearin’ the scream I let out when I woke up.”

We stood there, tangled in the ache of a hundred years.

Then he said quiet, “I didn’t want to own you. I just wanted to belong to someone again.”

I closed my eyes. And Lord, that was the worst part.

Because some part of me still did ache for him. Still remembered the feel of his hand in mine when we were both still human. Still remembered that look he gave me like I hung the moon crooked just to keep him wonderin’.

But ache ain’t the same as love.

“You got no right,” I whispered. “Not to this town. Not to me.”

His jaw flexed.

“Then why’d you call my name?”

“Because I felt you,” I said. “And I’d rather look the devil in the eye than let him haunt me from the trees.”

He smiled then, soft and bitter.

“I ain’t the devil.”

“No,” I said. “But you sure learned how to dance like him.”

He stared at me a long time.

And I knew, right then, this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

But I’d bought myself a moment.

And in a life like mine, a moment might just be the thing that saves you.

“Go,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Before I decide to hate you more than I already do.”

He took a breath. Then turned.

Walked back into the woods without a word.

But I knew that weren’t the last of him.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t come to say goodbye.

They come to take back what they think belongs to them.

And this is the point when patience isn’t known to him.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The joint was hummin’.

Music slid through the floor like syrup, thick with bass and heat. Somebody’s uncle was hollerin’ over a blues tune on the piano, Annie behind the bar crackin’ jokes while slippin’ flasks under the table. Sweat glistened on the back of my neck, curls stickin’ to my skin, and laughter rolled up from the dance floor like smoke. I was leanin’ into a conversation with Josephine at the bar, her eyes wide as she told me about a man she caught slippin’ out her window barefoot just before his wife came knockin’.

I chuckled low, brows raised. “And you didn’t slap him upside the head first?”

She rolled her eyes. “I had better things to do than waste my strength on a fool.”

“Amen to that,” I said, liftin’ my glass, though I hadn’t drunk a drop.

Then I felt it.

A cold ripple slid down the length of my spine—so sudden, it stole the breath right out my lungs. It weren’t fear, not quite. But the kind of dread that came from knowin’ something was wrong before your eyes could prove it.

I didn’t see the door.

But I saw Stack.

He was on his feet, jaw tight, walkin’ past me with that slow kind of purpose. Smoke followed close behind, his eyes narrowin’ toward the open entrance. Cornbread had gone quiet at the door, and that alone was enough to knot my gut.

Josephine kept talkin’, but her voice faded into nothin’.

My body moved on its own.

I stood, heart poundin’ like a war drum behind my ribs. The music didn’t stop, but everything inside me did. I walked past the tables, past the girls, through the perfume and pipe smoke and scent of sweat and spilt whiskey.

And then—

His voice.

Smooth. Mockin’. Sugar over glass.

“Evenin’,” Remmick drawled, like he’d been invited to church supper and meant to charm the whole congregation. “Lovely place y’all got here. Full of… soul.”

My blood turned to ice.

He was speakin’ to Cornbread, who stood stiff as a gatepost, eyes narrowin’ as the air seemed to stretch thin between ‘em.

“Think you might be lost,” Cornbread said slowly, not movin’ from his post. “There’s places in town for your kind. This ain’t one.”

“Oh, but I’m right where I need to be,” Remmick smiled, sharp and hollow. “Heard tale of music, drink, and dancin’. Figured I’d see it for myself. Can’t a man enjoy the night?”

His eyes flicked past Cornbread—landin’ square on me.

Like he’d planned it. Like he’d waited for the silence in my soul to find the crack just wide enough to step through.

“Y/N,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

Stack stepped in front of me. “You know this man?”

“I do,” I said. My voice came out steady, but my hands curled into fists at my sides. “I know him.”

“Name’s Remmick,” he said, glancin’ at the twins with a false-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Old friends with the lady. We go back.”

“Too far,” I muttered.

He took a step forward, and Stack shifted, blockin’ him.

“Easy now,” Remmick said, hands liftin’. “I’m just here to talk. That all right with you, darlin’?”

His tone curled around that word like it meant everything and nothin’ at all. The same way it used to when he wanted me quiet. Wanted me pliant.

“No,” I snapped. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

Cornbread’s hand twitched toward the bat leanin’ beside the door.

Remmick chuckled. “Didn’t know you needed permission to visit old flames. Thought we were past pretendin’, Y/N.”

My jaw clenched. I stepped in front of Stack and Smoke, meetin’ Remmick’s eyes dead on.

“You’re pushin’ it,” I said low, “and you know it.”

He tilted his head. “I’m just tryin’ to make amends. Catch up. Maybe remind you of what we—”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “Not here.”

He didn’t shut up.

Instead, he smirked and said, “What? Afraid somebody might recognize what you really are?”

That was it.

I moved fast. My hand gripped his arm hard, draggin’ him back from the door ‘fore anyone else could hear. His boots scraped the dirt as I yanked him past the porch, into the woods just beyond the edge of the firelight.

We didn’t stop ‘til the juke faded behind us, til the only sound was the hiss of the crickets and the rasp of my breath.

Then I let go.

He stumbled back, laughin’ low.

“You always were the fiery sort,” he muttered. “Mouth full of ash and thunder.”

My eyes flared, shiftin’ to that color I only saw when my blood ran too hot. “Are you outta your damn mind, comin’ up in there like that?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t figure you’d come callin’ again. Had to make the introduction myself.”

“You could’ve blown everything,” I hissed. “You wanna waltz in there flashin’ teeth and riddles, but these people don’t forget what monsters look like once they get wind of it. You forgot that part?”

His face twisted, somethin’ cruel and wounded all at once. “You forgot I ain’t been welcome in any place for centuries. You found a home. I found shadows. You danced while I starved.”

