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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀white feather hawk tail deer hunter 、 askj

❤︎⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀jo will never be like his father. he was not made to be a deer hunter, far too soft his father had once said. but hes know this since he was a child. its only solidified when he sees you—a white feather hawk tailed deer.

•⠀‎‎ masterlist ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎𓋰‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎💬 ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎26k wc ─── ᛫ deer hunter!jo x deer!f rea . hurt/comfort, angst, childhood trauma, hybrid au, abuse (past), slow burn, mutual pining, guilt, grief, minor character death, major character death, mentions of blood, injury, virgin jo, virgin reader, loss of virginity, size difference, soft sex, needy!jo, inexperienced jo, inexperienced reader, unprotected p in v, pulling out, kissing, healing. don't copy/translate my work. i only write on tumblr.

The forest was quiet that morning, the kind of quiet that made every snapped twig sound like a gunshot. Jo gripped the rifle tighter than he should have, his knuckles white under the worn leather gloves his father had handed him at dawn.

“Keep your eyes sharp, boy,” his father muttered, breath fogging in the cold air. “Deer hybrids are clever. They look almost human when they want to, but don’t let that fool you. They’re still animals. Prey.”

Jo hated this.

He hated the weight of the rifle in his hands. He hated the eager glint in his father’s eye. Most of all, he hated the way his own pulse hammered with something that felt too much like guilt even before they’d spotted a single track.

“Fresh,” his father said, turning up his nose and sniffing the air. The smell of someone who was scared and trying not to be, floated through the trees. His father whispered, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. He watched the tracks below—small, delicate hoof prints mixed with the faint imprint of human-like feet pressed into the damp soil.

“Young doe. must be female. She’s definitely alone. Perfect for your first real kill.”

Jo swallowed hard. “Maybe we should head back. Storm’s coming.”

His father shot him a sharp look. “Don’t go soft on me now, boy. This is what we do, what our family has always done. Those hybrids took enough from us over the years. Time to balance the scales.”

Jo bit his tongue. He’d heard the stories a thousand times: so many times that he could remember them off the top of his head. How the deer folk had “raided” their crops, how one had supposedly gored a neighbor. But he’d also seen the antlers that hung above the crackling fireplace, carved from the mother of the very hybrid they were probably tracking right now. Balance felt a lot like vengeance wearing different clothes, Jo thought before sighing and pressing his lips together to nod at his father with a small smile. Anything to make sure his father didn’t suspect his real feelings.

Your scent hit Jo first.

Not the sharp musk of regular deer. Softer. Warmer. Something sweet lingered underneath—it curled low in his chest and made his breath catch, made the rifle feel suddenly too heavy, made the guilt bloom wider, darker, like ink dropped in water. Jo froze mid-step, boots sinking into the moss.

And the forest held its breath with him.

He could already picture you—small, trembling, eyes wide and fearful. The way your body would probably soften under threat, the same way it had been taught to soften as prey.

Jo’s grip loosened, just a fraction. The rifle suddenly felt like a betrayal pressed against his own ribs. He wondered, quietly, if when he finally saw you, he would be able to pull the trigger at all.

Or if some sick, ruined part of him would simply want to kneel instead.

His father moved ahead, boots deliberate, breath steady. The man who had taught him that mercy was just another word for weakness. The man whose hands had once pressed those same antlers that hung over the fireplace into 8-year-old Jo’s small palms and said, “This is what we do to what hurts us.”

Jo followed because he always followed. Because he didn’t know what else he was made for. What good are you if not obedient?

But every step felt like sinking deeper into something that wasn’t quite mud.

Then he saw you.

Through the thin veil of branches, half-hidden behind a fallen log draped in moss like an old blanket. Small. Trembling. Your ears—delicate, furred, twitching at every sound—flicked back against your hair. Delicate antlers, barely branched, caught the weak sunlight filtering through the trees. The baby doll dress you wore—far too thin for the morning cold—clung to your frame like it was trying to hold you together. Your legs ended in small cloven hooves that clicked softly against the frozen ground, delicate and wrong in all the right ways, but the rest of you looked heartbreakingly human. Frame wrapped in a tattered coat you’d clearly scavenged from somewhere kinder than these woods, faint tremble running through your hands as you clutched that bundle of foraged roots tight to your chest like it was the last soft thing left in the world.

You looked straight at him.

And Jo forgot how to breathe.

You looked like something that had wandered out of a dream he was never meant to have.

Your hands clutched the hem of your dress, knuckles pale, the fabric bunching as if it could shield you if you just held on tight enough.

The air turned thick, honey-slow, pressing against his ribs until every beat of his heart felt like an unsaid confession.

His father’s voice slid in low and steady beside him, calm as Sunday morning scripture. “Easy shot. Take her, son. First kill’s always the hardest, but it gets easier.”

Jo’s finger hovered over the trigger. The rifle felt impossibly heavy, heavier than the guilt of murdering something so innocent, heavier than the antlers mounted above the fireplace that still watched him every time he sat and drew in this living room. Your eyes met his again, wide and pleading, and something inside him cracked wide open, slow and wet like a wound that had been waiting years to bleed.

He couldn’t do it.

Before his father could react, Jo swung the barrel away and fired into the dirt at your feet. The gunshot exploded through the trees, violent and sudden, ripping the quiet apart like cheap cloth. You bolted, hooves kicking up leaves and frost as you disappeared into the underbrush with a startled cry that lodged itself somewhere behind Jo’s ribs and refused to leave.

“What the hell was that?!” His father roared, grabbing Jo by the shoulder and spinning him around hard enough to bruise. “You missed on purpose!”

“I—I slipped,” Jo lied through his teeth, voice shaking like a leaf in the wind he couldn’t control. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

His father’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp as the knife he kept for dressing kills, but he let it go with a low sigh and grunt that still carried warning. “We’ll pick up the trail tomorrow. She won’t get far with that leg print. Looks like she might be limping a little already. Better not miss again.”

That night, Jo lay awake in the cabin, staring at the ceiling until the wood grain blurred into antlers and delicate cloven hooves. Every time he closed his lids, he saw yours again—full of fear and something else, something quieter. recognition, maybe. Like you knew exactly whose blood ran in his veins. Like you’d already learned what men like his father did to things that looked soft.

The next morning, he slipped out alone before dawn, boots quiet on the frost-hard ground, rifle left behind like a sin he wasn’t ready to carry anymore.

The forest felt different without his father’s shadow stretching ahead. Quieter. Heavier. It was waiting for him to choose what kind of monster he wanted to be. Jo was never good at choosing for himself, though.

He moved slow, following the faint trail of small hoof prints and the memory of your scent still clinging to the inside of his lungs. Sweet. Warm. Trembling not just from the frosty November air.

He didn’t know what he would say when he found you.

He only knew he couldn’t let his father be the one to finish what the family had started.

He wondered if you would run when you saw him coming or if you would simply wait, spine already bowing, eyes already softening. Submitting to a fate you had seen take all you knew.

Jo was six when he first saw something beautiful die.

It was not a deer, nor a rabbit.

It was the light in his mother’s eyes.

He remembers the exact moment it flickered out. She had been humming while folding laundry, the sound thin and sweet like early spring air, her hands moving carefully over his small shirts as if keeping them soft could keep him soft too. Then his father’s boots hit the porch heavily. The humming stopped mid-note. Her shoulders drew in, just a fraction, the way yours had behind that fallen log. The light in her eyes dimmed the way dusk takes the last color from the trees—slow, inevitable, leaving only the gray.

Jo had sat near the doorway, pencil still in his small hands, when he watched his father’s hand close around her wrist, not hard enough to bruise where anyone could see, but hard enough that the laundry slipped from her fingers and pooled at her feet like surrender. She didn’t cry out. She never did. just lowered her gaze and whispered something too quiet for Jo to catch, the same way you had clutched the hem of your dress like it could shield you from what was coming.

In every way, you reminded him of his mother. He wondered if he would become like his father and ruin all that's good. all that is made of softness and light.

That night, silence filled the home. His mother moved through the cabin like a ghost learning how to haunt her own body, smiling small and tight when Jo asked if she was okay, the smile never reaching the place behind her eyes where the light used to live. Jo learned then that some deaths don’t always leave blood. They leave empty rooms inside people.

He started practicing the same smile. learned to make his voice steady, even when his hands trembled—learned that you were no good unless obedient.

Years later, the same lesson still sat heavy in his chest as he followed your uneven prints deeper into the trees.

He kept walking, boots sinking slowly into moss that smelled of damp earth and old secrets. The forest felt like it was holding its breath again, waiting to see which version of him would arrive first—the boy who once held warm antlers and cried, or the man still trying to outrun the sound of his mother’s humming cutting off mid-note.

snap.

There you laid, your small frame half-curled against a fallen trunk, coat too thin, antlers catching fractured light. He could see the blood that seeped through your tights, turning white to red. Your eyes lifted, wide and fearful. He had seen this look before; he knew it all too well.

“I’m not…” the words came out cracked, uneven, too quiet for the weight they carried. “I won’t hurt you.”

The words felt stupid the moment they left him. Too gentle for a boy raised on rifles and revenge. Too soft for the son of a man who drilled the words “Grow up tough or die weak.” But they slipped out anyway, slow and trembling.

He took one slow step closer.

Then stopped.

Because you looked too much like her.

It wasn’t just the fear in your eyes, maybe it was the way your shoulders drew in, the way your spine already knew how to bow—to hide.

Jo felt sick. The part that had never quite learned how to be cruel the way his father wanted — ached to kneel instead. To press his forehead to the cold soil and beg you to run. To tell you he was sorry for the blood on your tights, sorry for the antlers above the fireplace, sorry for every time his mother’s light had dimmed and he had only learned to look away.

But he stayed standing.

Breath shallow. Rifle long abandoned back at the cabin like a sin he wasn’t ready to carry anymore.

The forest held its breath with him.

You didn’t speak. Just watched, ears flicking back against your hair, cloven hooves scraping faintly against the frozen earth—a tiny, helpless sound that lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs and refused to leave.

“I’m Jo,” he said, softer this time.

He lowered himself slowly, not quite kneeling, not quite standing — caught between the man his father made and the boy who still remembered what softness looked like. One knee brushed the moss. Cold seeped through his jeans like a warning.

Your eyes followed the movement.

Something in them flickered. Not trust. Not yet. Just the quiet, exhausted recognition of someone who had already learned what men with rifles sounded like when they lied.

“Jo,” you repeated, the sound of his name in your mouth felt wrong and right at once—soft, trembling.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered, the words slipping out unevenly, longer than they needed to be, then suddenly short, like breath catching on a hook. “Let me… I can help. I won’t—”

His hands moved before the rest of him caught up.

He ripped his jacket off. The heavier canvas slides down his arms with a quiet rustle that sounds too loud in the stillness. It drops to the moss beside him, forgotten. Then the flannel underneath—worn thin at the elbows comes off in one clumsy pull. Cold air hits his skin instantly, sharp as memory, but he barely flinches. All he feels is the sick ache low in his chest and the way his hands won’t stop shaking.

His arm stays outstretched, trembling.

The flannel dangles from his long, thin fingers—still warm from his body. Sleeves limp and dangling. The faint smell of wood smoke and something softer underneath, something almost like violets, maybe, or even the ghost of his mother’s laundry soap—clinging to the fabric.

a beautiful contrast against the blood, frost, and fear.

“Here,” he says, voice cracking small and uneven again. “Please. press it against the bleeding. It’s clean enough.”

Your ears flick back against your hair again, delicate fur brushing skin that looked too human, too breakable. Eyes full of fear, fear that this was all a trap. That once you took the offering, you would be signing away your life.

You reminded him so much of her it hurt to breathe.

The same way your shoulders drew in. The same way your fingers clutched fabric like it could ever be armor. The same quiet, ancient knowing that softness was just another word for something already marked for taking.

Jo’s throat tightened.

A short, brittle line of thought: I won’t become him.

Then longer, spilling slow and thick:

“I’m not asking you to trust me. Not yet. Not ever, if you don’t want, just… let the bleeding stop. Then I’ll back away. I’ll leave the flannel. I’ll walk backward until the trees swallow the sight of me whole. Whatever you need.”

You take the flannel.

Your fingers—small, trembling, still dusted with dirt from the roots you’d been clutching earlier—reach out slow, hesitant, like the fabric might burn you. They brush his first. just the lightest graze of skin against skin, warm from his body meeting the chill of yours, and Jo feels it like a spark dragged across dry tinder.

The fabric presses against the blood, soaking your tights, dark red blooming into the faded plaid, turning the scent of wood smoke and faint violets into the smell of metal and moss. You hold it there, shoulders drawn in tight, ears still flicking back against your hair in small, wary starts. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—, wide, full of that old fear that this was all a trap, that taking anything from a man like him meant death.

“…Why?”

The word came out small, cracked at the edges, barely louder than the scrape of your hoof against the frozen ground. Your voice is soft—trembling, but steady enough to cut through the quiet. “Why are you doing this? You shot at me. Your father… he would have killed me. Why give me your shirt when you should have just finished it?”

Jo’s breath caught.

“I don’t know’ is all he whispers.

But that was not the truth.

The real answer sat heavy and rotten behind his ribs, pressing outward until every slow inhale felt like it might split him open. The truth was, you reminded him of his mother.

He let out a shaky breath, the cold air fogging between you.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this. Not really. Maybe I’m just tired of watching beautiful things die. Maybe I’m trying to prove that I am not someone who will ruin everything soft it touches. Or maybe I’m just a coward who finally couldn’t pretend anymore.”

Jo’s hands stayed open and empty in the space between you, still trembling, palms up like an offering he didn’t know how to make clean.

Your ears flicked back again, delicate and wary. The flannel pressed tight to your leg, blood still seeping slowly into the fabric, “You think I’m beautiful?”

His cheeks burned.

The heat crawled up from his neck in slow, traitorous waves, staining his skin a soft, humiliated red that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. Jo ducked his head slightly, bare shoulders curling inward as if that could somehow shrink him.

“Yeah.” Jo’s cheeks burned hotter the second it left his mouth, a soft, humiliated pink blooming fast across his face, crawling up to the tips of his ears until even the cold air felt warm against his skin. He ducked his head lower, bare shoulders curling in tight like he could fold the blush away, hide the shy boy who had never learned how to say something gentle without feeling it in his whole body.

“I… I do,” he whispered, the confession long and trembling.

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. It just… slipped. You looked—I dont know…so soft when I first saw you. I haven’t seen anything like that in years…and I… I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see it. Couldn’t pretend I wasn’t tired of watching things like that disappear.”

“I’m sorry,” he added, softer still, the apology flowing long and gentle before it ended in a tiny, broken stop. “I know it’s stupid to say something like that right now. While you’re bleeding and scared, and I’m the reason.”

“…You really think I’m soft?”

The word hung there, fragile and uncertain, like something you were almost afraid to touch. Your ears flicked back again, slower this time, the delicate fur brushing your hair as your doe eyes stayed fixed on his flushed face.

“I haven’t felt soft in a long time,” you whispered, the sentence long and careful, then suddenly short, almost broken. “Not since the woods started feeling like they were always watching. Not since I learned that soft things get chased. So when you say it like that… it sounds like a trick. Like the kind of lie that comes right before the hurt. But your face is all red and you keep looking away like you’re scared I’ll laugh at you… and I don’t know what to do with that.”

You pressed the flannel harder against your thigh, shoulders still drawn in tight, A small whimper escaping you at the pressure on the wound—soft, involuntary, barely more than a breath. A tiny helpless sound that made Jo’s chest ache.

Your voice dropped even softer, trembling at the edges.

“Right now I feel anything but soft. I feel scared. And cold. And like if I let myself believe you even a little, it’ll hurt worse when you remember whose son you are.”

He swallowed, the sound small and wet, cheeks burning brighter as he risked the quickest glance at your face before looking away again, lashes lowering.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice barely there now, long and careful before it faded into a tiny, broken stop. “I’m sorry he exists. I’m sorry I come from him. I’m sorry that every time I try to do something gentle it still feels like I’m carrying his shadow on my back.”

The forest held its breath tighter, the cold pressing in while the faint scent of blood and moss curled slow around you both.

Your voice came out small, barely louder than the wind slipping through the bare branches.

“Your father will come to finish the job.”

The words landed soft and heavy between you, trembling at the edges like frost on a leaf that might crumble if touched wrong. They weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They simply sat there, quiet and true, pressing against Jo’s ribs until the air felt too thick to breathe.

“I… I know,” he whispered, the confession long and shaky, flowing slow like something afraid to be heard before it suddenly broke short, almost too quiet. “He’ll come looking. Tomorrow. Maybe sooner. He doesn’t let things get away. Not when they bleed. Not when they’re… soft.”

“If he comes…” he murmured, the words long and trembling again, then suddenly short, almost pleading. “If he comes, I’ll stand between you. I’ll tell him I slipped. I’ll tell him I lost the trail. I’ll lie until my voice gives out. But I need you to believe one thing. Just one. I’m not him. Not yet. And I don’t want to be the reason you stop feeling soft.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead your voice came again, quieter, trembling at the edges but steady enough to reach him.

“…Then what are you going to do when he gets here and sees you kneeling in the dirt with no shirt, blushing like that, trying to protect something you were supposed to kill?”

Jo’s heart lurched, shy and ruined.

He let out a tiny, embarrassed breath, almost a whimper of his own, cheeks burning hotter as he whispered back, long and gentle before it ended in a small, desperate stop.

“I don’t know… but I’ll figure it out. Just… stay soft a little longer. Please. Let me tie the cloth first. Let me stop the bleeding. Then we’ll decide what comes next. Together. If you’ll let me.”

You give him a small hesitant nod, and he reaches forwards—fingers trembling as he knots it, slow, careful—not tight enough to hurt, never that—but enough to stem the red that keeps blooming dark against the faded plaid. His bare skin prickles in the cold, but the real shiver lives deeper. Somewhere behind his ribs where the boy who once cried over antlers still hides.

You watch him. Eyes softer than before, ears half-flattened, the delicate fur catching bits of fractured light. Your breath comes in small clouds that dissolve too fast, the way good things always do around men like him.

“I don’t know what comes next either,” he says, voice long and low, spilling like sap from a wound he can’t stop touching. “But I know the sound of my father’s boots. I know how heavy they fall when he’s tracking something soft.” A short pause. The forest exhales with him. “I won’t let them fall here. I’ll make sure of it…”

He sits back on his heels, knees sinking deeper into moss. The ground is cold and honest. It doesn’t pretend mercy is easy. Jo’s shoulders curl inward, bare and lightly freckled and suddenly too exposed, like stripping the flannel off had peeled more than just cloth away.

He thinks of his mother again—how she used to fold his shirts with gentle hands. How she taught him to be quiet the way other mothers teach songs.

You shift. A tiny sound escapes—half-whimper—and it hooks behind his sternum, pulls.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you whisper. The words tremble at the edges, then drop short. Sharp. “Like I’m something worth saving.”

Jo’s throat tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Lets the silence stretch, uneven, heavy with everything he’s never been allowed to say. The blush still burns across his cheeks, stupid and boyish and impossible to hide. He ducks his head lower, lashes brushing skin that feels too hot for November woods.

“Because you are,” he finally murmurs, long and careful, each word weighted like stones dropped into still water. “Because I’ve spent my whole life watching soft things get taken apart. My mother’s humming. The light in her eyes. The way she’d press her face into my hair like I was the last tender thing left.” A sudden short breath. “And I never stopped it. Not once.”

He reaches out—not to touch, never without permission—but to brush a stray leaf from the edge of your coat. His fingers hover. Tremble. Fall back to his lap like they remember their place.

“I think…some part of me died with her light. The part that was supposed to stay gentle. The part that still believed I could protect softness—even if I was still half my father.”

Jo’s voice cracks small, then flows again, slow and tender. “But when I saw you behind that tree—ears flicking, dress too thin for this cold—I felt it wake up. The boy who once swore to shelter the softness he saw. The one who wanted to protect instead of poach.”

Your hoof scrapes the frozen earth. A small, restless sound. Your eyes stay on his face, searching for the lie you expect to find.

Jo swallows. The taste of wood smoke and fear and something sweeter—your scent still clinging to the inside of his lungs—sits heavy on his tongue.

“If he comes,” he says, the words long and trembling before they cut short, “I’ll stand in front of you. Shirtless and shaking and useless, probably. But I’ll stand.” A fragile smile ghosts across his mouth, gone as quick as breath on glass. “Maybe that’s all I’ve got left that’s mine. The shaking. The not-wanting-to-be-him.”

He leans forward just enough for the cold air to slip between you, carrying the faint trace of his warmth. The flannel knots hold. Red still seeps, but slower now. Like the woods themselves are deciding whether to let you bleed out or let you live.

Your fingers stay curled in the fabric he gave you. Small. Dirt-stained. Breakable in ways that make his chest ache with something too big for the name guilt.

“Stay soft,” he whispers again, the plea spilling long and desperate before it ends abrupt, almost too quiet. “Just… a little longer. Let me get you somewhere warmer. My father’s out till dusk. The cabin’s empty. There’s blankets. Water. No one goes in my room. It’s on the other side of the house.”

He stands slow, careful not to loom. Offers his hand—not demanding, just open. Palm up. Trembling like everything else about him.

“I know it’s stupid,” he adds, voice soft as moth wings against stained glass. “Asking a doe to follow the hunter’s son home. But I’m not hunting anymore.” A sudden short line, raw: “I wasn’t made for that sort of thing.”

The forest holds its breath again. Antlers of bare branches overhead catch the weak sun. Somewhere distant, a twig snaps—maybe wind, maybe boots, maybe nothing at all.

Jo waits. Heart hammering loud enough to wake every secret the trees ever swallowed. Blush still burning. Knees still moss-stained. Ready to kneel if that’s what it takes.

Ready to ruin everything he was supposed to be, if it means keeping one soft thing from dying in front of him.

“If I die. It’ll be something you will have to live with. knowing that something soft died within your hands. Are you okay with the possibility of that?”

Jo’s breath catches. The forest tilts, just a little. Like the chapel in your nightmares. Like every time his father pressed those antlers into his small palms and called it love. His outstretched hand stays frozen between you, palm still open, still trembling, the cold air licking across his bare skin like judgment dressed in wind.

He doesn’t answer right away. Lets the silence stretch long and uneven, heavy with every ghost he’s tried to outrun. The blush on his cheeks burns hotter, stupid and helpless, crawling down his throat until even swallowing feels like confession.

Because the truth is a knife turned inward.

“I’m not,” he whispers at last, the words spilling slow and thick, then breaking short. “I’m not okay with it.”

“That’s exactly why I won't let it happen.”

He rises then, slow, careful, the way you’d lift a baby bird with a broken wing. Picking up his jacket and placing it over your shoulder before stepping back— hand open. Only a tank top covering him as he shivered, cheeks still flushed.

“I know what I’m risking,” he breathes, voice cracking small before it flows again.

“If he finds out… if he sees me with you. alive and not blooded and cold… he’ll do god knows what..” A sudden short line, raw as bone: “But I’d rather he break me than let him break you.”