I stepped close, close enough to see the red flicker in his eyes again.

“You don’t get to turn this on me,” I said, voice droppin’ into a tremble of fury. “You made me this way. You left me this way. And now you think you can show up with your coy words and puppy eyes and take what ain’t yours anymore?”

He leaned in, voice barely breathin’.

“You were always mine, darlin’. Long ‘fore the blood ever touched your lips.”

I slapped him.

The sound cracked like a pistol in the hush.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice.

But that smile—the slow, dangerous one he wore like armor—slipped off his face like a mask too heavy to hold.

I was breathin’ hard. Fists clenched. Rain gatherin’ on my skin like it had permission. Like even the sky had been waitin’ for us to come undone.

“You don’t get to say that,” I seethed, chest heavin’. “You don’t ever get to say that to me.”

Remmick stayed where he stood—still, calm. Too calm. Like the eye of a storm that knew the ruin already circlin’ it.

“I reckon I just did,” he said low, almost kind. “And I meant it.”

My jaw shook. “You think this is love? You think this is some twisted soul-bind you can drag behind you like a dog on a chain?”

His brow ticked, barely. “No chain ever held you, Y/N. You cut every one yourself.”

I took a step toward him, finger pointed like it might draw blood.

“You turned me without askin’. You let me wake up alone. You watched me starve. And now you show up actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head, watchin’ me unravel.

“I didn’t say you owed me. I came to see if there was anythin’ left.”

“There wasn’t!” I shouted, voice crackin’. “There ain’t! Not after what you did.”

He exhaled slow through his nose, like he’d been expectin’ this. Like he’d already played it out a thousand ways in the hollows of his mind.

“You always did throw fire when your heart got loud.”

“You got no right to talk about my heart,” I hissed. “Not after the way you crushed it and called it savin’ me.”

He stepped closer—just one step. Careful. Calm.

“You think I ain’t spent the last hundred years crawlin’ through the world lookin’ for pieces of you? You think I didn’t see the wreck I left behind? I know what I did.”

“Then why are you here?” My voice trembled. “Why now?”

He looked at me like I was still the only song he remembered the words to.

“Because even now,” he said, soft and razor-sharp, “you’re still the only thing that makes me feel like I didn’t die all the way.”

The rain started then—slow at first, then heavy. Soakin’ my dress. Mattin’ my hair to my face. But I didn’t move. Didn’t wipe the water from my eyes.

Because it wasn’t just rain.

It was rage.

It was heartbreak.

It was every scream I swallowed the night he turned me.

“You ruined me,” I said. “And now you want me to weep for you?”

“No.” He blinked once. Steady. “I want nothin’ from you you don’t give me freely.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I was,” he said. “But I ain’t lyin’ now.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “So what? You want redemption?”

He shook his head. “That ain’t a road I get to walk.”

The silence that followed was thick. Biblical.

And then, slow—too slow—Remmick sank to his knees.

Not like a man prayin’.

But like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he said, voice quiet and cracked around the edges. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

Rain slammed the earth in waves now, like it meant to bury every word between us.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just watched him kneel in the mud, pale hands open, head bowed like even he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

His eyes flickered red in the stormlight.

Still beautiful.

Still dangerous.

Still mine—once.

And then the memory returned—

His mouth on my throat.

My scream breakin’ the sky.

The taste of betrayal before I even knew the word for it.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation…

…and became his punishment.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t rise.

Just stayed there on his knees in the wet earth, eyes on me like I was a hymn he’d long forgotten how to pray, but still couldn’t stop hummin’.

“You don’t get to play the martyr,” I said, rain slidin’ down the slope of my jaw, voice low and level. “You don’t get to break somethin’ and call it love.”

His jaw worked, but he stayed quiet. Good. He was learnin’.

I stepped closer, slow enough for the mud to cling to my boots like memory.

“You think this—” I gestured at his posture, at the rain, the ache between us— “makes you smaller than me? It don’t. You still got teeth. Still got hunger. But now you got somethin’ else too.”

I let the silence hang for a breath.

Then another.

“My hand ain’t on your throat, Remmick. I ain’t pulled no blade. But you still follow, don’t you?”

His eyes flickered, faint red beneath the dark.

“You follow ‘cause you can’t help it,” I said, takin’ one more step. “Not ‘cause I told you to. But because I’m the ghost you ain’t never been able to bury.”

His mouth parted—like maybe he’d speak, maybe he’d beg again—but I beat him to it.

“You been searchin’ all these years thinkin’ I was the piece you lost.” My voice dipped lower, soft as a curse. “But maybe I was the punishment you earned.”

He flinched.

Just barely.

But I saw it.

Felt it.

“You ain’t on your knees ‘cause of guilt,” I said. “You’re down there ‘cause you know deep in your bones—I still got a leash on your soul.”

He looked up at me then.

Really looked.

And for the first time since he crawled back into my world, he didn’t reach.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t beg.

He just watched.

Like he knew I was right.

Like he knew that no matter how far I’d run or how cruel I’d grown…

…I’d always be the one holdin’ the reins.

I turned without another word, walked back through the trees, each step heavy with the truth we couldn’t outrun.

And though I didn’t hear him rise—

I knew he would.

I knew he’d follow.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t vanish.

They linger.

They haunt.

They wait for the softest crack in your armor, then slip back in like they never left.

But this time, he’d have to wait.

This time, I wasn’t runnin’.

And I wasn’t lettin’ him in, either.

Let him kneel in the mud.

Let him feel what it’s like to want somethin’ that won’t break for him no more.

Because even monsters got leashes.

And some ain’t made of rope.

They’re made of memory.

Of ache.

Of the one person who walked away—and meant it.

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