Jo’s hand stays open. Palm up. Trembling like everything else about him. The blush burns hotter, stupid and boyish, making him duck his head until lashes brush flushed skin.

You take it.

His hand—palm rough from years of gripping rifles he never wanted, calluses like small betrayals pressed into skin that still remembers how to tremble. The forest exhales around the touch, slow and deliberate, as if the trees themselves have been waiting for this exact fracture in the script.

Your fingers are smaller than he expected, colder, the faint grit of dirt and root-dust catching against his like secrets neither of you meant to share. Jo’s breath snags on something sharp behind his ribs, a hook pulled taut.

He does not pull you up right away.

Just holds. Lets the weight of your hesitation settle into him the way evening settles into the branches overhead—soft at first, then heavier, inevitable

The blush still burns across his cheeks, stupid and alive, crawling down his throat like it wants to confess everything before he can stop it. I’m not him, he thinks, the words long and looping, winding through the dark hollows where his mother’s humming used to live. I’m not him not him not him. But the thought frays at the edges, thins into something smaller. Yet.

You stand.

Hooves unsteady on the frost-hard ground, the flannel tied tight around your thigh now dark with your blood and his warmth, a ugly beautiful marriage neither of you asked for.

The baby doll dress clings where it shouldn’t, thin as prayer, and Jo looks away fast—too fast—because looking feels like sin stitched into his own bones long before he understood the shape of it. The way your ears flick back against your hair. The way your spine already knows the angle of surrender. It crawls up his throat, tight and suffocating, and the word protect withers there, sad and pathetic, never quite daring to escape whole.

Jacket too big, sleeves swallowing your wrists, the scent of wood smoke and faint violet soap wrapping around you like something that might almost be mercy. Jo steps back. One deliberate pace.

Then another. Giving you room the way he wishes someone had once given his mother—space enough to breathe without the shadow of boots falling too close. The cold bites at his tank top, sharp as memory, but he barely feels it. All he feels is the sick, ruined part of him softening at the sight of you in his clothes. Like maybe, for once, something he touched didn’t have to break.

The walk back is uneven.

Long stretches where the only sound is your hooves clicking softly against roots and his boots sinking deliberately into moss, then sudden short silences that stretch too wide, too thin, like the moment before a shot that never comes.

Jo doesn’t speak at first. Just walks beside you, close enough that your scent—sweet beneath the blood, warm beneath the fear—curls into his lungs and stays there. His bare arms prickle in the cold, but the real shiver lives lower. Somewhere between the boy who once cried over antlers and the man trying not to become the hand that mounted them.

You limp. Just a little.

He notices the way your ears flick back against your hair at every snapped twig, the way your spine bows in fear, how you try to make yourself smaller. It makes something in his chest ache like a bruise pressed too hard.

I won’t become him, Jo thinks. The words long and heavy, then sudden and small. I won’t.

But the thought tastes like ash. Because here he is, leading you deeper into the woods that belong to his father’s rifle, bare-skinned and blushing and already ruined by the simple fact that he wants to keep you breathing.

The cabin appears between the trees like a wound that never quite closed. Windows dark. Smoke curling lazy from the chimney. His father won’t be back till dusk—Jo knows the rhythm of those boots the way other boys know bedtime stories. Still, his pulse hammers louder than the wind.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder. The hinges sigh like they remember every secret the walls have swallowed. Inside, the air is warmer. Smells of wood smoke and old coffee and the faint ghost of his mother’s laundry soap still clinging to the curtains she never got to wash again.

Jo guides you to the far corner of the room—his room—past the kitchen table, attempting to hide the view of antlers hung above the mantel. He doesn’t even look at them. He can’t.

You sit on the edge of his narrow bed. The mattress dips under your weight, springs creaking soft and intimate. Your hooves rest on the worn rug, small and cloven. The jacket slips off one shoulder. The baby doll dress underneath rides up just enough to show the bare curve of your thigh.

Jo looks away.

Fast. Too fast. The blush slams back into his face, hot and helpless, staining his neck, his chest, every place the cold air touches now that he’s half-undressed and fully exposed. He ducks his head, lashes brushing flushed skin, the heat crawling all the way to the tips of his ears like it wants to burn the shame right out of him.

“You—uh,” he starts, voice cracking small and uneven before it spills longer, thicker, desperate. “You should… clean up. The blood. There’s a shower. Hot water. It’ll help. With the cold. With everything.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns quick, bare shoulders curling inward as he slips out of the room like the walls themselves might judge him for looking too long. The door to the hallway clicks shut behind him—soft, careful, nothing like the way his father’s boots ever sounded.

A second. Maybe two.

Just long enough for him to stand in the dim hallway, forehead pressed to the cool wood of the linen closet, breathing like he’d run the whole way back from the forest. His mother’s clothes are still there. Folded neat and small on the top shelf where she left them the last time she ever touched anything in this house. He reaches up slow, fingers trembling, and pulls down the softest things he can find—a worn cotton nightgown the color of faded lilacs, a pair of thick wool socks she used to wear when the floors got too cold, a cardigan that still smells, just barely, like the lavender she kept in the drawer.

He comes back.

Arms full of the quiet ghosts of her, the fabric draped over one forearm like an offering he’s not sure you’ll take. The blush hasn’t left. It just sits there, low and stubborn, making his skin feel too tight under the tank top. He sets the clothes on the edge of the bed beside you—careful, reverent, like they might bruise if he moves too fast.

“Here,” he whispers. The word long and careful, then sudden and small. “These were… hers. My mother’s. She would’ve wanted you to have them. Soft. Warm. Nothing like what you’re wearing now.”

His eyes stay on the floorboards. On the way your hooves rest so small and perfect against the rug. On anything but the way the baby doll dress still clings, thin and wrong and heartbreakingly right in the low light. The air between you feels thick again, honey-slow, pressing against his ribs until every beat of his heart feels like another unsaid confession.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t reach. Just stands there, bare arms prickling, blush burning hotter, the sick stitched-in part of him already softening, already kneeling in the quiet of his own mind while his body stays upright.

Waiting.

Hoping the shower will wash some of the blood away. Hoping the clothes will feel like mercy instead of another cage. Hoping—God, hoping—you won’t see the way his hands shake when he thinks about you standing under the water, ears flicking back against wet hair, spine already learning the shape of safety in a house that only ever taught surrender.

“I’ll wait out here,” he adds, voice spilling slow and thick before it cuts short again. “Take as long as you need. I won’t… I won’t come in.”

You slip past him without a word.

Hooves soft on the floorboards, the borrowed nightgown brushing your thighs. Jo doesn’t watch you go. Can’t. He turns his face to the wall instead, forehead pressed to the cool wood again. Anything to ground himself.

The shower starts.

Water hissing through old pipes. Jo slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, bare arms wrapped around them like that might hold the sick, ruined part of him in place. The blush is still there—low, stubborn, burning under his skin like the antlers above the mantel are watching him even now. She’s in there, the thought loops long and heavy, then snaps short. Naked. Wet. Wearing nothing but the sound of water and the echo of my hands on her thigh.

He presses his palms into his eyes until stars bloom behind the lids. I’m not him. I’m not him. The words spill thick and desperate, then thin out to nothing. i hope.

Minutes stretch. Honey-slow.

He pictures it anyway—the way the water would trace the delicate line of your curves, the way your ears would flatten wet against your hair, the baby doll dress peeling off like shed skin. The thought hooks behind his ribs and pulls. Gentle yet sick.

The water stops.

Silence rushes in thicker than before. Jo stands too quick, knees cracking softly. He keeps his eyes on the floorboards, lashes low, the heat crawling up his throat again when the bathroom door clicks open.

You step into the room.

His mother’s nightgown clings where the baby doll dress once did—faded lilac cotton worn thin at the shoulders, hem skimming just above your knees like it remembers the shape of someone smaller, someone, already halfway gone. The cardigan hangs open, sleeves too long, swallowing your wrists the same way his jacket had swallowed them in the woods. Wool socks bunch a little at your ankles, hiding the soft fur that edges your hooves. Your eyes catch in the lamplight, delicate and oh so beautiful, and your ears—still wet—flick once, uncertain, against the strands of hair that cling to your neck.

Your eyes find his and Jo feels it low in his stomach—a slow, sick twist, like the first crack in ice that’s been holding too long.

Jo’s breath catches. Not loud. Just a small, uneven hitch that sits behind his ribs like something trying to hide.

You look soft.

“I—” he starts, voice cracking small and raw before it spills longer, thicker, desperate. “You look… warmer. That’s good. That’s—yeah.”

The words feel stupid the second they leave him.

Jo’s voice cracked on the last word like a dry twig underfoot, the sound small and stupid in the quiet of his room. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, bare arm flexing awkwardly under the thin tank top, the fabric suddenly too tight across his chest.

His cheeks were already burning again—even hotter now, a deep, traitorous red that crawled all the way down to the hollow of his throat. He hadn’t had many interactions with girls. None, really. Not like this.

Not with someone who looked at him with those wide innocent eyes, ears still damp and flicking uncertainly against the strands of hair that clung to her neck.

The nightgown—his mother’s nightgown—hung soft and faded on your frame, the lilac cotton skimming just above your knees, the cardigan sleeves swallowing your wrists. You looked impossibly small there on the edge of his narrow bed, hooves tucked under the hem, and Jo’s stomach twisted with something that felt too much like hunger and too much like fear all at once.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere near your socks instead of your face. "You… you can sleep here,” he managed, the words spilling out long and uneven before they snapped short.

“In my bed. It’s warmer than the floor. Cleaner, too. I’ll—I’ll take the couch in the living room. Or the floor right here if you want. Doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep much anyway.” A shy, embarrassed huff of breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “Haven’t had a lot of… company. Never really… yeah.”

His blush deepened, stupid and helpless, and he ducked his head lower, lashes brushing flushed skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The floorboards creaked under him like they were judging him for every fumbling syllable.

He turned then, slow and careful, bare shoulders curling inward as if he could make himself smaller, less threatening, less like the son of the man whose antlers still watched from the other room. His hand reached for the doorknob—anything to give you space, to let you breathe without his shaking presence crowding the air.

Your fingers brushed the hem of his tank top.

Just the lightest tug—small, hesitant, the fabric pulling taut against his back for half a second. Jo froze mid-step, breath catching sharp behind his ribs like a hook snagging on bone. The touch was barely there, but it burned hotter than the blush already painting his skin. He didn’t turn right away. Couldn’t. His heart hammered loud enough that he was sure you could hear it over the distant crackle of the dying fire in the living room.

“Stay,” you whispered. The word came out quiet, trembling at the edges, soft as the nightgown against your thighs. Not a demand. Just a plea wrapped in exhaustion and something gentler, something that made his knees feel suddenly unsteady.

Jo’s shoulders stiffened, then softened all at once. He turned back toward you—slow, like you might bolt if he moved too fast—and the blush flared hotter across his cheeks, crawling up to the tips of his ears until even the cold draft from the window felt warm.

His hand hovered uselessly at his side, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. “I… yeah?” The word cracked small and raw, then spilled longer, thicker, desperate. “You want me to… okay. I can do that. I mean—if you’re sure. I won’t… I won’t get too close or anything. I can sit right here on the floor, or on the edge of the bed if that’s better. Whatever you need."

You nod, slow and hesitant, like even the smallest agreement may still cost you everything. Your hooves click softly against the floorboards as you crawl onto Jo’s narrow bed, the faded lilac nightgown riding up your thighs without warning. The hem slips higher than you mean it to—barely, just enough—and for one fleeting second the soft white cotton of your panties catches the low lamplight, delicate and impossibly out of place against the worn quilt.

Jo’s breath slams out of him like he’s been punched.

His eyes go wide, cheeks flooding with a deep, helpless red that burns all the way down his neck and across his bare chest under the thin tank top. He stumbles back a half-step, hand flying up to cover his mouth like that could hide the way his whole body just short-circuited. The image sears behind his eyelids—soft skin, the tiniest edge of lace, the way the nightgown had clung for that one ruined heartbeat—and something hot and traitorous twists low in his stomach.

“I—I need a shower,” he blurts, voice cracking high and thin before it drops into a rushed, embarrassed mumble. “Right now. Like, immediately. The, uh… the blood. And the woods. And everything. Yeah. I’ll be quick. Super quick. Don’t—don’t worry about me. Just… sleep. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already spinning on his heel, bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards as he practically flees the room. The door clicks shut behind him harder than he means it to, and you hear his footsteps hurry down the short hallway like he’s being chased by his own pulse.

You tilt your head, ears flicking once in quiet confusion. The motion makes the damp strands of your hair brush your neck, and you shrug, small and tired, before curling up under the heavy quilt. The sheets smell like him—wood smoke and faint violet soap and something warmer underneath that makes your chest feel strangely tight.

You tuck your knees up, hooves tucked beneath the hem of the nightgown, and let your eyes drift shut. The wound on your thigh throbs dully under the proper bandage jo had left on the counter, but the bed is soft. Safer than anything you’ve felt in days.

Inside the tiny bathroom, Jo twists the shower knob all the way to cold.

The water hits him like a slap, icy needles against his overheated skin, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cool the burn crawling across his face. He presses both palms flat against the cracked tile wall, head hanging low between his shoulders, tank top and jeans still on because he’s too mortified to take anything else off right now. Water soaks through the fabric in seconds, plastering it to his body, but all he can see is that brief flash of white cotton and the way the nightgown had ridden up over the soft curve of your thigh.

“Stupid,” he whispers to the steamless air, voice shaky and small. “So fucking stupid, Jo. She’s bleeding. She’s scared. She’s in your mother’s nightgown and you’re—God.”

His ears are ringing. The blush refuses to leave. It sits stubborn under his skin, hot and humiliated, every time he blinks he sees it again—that tiny, accidental glimpse that felt like the universe handing him something he had no right to look at. He slides down until he’s sitting on the floor of the tub, knees drawn up, cold water pounding against his back while he buries his face in his arms.

He stays there until his teeth start chattering and the worst of the heat finally ebbs out of his cheeks. Only then does he peel off the soaked clothes, towel off fast, and pull on a fresh pair of soft gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that still smells like the laundry soap his mother used to use. His hair is damp and sticking up in every direction when he pads back down the hallway, barefoot and trying to make himself as quiet as possible.

The bedroom door is still cracked open the way he left it. He hesitates on the threshold, one hand on the frame, and the sight of you stops him cold all over again.

You’re curled on your side in the middle of his bed, knees tucked up, the lilac nightgown pooled around your thighs and the too-big cardigan half-slipped off one shoulder. One ear twitches in your sleep, delicate and furred, brushing against the pillow. Your antlers catch the faint glow from the hallway light, small and barely branched, and your chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. The bandage peeks out from under the hem, dark with dried blood but no longer spreading.

He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet.

“I’m… I’m back,” he whispers, even though you’re already asleep. His voice is barely more than breath. “I won’t come any closer if you don’t want. I’ll just… sit right here. On the floor. Like I said.”

He slides down the wall beside the bed, back pressed to the cool wood, knees drawn up to his chest. From this angle he can just see the top of your head and the gentle flick of your ear every few minutes, like even in sleep you’re listening for danger. Jo rests his chin on his arms and watches you, the blush still faint but steady across his cheeks.

Minutes bleed into longer ones. The cabin is silent except for the distant crackle of the dying fire and the soft sound of your breathing. Jo’s eyes start to feel heavy, but he doesn’t let them close all the way. He can’t. Not when his father’s boots could hit the porch at any moment. Not when the only thing standing between you and everything that’s ever hurt you is him—a shaking, blushing, shirtless-in-the-woods mess who still doesn’t know how to be anything but gentle.

He reaches up slowly, careful not to wake you, and tugs the quilt a little higher over your shoulder. His fingers brush the fabric for half a second—warm from your body—and he pulls back like he’s been burned, cheeks flaring hotter.

“Stay soft,” he murmurs under his breath, so quiet it’s almost nothing. “Just… stay soft a little longer. I’ve got you. I think.”

Jo leans his head back against the wall, damp hair leaving a wet spot on the wood, and lets his eyes finally drift shut. The last thing he sees before sleep drags him under is the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath his mother’s nightgown, and the smallest, most fragile smile touches his lips—shy, ruined, and entirely his own.

The morning light filtered thin and gray through the cabin’s single window, the kind of pale November dawn that made the woods outside look like they were holding their breath. Jo stirred first—neck stiff, back aching from a night spent curled against the wall like a guard dog who didn’t know how to lie down properly. His legs were half-numb, one arm still wrapped around his knees, hoodie rumpled and damp at the collar from where his hair had dried overnight. The first thing he registered was the soft sound of your breathing, steady and close, still tucked under the quilt on his bed.

Then the phone rang.

It shattered the quiet like a rifle crack—old landline on the nightstand, shrill and insistent. Jo jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs before his brain caught up. He scrambled for it on his knees, nearly knocking the receiver off the hook in his hurry to answer before it could wake you.

“Hello?” His voice came out rough with sleep, cracked at the edges.

His father’s voice filled the line, low and flat, the same tone he used when he was already halfway out the door in his mind. “It’s me. Listen, something came up. Me and a couple of the boys are heading up to the mountains for a real hunt. Big bucks, they say. Might be gone a week. Maybe two. Depends how the trail holds.”

Jo’s grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles went white. A week. Two. The words sank in slow, warm relief blooming low in his chest like something he wasn’t allowed to feel. No boots on the porch. No sharp eyes scanning the tree line. No new antlers being dragged home to hang above the fireplace. Just… space. Breathing room. Time. Just for awhile.

“Food in the fridge should last you,” his father continued, dismissive, like he was reading off a grocery list instead of talking to his only son. “Canned stuff in the pantry if you run low. There’s money in the tin on the mantel—your savings from the odd jobs. Use it if you need to go into town. Don’t blow it on nonsense. And don’t go soft while I’m gone, boy. I’ll know if you did.”

A short, humorless grunt on the other end. No goodbye. No be safe. No I’ll call when I’m headed back. Just the click of the line going dead.

Jo stared at the receiver for a long second after the dial tone buzzed in his ear, then set it back in the cradle with shaking fingers. His shoulders sagged, the tension leaking out of him in one long, shaky exhale. He pressed his forehead to the edge of the nightstand, eyes squeezing shut.

Relief tasted sweet and guilty all at once—because his father not caring felt like freedom, but it also felt like the same old knife twisting in the place where a father’s love was supposed to live.

He stayed like that until the floorboards creaked softly behind him.

You’d woken at the sound of the phone, ears flicking upright under the messy strands of your hair, small antlers catching the weak morning light. The lilac nightgown had slipped off one shoulder in your sleep, cardigan still half-draped over you like a borrowed shield. You sat up slowly, knees drawn to your chest, hooves tucked under the hem, watching him with those wide, wary doe eyes that always made his stomach do that stupid fluttering thing.

Jo lifted his head, cheeks already warming under your gaze. The blush crept in slow and traitorous, staining his neck and the tips of his ears even though he hadn’t said a word yet. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, damp hair sticking up in every direction, oversized hoodie sleeves sliding down his wrists.

“That was… my dad,” he whispered, voice long and careful before it dropped short, almost too soft. “He’s gone. For a while. A week, maybe two. Hunting in the mountains with his friends. Said the food’ll last and… and not to worry about him coming back anytime soon.”

He swallowed hard, lashes lowering as he risked a glance at you. The relief in his own chest felt too big, too bright, like it might spill out if he wasn’t careful. “We’re alone. For now. No one’s coming. No boots. No rifle. Just… us. And the cabin. And whatever we decide to do with it.”

Jo shifted closer on his knees, not quite touching the bed, still giving you that careful half-step of space he’d been practicing since yesterday. His fingers twitched at his sides like they wanted to reach out and smooth the quilt over your lap but knew better. The faint scent of you—warm and sweet under the leftover trace of blood and his mother’s lavender—curled into the air between you, and his blush deepened, stupid and helpless.

Your ears flicked once, slow and uncertain, the delicate fur brushing against the strands of messy hair that still clung to your neck from sleep. The lilac nightgown had slipped a little further off one shoulder in the night, but you didn’t fix it right away. You just sat there, knees still drawn tight to your chest under the quilt, hooves tucked beneath the hem, watching him with those wide doe eyes that always seemed to hold more forest than fear now.

For a long moment you didn’t speak. The silence stretched honey-slow between you, thick with the faint scent of wood smoke still clinging to the walls and the warmer, sweeter trace of you that made Jo’s blush burn hotter under his skin. Then your voice came—soft, trembling at the edges like it was afraid the words might break if they came out too fast.

“…Oh so…we will be alone…?” you whispered, the word long and careful, almost tasting it before it dropped short, barely louder than the small sound of flames flickering in the fireplace. “For a whole week… maybe two? No one coming back? Not even… him?”

Your fingers curled tighter into the quilt, knuckles pale, the too-long cardigan sleeves swallowing your hands completely. One ear twitched back against your hair again, wary, but the other stayed half-forward, listening. Your gaze dropped to the bandage peeking out from under the nightgown, then lifted back to his flushed face.

“I'm safe…” A tiny, hesitant breath left you, almost a sigh. “For now.”

Your words landed soft and heavy in the quiet room, like snow settling on the windowsill outside. “I’m safe…” The way you said it—small, almost disbelieving, like you were afraid saying it out loud might make it disappear—made something in Jo’s chest twist tight and then slowly, carefully, loosen.

He stayed on his knees beside the bed, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes, the blush still painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears a soft, helpless pink. His damp hair stuck up in messy tufts, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands, and for a second he just breathed, letting your words sink into him like warmth after too many cold mornings.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, voice long and careful before it dropped short, raw at the edges. “You’re safe. For now. For as long as I can keep it that way. He’s gone… really gone. The mountains are far. He won’t come back early. Not for something like this. Not when there’s bigger game calling his name.”

Jo’s fingers twitched again at his sides. He wanted so badly to reach out—to tuck the slipped shoulder of the nightgown back into place, to smooth your hair, to do something, anything, that might make you feel steadier. But he didn’t. He kept that careful half-step of space, like he was still afraid even his gentleness might be too much.

Instead he swallowed hard, lashes lowering as he glanced at the bandage peeking from under the lilac hem. The dried blood had darkened overnight, but the fabric wasn’t soaked through anymore. Still, the sight of it made his stomach clench with guilt all over again.

“Your leg,” he murmured, the words spilling slow and tender. “It probably hurts more now that you’ve been still. I should… I should change it. Clean it proper. I’ve got stuff in the bathroom—antiseptic, fresh cloth. My mom used to keep a kit under the sink for when I was little and clumsy.” A tiny, shy huff of breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “I’m still clumsy. Just… in different ways now.”

He shifted back on his heels, ready to stand, but paused, looking at you again with that same soft, ruined expression.

“Only if you want,” he added quickly, voice cracking small before it flowed longer, gentler. “I won’t touch you without asking. Ever. You can stay right there on the bed.I’ll bring everything in here. Or… or you can come sit at the table if you feel like moving a little. I can make breakfast after. Eggs? Toast? There’s some jam left in the pantry that isn’t too old. And tea. I think we still have the kind with honey my mom liked.”

Jo rubbed the back of his neck again, the oversized hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin at his waist before he tugged it back down, cheeks burning brighter at the accidental exposure. The scent of you—warm, sweet, that faint trace of forest and fear slowly easing into something softer—kept curling into his lungs every time he breathed, and it made his heart do that stupid fluttering thing all over again.

He stayed low, not looming, not pushing, just there on the floor like he was still the boy who once cried over mounted antlers and never quite learned how to stop feeling sorry for the softness the world tried to take.

"You can change it."

The words were small, soft, barely louder than the crackle of the dying fire, but they hit Jo like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. His head lifted fast, eyes wide, the blush already crawling hotter across his cheeks and down his throat at the simple permission.

“Okay,” he breathed, voice cracking small before it steadied into something long and careful. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll be gentle. I promise. So gentle.”

He stood slowly, knees cracking from the night on the floor, and gave you one last shy glance before padding out of the room on bare feet. You heard him moving in the hallway—cabinet doors opening quietly, water running, the soft rustle of cloth being gathered. When he returned, his arms were full: a small wooden box with a faded red cross on the lid, a bowl of warm water, clean cloths, and a fresh roll of bandage. His hair was still messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows now, and the blush hadn’t faded one bit.

He set everything down on the nightstand with careful hands, then lowered himself to sit on the very edge of the bed—far enough that you still had plenty of space, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him. His eyes flicked to your leg, then quickly back to your face, like he was afraid even looking too long might scare you.

“I’m going to lift the hem just a little,” he murmured, voice low and trembling at the edges. “Just enough to reach the bandage. Tell me if you want me to stop. Any second. I’ll stop.”

You gave the smallest nod.

Jo’s fingers—long, a little cold from the hallway—reached out and gently took the edge of the lilac nightgown. He lifted it with almost painful slowness, stopping the moment the old flannel bandage came into view. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, dark against your skin. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and reached for the bowl.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he began to loosen the knot he’d tied the day before. “I’m so sorry this happened. That I was even there that morning. That my father—” His voice cracked and he cut himself off, focusing instead on his hands.

The old bandage came away slowly. Beneath it the wound wasn’t too deep, but it was angry and red, the skin around it tender. Jo dipped a clean cloth in the warm water and wrung it out, then looked up at you again, lashes low.

“This might sting a little,” he warned softly. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

He cleaned the wound with the gentlest touches imaginable—barely more than dabs, like he was afraid even the cloth might hurt you. Every time you made the tiniest sound, his ears (metaphorically) perked, and he paused, whispering another soft “sorry” before continuing. When it was clean, he patted it dry with a fresh cloth, applied a thin layer of ointment from the box, and wrapped it again with fresh bandage. His fingers brushed your skin only when absolutely necessary, and every accidental touch made the tips of his ears burn brighter.

Once it was done, he sat back a little, still on the edge of the bed, and let out a shaky breath.

“There,” he murmured, voice long and relieved before it dropped short. “All clean. It should feel better soon. I can change it again tonight if you want. Or tomorrow. Whenever.”

You simply nodded again.

The silence settled between you both.

Then your stomach growled.

The sound was sudden and loud in the quiet room, cutting through the soft crackle of the fire and the creaking of old wood like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to betray you. It was a deep, hollow rumble that echoed faintly off the walls, and your ears flicked back hard against your hair in pure mortification.

"Oh…"

Jo froze for half a second.

Then his whole face went bright, burning red—so fast and so deep it looked like it might actually hurt. The blush exploded across his cheeks, down his neck, and even across the bridge of his nose. He ducked his head instantly, one hand flying up to cover his mouth like he could hide the way his lips were twitching between a shy smile and sheer secondhand embarrassment.

“Oh—oh no,” he whispered, voice cracking small and high before it dropped into a flustered, gentle rush. “Your stomach… I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked sooner. Of course you’re hungry. You’ve been through so much and I just sat here talking and—”

He scrambled to his feet so fast he almost tripped over his own long legs, hoodie sleeves flapping as he steadied himself against the nightstand. The tips of his ears were glowing pink under his messy damp hair. He couldn’t even look at you directly for a moment, too busy rubbing the back of his neck with both hands like the motion might cool the fire in his face.

“I’ll make breakfast right now,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out long and earnest. “Eggs. Toast. Jam. Tea with honey. Whatever you want. I can bring it in here if you don’t feel like moving, or… or we can go to the table together. Slow. I’ll help you if your leg still hurts. I won’t let you fall. I promise.”

Jo finally risked a glance at you, eyes soft and wide behind the furious blush still staining his skin. His voice dropped quieter, almost shy.

“I didn’t even think… you probably haven’t eaten properly in days. I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Let me fix it. Please.”

He took one small step back toward the door, then paused again, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.

“Unless… you want to come with me?” he added, softer still. “The kitchen’s warmer. Fire’s going. You could sit on the couch if the chair’s too much. I’ll stay close. Whatever makes you feel safest.”

You looked down at your hands for a moment, fingers still curled in the too-long sleeves of the cardigan. Your ears flicked once, slow and uncertain, before you lifted your gaze back to him. The blush on his face was so intense it almost made your own cheeks feel warm.

“…I can come with you,” you whispered, voice small and careful, like you were testing the words as they left your mouth. “If it’s okay. I don’t want to stay in bed all day. My leg… it doesn’t hurt as much now. And the kitchen sounds warmer.”

You shifted slightly, hooves brushing against the rug as you sat up a little straighter. One hand came up to tug the slipped shoulder of the nightgown back into place, though the motion was shy and a little clumsy.

“I haven’t… eaten at a table in a long time,” you added, quieter still, the words long and soft before they dropped short. “Not since before everything started feeling like running. It might be nice. To sit somewhere normal. With you.”

Your eyes flicked to his still-burning face, and the tiniest, hesitant smile touched your lips—fragile, but real.

“…You’re really red right now,” you murmured, almost teasing, though your voice stayed gentle. “It’s okay. I’m not scared of you making breakfast. I think I’d like to watch. If that’s alright.”

Jo’s mouth opened, then closed again. The blush somehow deepened even more, spreading down his neck until it disappeared under the collar of his hoodie. He looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

“I—yeah,” he managed, voice cracking high before it tumbled into a flustered, earnest rush. “Yeah, of course it’s okay. You can come. I’ll help you walk. Slow. I promise I won’t let you put too much weight on it. You can lean on me if you need to. Or the wall. Whatever feels best.”

He stepped closer again, one hand hovering in the air like he wanted to offer it but was still too shy to actually reach. His eyes were wide and soft, the embarrassment still painted vividly across every inch of his face.

“I’ll make the eggs however you like them,” he added quickly, trying (and failing) to sound steady. “Scrambled? Over easy? I’m not… I’m not the best cook, but I can do eggs. And the toast won’t burn. Probably. And the tea—my mom always said honey makes everything feel a little less awful.”

He swallowed hard, then finally let his hand settle, palm up, between you—offering without pressure.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered, the words long and careful. “No rush. We’ve got all morning. All week, really. Just… let me know when you want to stand.”

Your fingers—small, still a little cold from the morning air—reached out and slipped into his open palm.

Jo’s breath hitched so sharply it was almost a sound. The second your skin touched his, the blush that had already been burning across his face exploded into something deeper, hotter, until even the tips of his ears looked like they might catch fire. His hand closed around yours with the gentlest pressure imaginable, like he was afraid even holding you too firmly might break something fragile between you.

For one long second he just stayed there, kneeling slightly so he wouldn’t tower over you, staring at where your fingers rested in his like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. His thumb brushed once, barely there, across the back of your hand—warm and trembling.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice cracking small and shaky before it steadied into something soft and careful. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He rose slowly, guiding you with him, never pulling, only offering steady support. When you stood, he immediately shifted closer on your injured side, letting you lean against him if you needed without crowding. His free arm hovered near your waist, not quite touching, ready to catch you the instant you wobbled.

“Easy,” he murmured, the word long and gentle. “Take your time. Your hooves… the floor might be cold. I should’ve grabbed socks for you. I’m sorry.”

You took one careful step, then another. Your injured leg protested with a dull throb, but Jo was right there—solid, warm, smelling faintly of laundry soap and the lingering trace of wood smoke from his hoodie. Every time you shifted weight onto the bad leg, his fingers tightened just a fraction around yours, and he slowed down even more.

The walk to the kitchen was quiet, filled only with the soft click of your hooves against the old floorboards and Jo’s occasional soft checks.

“Still okay?” he asked after a few steps, voice barely above a breath. “We can stop. Sit on the couch for a minute if you need. No rush. None at all.”

When you finally reached the small wooden table near the crackling fireplace, Jo pulled out a chair for you with his free hand, still not letting go of yours until you were safely seated. Only then did he reluctantly release your fingers, and even that seemed to cost him something—his hand lingering in the air for half a second like it missed the contact already.

He stepped back quickly, cheeks still glowing, and rubbed the back of his neck as he moved toward the old stove.

“I’ll start the eggs,” he said, trying (and failing) to sound casual. “You just… sit. Rest your leg. Tell me if you want anything different. Or if you want to go back to bed. I’ll carry you if you do. I mean—not carry carry, I just— I’ll help. However you need.”

Jo turned back to the stove, still rubbing the back of his neck like the motion might somehow calm the wildfire still burning across his face. He cracked eggs into a bowl with slightly shaky hands, the soft sound of the whisk filling the quiet kitchen as he started beating them. The old pan was already warming on the stove, a pat of butter melting and sizzling gently.

He was so focused on not burning anything that your soft voice caught him completely off guard.

“Do you… just stay home all day?”

The question was quiet, curious, a little hesitant—like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to ask something so ordinary. Your ears flicked once as you watched him from the table, chin resting lightly on your folded arms.

Jo froze mid-whisk.

For a second he just stood there, back to you, shoulders tense under the oversized hoodie. Then he slowly set the bowl down and turned around, cheeks already flushing that familiar deep pink again. He leaned back against the counter, one hand gripping the edge like he needed something to hold onto.

“I… yeah,” he admitted, voice long and careful before it dropped shorter, almost shy. “Pretty much. When my father’s not dragging me out on hunts. Which is… most days, lately. He says I need to learn. That I’m too soft. That staying inside reading or drawing or just… existing isn’t useful.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating huff of breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. The blush crept higher as he rubbed the back of his neck again.

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go. No school anymore. No friends that stuck around after everything with my mom. The town’s too far to walk to every day, and I don’t have a car. So… yeah. I stay here. Keep the fire going. Cook simple things. Fix whatever breaks. Wait for him to come back from whatever hunt he’s on.”

Jo glanced at you, eyes soft and a little sad behind the embarrassment still painting his face.

“It’s not so bad when he’s gone,” he added quietly. “The house feels… lighter. I can breathe. I usually just read or draw or sit by the window and watch the snow. Sometimes I talk to the trees like a crazy person.” A tiny, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “They don’t answer back, but they’re good listeners.”

He turned back to the stove, pouring the eggs into the pan. The soft sizzling filled the space between you again.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment, voice gentler, almost hesitant to ask in return. “Before… all of this. Did you have somewhere safe? People who… who made it feel less lonely?”

Your ears flicked back against your hair, slow and heavy, like the weight of the answer was too much to carry upright. You kept your chin resting on your folded arms, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table instead of meeting his gaze.

“…No,” you whispered, the word small and cracked at the edges. “Not really. Hunters killed my parents a long time ago. I don’t even remember their faces clearly anymore. Just… the sound of the shot. And the way the woods went quiet after.”

You swallowed, the sound soft in the warm kitchen. One hoof scraped lightly against the floor beneath the table.

“After that, some of my parents’ friends took me in. Other hybrids. A small group that stayed hidden deeper in the woods. They were kind. They fed me. Let me sleep between them when it got cold. Taught me which berries were safe and which ones would make you sick for days.” Your voice grew even quieter, trembling at the edges. “They were rabbits. Gentle. Always moving carefully. Always listening.”

You went quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft sizzling of the eggs in the pan.

“But the cycle never really stops,” you continued, barely above a breath. “Hunters found them too. One by one. Until it was just me again. I ran. Kept running. Hid during the day. Moved at night. When you first saw me behind that log…” Your ears twitched again, and your voice dropped even smaller. “I’d already been wandering alone for over a week. I think I was starting to forget what it felt like to sleep without one ear always listening for boots.”

You finally lifted your eyes to him—soft, tired, but steady.

“That’s why your father’s voice scared me so much. It sounded like every voice that ever took someone I loved.”

The eggs were starting to smell warm and buttery, but Jo had gone completely still at the stove. His shoulders were tight, the spatula forgotten in his hand. The blush that had been burning across his face moments ago had drained into something paler, something heavier. Guilt sat thick in his chest like stones.

He turned the burner down with slow, careful fingers before he trusted himself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough and low, cracking on the words. “God, I’m so sorry. That you had to go through all of that. That my father—that people like him—keep doing this. Keep taking and taking until there’s nothing left.” He let out a shaky breath, one hand coming up to press against his eyes for a second. “I hate it. I hate that I come from that. That I almost became part of it.”

Jo turned fully toward you, eyes glassy but soft, the blush slowly returning to his cheeks as he looked at you with something close to quiet devastation.

“You don’t have to be alone like that anymore,” he whispered, the words long and careful, almost pleading. “Not while I’m here. Not for this week. Not for as long as you’ll let me stay between you and whatever comes next. I know I can’t fix what happened. But I can… I can make sure you eat warm food. And you can sleep without listening for boots. And maybe… maybe feel a little less like the world only knows how to take soft things.”

He plated the eggs with slightly trembling hands, added a slice of toast, and brought the plate over to you, setting it down gently along with a mug of tea that smelled faintly of honey.

“Eat,” he murmured, voice still thick with everything he wasn’t saying. “Please. While it’s hot. I’ll sit with you."

The kitchen stayed quiet after that.

You ate slowly, the warm eggs and honey-sweet tea settling something deep in your chest that had been empty for too long. Jo sat across from you, chin propped on one hand, just watching you with soft eyes and that persistent pink still dusting his cheeks. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. The fire crackled, the snow kept falling outside, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between you wasn’t heavy with fear.

When you finished, he quietly took your plate, washed everything by hand, and helped you back to the bedroom so you could rest your leg. He didn’t push. He didn’t hover. He simply existed beside you like he was learning how to take up space without scaring you.

Days passed like that.

Slow. Surprisingly gentle.

You both fell into something that almost looked like routine. Jo changed your bandage every morning and every night with the same careful hands, always whispering “sorry” when it stung, always blushing when your skin brushed his. You started helping in small ways—setting the table, folding the blankets, limping around the cabin on your better days while he hovered close, ready to catch you.

He read to you sometimes in the evenings, voice low and a little shy, while you curled up on the couch with your hooves tucked under the quilt. You told him quiet stories about the rabbits who had taken you in, and he listened like every word mattered. At night he still slept on the floor beside the bed, even though you’d told him more than once he could take the couch. He always shook his head, ears burning, and mumbled that he slept better knowing you were safe.

By the sixth day, the cabin no longer felt like a hiding place.

It felt like something closer to home.

You caught him on Sunday afternoon.

The light was soft and gold through the window, catching on the dust motes in the air. You’d woken from a light doze on the couch to the quiet scratch of pencil on paper. Jo was sitting on the floor a few feet away, sketchbook balanced against his knees, completely absorbed. His hair was messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up, and there was the smallest furrow between his brows as he worked.

He was drawing you again.

Not the version of you that had been bleeding and terrified in the woods. This one was softer. You were curled on your side in the lilac nightgown, one ear relaxed against the pillow, the faintest smile on your lips like you’d been dreaming of something warm. The lines were careful. Tender. Like he was trying to hold onto the version of you that finally felt safe.

When you shifted, the couch creaked. Jo’s head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped the pencil. The blush hit him instantly—deep, helpless, crawling all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice cracking as he tried to close the sketchbook. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just… looked peaceful. I wanted to remember it. I can rip it out—"

You shook your head before he could finish.

Instead, you asked if he would teach you.

Jo went completely still. For a second he just stared at you, mouth slightly open, the blush somehow deepening even more. Then something small and shy and almost disbelieving flickered across his face.

“…Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, Um—I can do that.”

He moved to sit beside you on the floor, sketchbook between you, his long legs folding awkwardly. His hands were shaking a little as he showed you how to hold the pencil, how to let it rest lightly between your fingers instead of gripping it too tight. Every time your hands brushed, he pulled back like he’d been burned, cheeks burning hotter.

“You’re… really good at this,” he murmured after your third attempt at shading a simple leaf. His voice was soft, almost awed. “The way you see things. It’s nice.”

You worked in quiet for a while, shoulders slowly drifting closer until they were touching. Jo didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it, just barely, like he was afraid even that much might be too much but couldn’t help himself. The fire crackled. Outside, snow tapped gently against the glass. Inside, the only sounds were the scratch of pencils and Jo’s occasional soft instructions, his voice low and careful every time he leaned in to guide your hand.

By the time the light started to fade, your fingers were smudged with graphite and Jo’s ears were still pink.

The days after the drawing lesson settled even deeper into something warm and unspoken.

You and Jo moved through the cabin like you’d been doing it for years instead of barely a week. Mornings still started with him carefully changing your bandage, but now his hands lingered a little longer, and the soft “sorry” he always whispered came with the smallest smile. You helped him cook. He let you sit on the counter while he stirred, your hooves dangling, his shoulder brushing yours every time he reached past you. Evenings were spent on the floor with the sketchbook between you. He never pushed, but he always lit up—really lit up—when you asked him to show you something new.

At night he finally agreed to sleep on the couch instead of the floor, but only after you’d tugged on his sleeve and asked in that quiet voice if he was tired of the hard wood. He’d turned bright red and nodded, mumbling something about how the couch was “actually pretty comfortable” while avoiding your eyes.

The wound on your leg continued to heal. You could walk longer distances now without limping as much. Jo still hovered close anyway, one hand always ready to steady you, always pretending he wasn’t blushing when you leaned on him.

By Wednesday, the cabin no longer felt borrowed.

The phone rang on Friday afternoon.

Jo was in the middle of showing you how to shade the curve of an antler in the sketchbook when the old landline shattered the quiet. He froze, pencil hovering above the paper, and for a second the color drained from his face. Then he stood slowly, wiping his hands on his hoodie like he could wipe away the sudden tension in his shoulders.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

His father’s voice came through loud and rough, the same flat tone he always used when he was already halfway gone in his mind.

“Boy. It’s me. Listen, we got a big one yesterday. Real trophy buck. Twelve points. Took us damn near all day to track it down, but we got it. Clean shot.” There was a pause, like he was waiting for praise that never came. When Jo stayed silent, his father continued, almost boastful. “Turns out there’s a whole herd moving through the upper ridge. More where that came from. So we’re staying. Gonna set up camp proper. Don’t know how long. Could be another week. Could be longer. Depends on how the weather holds and how many we can bring down.”

Jo’s grip tightened on the receiver until his knuckles went white. He turned slightly away from you, but you could still see the way his shoulders curled inward, the way his free hand came up to press against his eyes for half a second.

“Food should still be fine, It hasn't been that long” his father went on, dismissive. “You know what to if it gets low. Don't be goin' soft whilst i'm gone.”

Another grunt. No goodbye. Just the click of the line going dead.

Jo stood there for a long moment after, staring at the receiver. Then he set it back in the cradle with slow, careful fingers. His back stayed to you for several seconds, shoulders rising and falling with one long, shaky breath.

When he finally turned around, the blush was gone. In its place was something heavier. Something tired and quietly devastated.

“He’s staying longer,” he said, voice low and rough. “Another week. Maybe more. They…um—got a y'know and there’s more of them. So he’s… he’s not coming back soon.”

He crossed the room slowly and sank down onto the floor beside you again, sketchbook still open between you. His hands were shaking. He stared at the half-drawn antler on the page like it had answers.

“I should feel relieved,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “More time. More days where it’s just us. Where you’re safe. Where I don’t have to lie or hide you or pretend I’m someone I’m not.” His voice cracked. “But all I can think about is how many more he’s going to kill while he’s up there. How many more families he’s going to tear apart. And I hate that I come from that. I hate that part of me is still… relieved.”

You watched him for a long moment, ears flicking back against your hair as his words settled heavy in the quiet room. The half-drawn antler on the sketchbook between you suddenly looked too sharp, too much like the ones that had once hung above the fireplace. Jo’s hands were still shaking where they rested on his knees, and the way his shoulders curled made something deep in your chest ache.

Slowly, you reached out.

Your fingers—still faintly smudged with graphite from earlier—found his. You didn’t grab. You simply let your hand rest over his, small and warm, until he stopped trembling quite so hard. When he didn’t pull away, you shifted closer on the floor, close enough that your knee brushed his.

“…You’re not him,” you whispered, voice soft and careful, the words long before they dropped short. “You know that, right? You’re not the one out there with a rifle. You’re not the one bragging about twelve-point bucks and how many more you can kill. You’re here. With me. Choosing different. Every single day.”

Your thumb brushed once, barely there, across the back of his hand. One of your ears twitched again, soft and uncertain.

“I know it hurts,” you continued, quieter still. “Hearing him. Knowing what he’s doing. Feeling like part of you is relieved anyway because it means I’m safe a little longer. That doesn’t make you bad. It makes you human. It makes you… someone who’s been surviving the only way he knew how until he decided to be something else.”

You leaned in a little more, close enough that your shoulder pressed lightly against his. The lilac nightgown slipped off one shoulder again, but you didn’t fix it. Your voice trembled at the edges, but it stayed steady enough to reach him.

“I’m glad you’re relieved,” you whispered. “Because I’m relieved too. Because it means I get to keep sitting here with you. Drawing bad leaves. Eating your slightly burnt toast. Falling asleep knowing no one’s going to drag me out of this cabin in the middle of the night and shoot me dead.” Your ears flicked forward, soft and hopeful. “So let yourself feel it. Just a little. You don’t have to carry all of his darkness by yourself anymore. Not while I’m here.”

Jo’s breath hitched.

He stared down at where your hand rested in his, the blush slowly creeping back across his cheeks like it had never really left. His eyes were glassy, lashes wet at the edges, but when he finally looked at you there was something raw and grateful and painfully shy in his expression.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead he turned his hand over and laced his fingers with yours, holding on like you were the only solid thing left in the room. His thumb brushed across your knuckles once, twice, like he was still learning how to accept gentleness without flinching.

“…Thank you,” he whispered eventually, voice cracking small and thick. “For saying that. For… for not hating me for coming from him. For staying even when you have every reason to be scared of this whole place.”

He leaned sideways until his shoulder rested more fully against yours, the sketchbook forgotten between you. The fire crackled softly in the other room. Outside, snow tapped against the window again.

Jo let out a long, shaky breath and rested his forehead against the side of your head, just for a second.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. “Even if it’s only for however long we have. I don’t… I don’t want to be alone in this anymore either.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

And for the first time since the phone had rung, the heavy weight in his chest seemed to ease—just a little.

The days stretched on without another call.

A week and a half passed in a quiet, golden haze. No boots on the porch. No sharp voice on the other end of the line. Just the two of you and the slow rhythm you’d built together.

You helped him cook now without him hovering quite so nervously—standing at the stove beside him, your shoulder brushing his as he taught you how to crack eggs one-handed. Evenings were spent on the floor with the sketchbook between you, your graphite-smudged fingers slowly growing steadier under his gentle guidance. He still blushed every time you praised his drawings. You still caught him staring at you like you were something he couldn’t quite believe was real.

At night he slept on the couch, but more often than not you both ended up talking long after the fire had died down—your voice soft in the dark, his even softer as he told you about the mother he barely remembered and the boy he used to be before the rifles and the antlers and the silence.

The cabin felt lived-in now. Your scent had settled into the blankets. His hoodie had found its way onto your shoulders more than once when you got cold. The wound on your leg was nearly gone, only a faint pink scar left behind.

And somewhere in the middle of all those ordinary, gentle days, something between you had shifted. Grown heavier. Sweeter. More impossible to ignore.

“You’re really okay now,” he murmured, voice warm with quiet wonder. His thumb brushed once, feather-light, over the scar. “I was so scared it would leave something worse. But look at you.”

He looked up at you then, cheeks already dusting pink, and the smile grew a little shy.

“I was thinking…” he started, then paused, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “We’ve been here a long time. My father still hasn’t called. The town’s only a few hours’ walk if we take it slow. I could… I could take you. If you want. Just for a few hours. We could get some fresh food. Maybe something warm to drink. New clothes that actually fit you instead of my mother’s old things. You don’t have to hide anymore. Not while he’s gone.”

He hesitated, then added softer, “I’d stay right beside you the whole time. I won’t let anything happen. I promise.”

You said yes.

The walk into town was slow and careful, but not because of your leg. Jo kept his pace deliberately gentle, one hand hovering near your elbow the entire way, ready to steady you even though you didn’t really need it anymore. The snow had melted into slush along the edges of the road, and the air smelled like pine and wet earth. Every time a car passed, Jo shifted a little closer to you, protective without even realizing he was doing it.

By the time you reached the small main street, your fingers had found his.

He didn’t let go.

The town was quiet—just a handful of shops, a diner with foggy windows, and the general store where Jo usually went when he needed supplies. A few people nodded at him in passing. No one stared. No one asked questions. For once, the world didn’t feel like it was watching.

The town was also relatively used to hybrids now. A few even lived among the human folk that resided there.

You noticed it almost immediately.

As you and Jo walked down the main street, hand in hand, you saw them—a pair of fox hybrids laughing outside the bakery, a tall deer hybrid man helping an older woman carry her groceries across the street, a young rabbit hybrid girl skipping ahead of her human mother without a single person giving them a second glance. No one stared. No one reached for a weapon or crossed to the other side of the road. The air didn’t carry that sharp, watchful tension you’d grown used to in the woods.

It felt… normal.

Jo noticed you noticing.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as you walked, his voice low and a little shy.

“It’s… different now than it used to be,” he murmured. “My father always acted like the whole world was against hybrids. Like we had to stay hidden in the woods or else. But the town’s changed since I was little. People got tired of the fighting. Some of the older folks still grumble, but most of them just… live. Same as everyone else.”

He glanced at you sideways, cheeks flushed.

“I was scared to bring you here at first. Thought someone might say something. But… I think you’re safe. Really safe. Even if someone did notice you’re not from around here, they’d probably just assume you’re visiting family or something.”

He led you into the small clothing shop first. The bell above the door chimed softly. The woman behind the counter—an older human with kind eyes—smiled warmly when she saw you, her gaze flicking briefly to your small antlers and delicate ears without a trace of fear or judgment.

“Jo,” she greeted, “good to see you. And who’s this?”

Jo went bright red instantly, the tips of his ears burning as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“This is… um. This is—y/n—” He glanced at you, then back at the woman, voice cracking a little. “She’s with me. We’re just… getting her some things that fit better.”

The woman’s smile only grew warmer, soft and knowing in the way older people sometimes looked when they saw something gentle unfolding right in front of them.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, y/n,” she said kindly, giving you a small nod that didn’t linger too long on your antlers or ears. “I’m Mrs. Satō. Jo’s been coming in here since he was knee-high. Always so polite. Quiet boy.” Her eyes flicked fondly to him, then back to you. “You two take your time. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

She stepped back behind the counter, giving you both space, but the warmth in her voice stayed.

Jo looked like he might actually combust.

His ears were bright red, the blush crawling all the way down his neck as he gently tugged you toward the racks of clothes, still holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I—sorry,” he whispered quickly, voice cracking as he leaned in close to you. “I didn’t mean to just… blurt your name like that. I panicked. She’s nice, though. She won’t say anything to anyone. I promise.”

You glanced up at him, ears flicking softly, and gave his hand a small squeeze in return.

“It’s okay,” you whispered back, voice quiet but steady. “I don’t mind. She seems… kind. It felt nice. Being introduced like that. Like I’m someone who gets to be here with you.”

You looked around the small shop, taking in the soft sweaters and simple dresses, then back at him with a tiny, shy smile.

“I like that she didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or like I didn’t belong next to you.” Your voice grew even softer. “It made me feel… real. Like maybe I’m allowed to stand beside you without the world ending.

Jo’s blush deepened, but the shyest, most genuine smile tugged at his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, still flustered but clearly touched by your words.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You are. You’re allowed. More than allowed.”

He stood awkwardly near you whilst you looked through soft sweaters and simple dresses, blushing furiously every time you held something up and asked his opinion. He bought you two new outfits without hesitation, using the money from the tin his father had mentioned, and only stammered a little when Mrs. Satō smiled knowingly at the two of you.

After that, he took you to the diner.

The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, the warm smell of grilled cheese and fresh coffee wrapping around you both. Jo led you to the same corner booth from before, his hand still loosely holding yours until you slid into the seat. He sat across from you, knees bumping under the table, ears still faintly pink from the clothing shop.

A fox hybrid waitress with kind eyes and a gentle smile came over to take your order. She didn’t stare at your antlers or ears—just greeted you both warmly before heading off to the kitchen.

Jo kept glancing at you across the table, one hand resting near yours like he wanted to reach for it again but was too shy to do it in public. The blush on his cheeks hadn’t fully faded.

You looked around the cozy diner for a moment—the foggy windows, the low hum of conversation, the way no one seemed to mind the two of you sitting there together—before your soft voice broke the quiet.

“Thank you for today,” you whispered. “For the new clothes. For letting me walk down the street without hiding. For… for introducing me to Mrs. Satō like I was someone who belonged beside you.” A tiny, shy smile touched your lips. “I liked hearing you say my name out loud. It made everything feel more real.”

Jo’s blush deepened instantly, but he turned his hand over so he could lace his fingers with yours properly, squeezing once.

“You do belong beside me,” he murmured, voice cracking a little with how earnest he was. “I want you to. More than I know how to say without sounding like an idiot.”

The fox hybrid waitress returned with your food—grilled cheese and tomato soup for both of you—and gave you both another warm smile before leaving you alone again.

You picked up your spoon, stirring the soup slowly before speaking again, softer this time.

“I think… I could get used to this,” you said, almost to yourself. “Coming into town sometimes. Sitting here with you. Not having to be scared every second.” Your ears twitched forward as you looked at him. “If you wanted to. I know we can’t stay forever. But while your father’s still gone… I’d like to come back here with you again. If that’s okay.”

Jo stared at you for a second, completely soft and flustered, before the smallest, most genuine smile broke across his face.

“Yeah,” he whispered, squeezing your hand again. “That’s more than okay. We can come back whenever you want. As many times as you want.”

The rest of the evening passed in a soft, golden blur.

After the diner, Jo walked you home slowly, your new clothes tucked in a bag between you, fingers still loosely linked. The sky had turned soft lavender by the time the cabin came into view, smoke curling gently from the chimney. Neither of you spoke much on the walk back — you didn’t need to. The quiet between you felt full instead of empty.

Once you were home, the routine felt easy.

Jo started the fire while you changed into one of your new sweaters and a pair of soft leggings. He made tea without being asked, setting a mug beside you on the couch before disappearing into the bathroom to wash up. When he came back, hair damp and wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, he looked shy all over again.

You were already curled up on the couch, hooves tucked under the blanket. When he sat down beside you, you turned to him, ears flicking softly.

“Thank you again,” you whispered, voice quiet but warm. “For today. For everything.”

Before he could answer, you leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips barely brushed his skin, but it was enough to make Jo go completely still. The blush exploded across his face so fast it reached the tips of his ears.

He didn’t say anything for a long second. Just stared at you, wide-eyed and flustered, one hand coming up to touch the spot you’d kissed like he was trying to hold onto the feeling.

“…Y-You’re welcome,” he finally managed, voice cracking.

Two days passed.

The cabin stayed warm and quiet. You helped Jo cook. He read to you in the evenings. You drew together on the floor like always. The kiss on the cheek lingered between you like something sweet and unspoken.

It was late afternoon when it happened.

You were sitting on the floor with the sketchbook in your lap, carefully shading the curve of a leaf the way Jo had taught you. He sat across from you, supposedly working on his own page, but his pencil had stopped moving minutes ago.

He was just… staring.

Not in a bad way. Soft. A little dazed. Like he was trying to memorize the way the afternoon light caught on your ears and the small furrow of concentration between your brows.

You felt his gaze and looked up.

Your ears twitched.

“…What’s wrong?” you asked gently, tilting your head. “You’re staring.”

Jo’s face went bright red instantly. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. His pencil slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor.

“I—” he blurted, voice cracking high and flustered. “I want to kiss you.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His eyes went wide the second they left his mouth, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud. The blush spread down his neck as he ducked his head, ears burning.

You blinked at him for a second.

Then, soft and simple, you answered.

“…Oh. Okay.”

Jo’s head snapped up.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious and fragile. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees. He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.

“Wait…Can I?” he asked, shy and earnest all at once. “Like right now?”

You gave the smallest nod.

Jo moved slowly, like he was afraid the moment might shatter if he rushed. He leaned across the small space between you, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek with the gentlest touch. His thumb brushed your skin once, trembling.

When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft. Careful. A little clumsy with how badly he wanted to be gentle. He tasted like the tea you’d shared earlier and something warm that was just him. He didn’t push—just stayed there, breathing you in, like he still couldn’t quite believe you’d said yes.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded.

“…Thank you,” he whispered, voice cracking small and honest. “For letting me.”

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing slowly over your skin.

“I’ve been wanting to do that again since the cheek kiss,” he admitted, barely breathing. “I just… didn’t know how to ask.”

You smiled, small and soft, and leaned in to brush your nose against his.

“You don’t have to ask next time,” you whispered back, clearing your throat. “You can just… do it.”

Jo let out a tiny, shaky laugh, the sound warm and disbelieving, before he kissed you again—slower this time, sweeter, like he finally believed he was allowed to keep this softness for himself.

The next two days passed in a warm, quiet haze. The kiss lingered between you like something new and fragile. Jo was even shyer than usual — blushing every time your hands brushed, stealing soft little kisses when you were drawing or cooking, but never pushing for more. You slept in the bed. He slept on the couch. The cabin felt smaller in the best way.

The storm rolled in hard and sudden.

Thunder cracked like something splitting open above the cabin, rattling the old windows and shaking the walls. Lightning flashed bright and violent, turning the bedroom stark white for half a second before plunging everything back into darkness. You woke with a sharp inhale, ears pinned flat, heart hammering so hard it hurt. The sound of heavy rain and another deep, rolling boom of thunder made something old and frightened twist tight in your chest.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Bare hooves touched cold floorboards as you slipped from the bed and padded into the living room, the new pretty pink nightgown brushing against your thighs. Jo was already stirring on the couch when you reached him, sitting up fast the moment he saw your face in the dark.

“Hey—” His voice was rough with sleep, but soft. “It’s just thunder. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped close and gently tugged at the front of his shirt with trembling fingers, the way you had that first morning in the woods when everything had felt too big and too frightening.

“…Can you come stay with me?” you whispered, barely loud enough over the rain. “In the room?”

Jo was on his feet in an instant, one hand already reaching for you before he caught himself.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want. Or right by the bed. Whatever you need.”

You shook your head, ears still low against your hair.

“No,” you said, voice small but steady. “It’s okay. We can just… sleep in the bed together.”

He went very still.

For a long second he just looked at you, the blush already creeping up his neck even in the dark. Then he gave a small, shaky nod, like the words had stolen something from his lungs.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “If you’re sure.”

You led him back into the bedroom.

The storm kept raging outside, but once you were both beneath the blankets, the thunder felt a little farther away. Jo lay on his back, stiff and careful, arms tucked close to his sides like he was terrified of taking up too much space. You curled on your side facing him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.

Minutes passed. The rain softened into a steady rhythm against the roof. Your breathing slowly evened out.

Then you shifted in your sleep, and your thigh brushed against him.

You felt it.

Hard. Hot. Pressing insistently against the front of his sweatpants.

Your eyes opened. You blinked in the dark, confused, ears twitching as you glanced down, then back up at his face. Jo’s eyes were squeezed shut, jaw tight, the tips of his ears burning even in the low light.

“…Jo?” you whispered.

He made a small, mortified sound and tried to shift his hips away.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. It’s—it’s normal. For guys. It just… happens. Especially when I’m this close to you. It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine, I swear. It’ll go away on its own.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, still processing the feeling of him against you. Then, without thinking, your hand shifted beneath the blanket and accidentally brushed against the hard line of him.

Jo let out a broken, trembling whimper—high and needy, his whole body jerking like the touch had gone straight through him. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, ears burning crimson.

“I— fuck— I’m sorry,” he gasped, voice shaking. “That felt—I didn’t mean to make that sound. I’m really sensitive and you’re so close and I’ve never—I’ve never been this close to anyone before and—”

You looked at him in the dark, heart beating fast for an entirely different reason now. His eyes were glassy, desperate, full of want and embarrassment and something painfully tender.

You reached out slowly and touched his cheek.

“…It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind. I just didn’t know it would feel like that for you.”

Jo swallowed hard, breathing unsteady.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice barely there. “Please? I really want to kiss you right now.”

You nodded.

The kiss started soft—careful, almost hesitant—but quickly deepened into something needier. Jo made soft, shaky sounds against your mouth as his hand slid to your waist, trembling like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. When you pressed closer and your body brushed against the hard line of him again, he whimpered into the kiss, hips twitching helplessly.

“I’ve never…” he breathed between kisses, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want you. So much it hurts. Can I—can we…?”

You nodded again, just as shy.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want to. With you.”

Jo moved like every second was something sacred.

He helped you out of the nightgown with slow hands, pausing to press soft kisses to every new inch of skin he'd uncovered. When he finally settled between your thighs, both of you bare and breathing hard, he looked down at you like you were something he was terrified of breaking.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, voice cracking. “Tell me if anything hurts. Or if you want to stop. I’ll stop. I swear on everything.”

The first push inside was careful, but it still hurt.

Jo moved slowly, trying his best to be gentle, but the stretch was sharp and unfamiliar. You sucked in a quiet breath, your body tensing beneath him as he tried to sink deeper. It burned—not unbearable, but enough to make your thighs tremble and your ears pin back slightly against the pillow.

Jo felt it immediately.

He froze the second your breath caught, eyes flying open to search your face in the dark.

“…Does it hurt?” he whispered, voice tight with worry. “I’m hurting you, aren’t I? I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”

You nodded once, small and honest, your fingers curling into his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, even though your voice was a little shaky. “It just… stings. A lot. Um...and you're bigger than I thought.”

Jo made a soft, devastated sound and immediately started to pull back, but you tightened your grip on him, keeping him close.

“No—don’t—don’t pull out yet,” you said quietly. “Just… stay still for a second. Please.”

He obeyed instantly, staying buried only halfway inside you, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself still. His forehead dropped to yours, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve gone even slower. I should’ve— God, I’m so stupid. Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything.”

After a moment, the sharpest edge of the pain eased into a dull, uncomfortable ache. You gave a tiny nod.

“…Its okay,” you whispered. “You can move a little. Just slow.”

Jo moved like you were made of glass.

Every thrust was shallow and careful, barely rocking his hips as he watched your face the entire time. Even so, a small, warm trickle of blood slipped out around him, staining the inside of your thigh and the sheets beneath you. Jo noticed it the moment it happened. His eyes widened with fresh panic.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, horrified. “I—I made you bleed. I’m hurting you too much. We should stop—”

You shook your head and pulled him down into a soft kiss, silencing him.

“It’s okay,” you murmured against his lips. “It’s normal. For the first time. It doesn’t hurt as much now. Just… keep going slow. Please.”

Jo looked like he might cry. He kissed you again, slower and sweeter, one hand cradling your cheek like you were something fragile and precious.

“I hate that I’m hurting you,” he whispered. “Even a little. I never want to hurt you ever again.”

But he kept moving when you asked him to—slow, careful, barely there thrusts that still made him tremble and whimper above you. Every time you made the smallest sound of discomfort, he would freeze and press kisses to your face, whispering apologies and soft praises until you relaxed again.

It didn’t last long.

Jo was already too overwhelmed, too in love with how close you were, too desperate to last. His rhythm stuttered, his moans growing higher and more broken against your mouth.

“I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped. “I’m sorry—I can’t hold it—”

He pulled out at the last second with a shaky, high-pitched whimper, spilling warm across your stomach in thick pulses. His whole body shook as he came, face buried in your neck, soft apologies tumbling from his lips even as pleasure overtook him.

When it was over, he stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and collarbone.

“…I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, voice small and guilty. “For the pain. For the blood. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve gone even slower.”

You reached up and cupped his flushed cheek, guiding him to look at you.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “It was my first time too. It was always going to hurt a little. But you were gentle. You stopped when I needed you to. That’s what matters.”

Jo’s eyes were glassy as he leaned down and kissed you again—slow, grateful, full of quiet devotion.

He carefully cleaned you up afterward with a damp cloth, his hands still trembling as he wiped away the small smear of blood from your thighs and the mess on your stomach. When he was done, he pulled you into his arms and held you close, one hand stroking your hair like he was trying to soothe both of you.

“…Next time,” he murmured against your temple, “I’ll be even gentler. I promise. I’ll go as slow as you need. Even if it takes all night.”

You smiled tiredly against his chest, ears flicking softly as you tucked yourself closer.

“I know you will,” you whispered back.

Outside, the rain had finally softened into a gentle patter.

The morning after the storm was quiet.

Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and gray, the kind that made the cabin feel wrapped in a gentle hush. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind the faint smell of wet earth and pine drifting in through the cracked window.

Jo woke first.

He was still curled around you, one arm draped carefully over your waist, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. For a long moment he didn’t move. He just lay there, breathing you in, replaying everything that had happened in the dark with a mixture of awe and lingering guilt.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes immediately went to your face, soft and worried.

You were still asleep, one ear relaxed against the pillow, the new pretty pink nightgown you’d put on after he cleaned you up now slightly rumpled. He watched the slow rise and fall of your chest for a while, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your hip through the fabric.

Eventually, he slipped out of bed as quietly as he could.

He returned a little while later with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water. He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. His free hand hovered for a second before he gently brushed a strand of hair from your face.

Jo’s voice was small and full of guilt as he sat on the edge of the bed, the glass of water held carefully in both hands like he was afraid even that might be too much.

You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, ears flicking softly at the sound of his voice. The ache between your legs was dull and present, but not sharp anymore. When you shifted slightly under the blankets, you felt the faint stickiness of where he had cleaned you the night before.

You reached out slowly and took the glass from him, fingers brushing his.

“…I’m okay,” you said quietly, voice still a little rough from sleep. “A little sore. It feels… strange. But not bad. Not like something’s wrong.”

You took a small sip of water, then set the glass on the nightstand before looking back at him. Your eyes were soft, honest.

“You didn’t hurt me on purpose,” you continued, voice gentle. “You were careful. You stopped the second I needed you to. And you kept asking if I was okay. That’s more than I ever expected from anyone.”

Jo’s ears burned brighter. He looked down at his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap.

“Still,” he mumbled. “There was blood. And you made that sound when I first pushed in… like it really hurt. I hated it. I hated knowing I was the reason you were in pain, even for a little while.”

You reached out and gently took one of his hands, pulling it into your lap. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles.

“It was my first time too,” you reminded him softly. “It was always going to sting. And yeah… it did hurt a bit. But it also felt good in other ways. Because it was you. Because you were shaking and trying so hard to be gentle and kept kissing me like I was something precious.”

You gave his hand a small squeeze.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, quieter now. “Not even a little. I’m glad it was with you.”

Jo finally looked up at you. His eyes were glassy, the blush still high on his cheeks, but there was something warm and relieved in his expression now.

“…Really?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“Really.”

He let out a shaky breath, then carefully leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment.

“I’ll run you a bath after breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “With warm water. And I’ll make something easy to eat. You should rest today. I can do everything. You don’t have to move if you don’t want to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand still holding yours.

“And… if you want, later… we can talk about it. Or not talk about it. Whatever you need.” His voice dropped even softer. “I just want to take care of you. However you’ll let me.”

You smiled, small and tired but genuine, and tugged him down until he was lying beside you again.

“Breakfast sounds nice,” you whispered, curling into his chest. “And the bath. But right now… just stay here a little longer. With me. Please…?”

Jo wrapped his arms around you carefully, pressing another kiss to the top of your head.

“Okay,” he breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Four weeks.

Four quiet, golden weeks had slipped by since the night of the storm.

The cabin had settled into something that almost felt like a real home. Mornings started slow—Jo waking first, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder before slipping out of bed to make breakfast. You would join him eventually, still sleepy in one of his hoodies, ears flicking as you stood beside him at the stove. He was gentler with you now, always checking in with soft touches and quieter questions, especially after sex. And there had been sex—slow, careful, and achingly tender. He still got overwhelmed every time, still finished too quickly more often than not, but he always stayed close afterward, kissing every inch of you he could reach while whispering how much he cared.

Some afternoons you walked into town together. You held hands the entire way. You ate grilled cheese at the diner, shared milkshakes, and wandered into the little shop where Mrs. Satō always smiled knowingly when she saw the two of you. Jo bought you colored pencils and a new sketchbook without you even asking. You bought him a simple card game one day, just because it made him light up when you suggested playing it by the fire at night.

The sex had gotten a little easier. The pain had faded after the first few times, replaced by something warmer, something that made you both breathless and shy and close. Jo was still careful—almost painfully so—but he was learning your body the same way you were learning his. Every time he touched you, it felt like he was still surprised he was allowed to.

And through it all, there had been no word from his father.

Not a single call.

Jo wasn’t the type to worry about his father. He had spent most of his life learning how to exist in the spaces between that man’s moods. But four weeks was too long. Even for him.

It was late afternoon when the thought finally settled heavy in his chest.

You were both on the floor again, sketchbooks open between you. The fire crackled low. You were carefully coloring in a small cluster of flowers you’d drawn earlier, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jo had his pencil in hand, but he hadn’t drawn anything in nearly twenty minutes.

He was just watching you.

But this time, the look in his eyes was different. Softer in some places. Tighter in others.

You glanced up and caught him staring again. Your ears twitched.

“…You’re doing it again,” you said gently, setting your colored pencil down. “Staring like something’s wrong.”

Jo blinked, like he’d been pulled out of a fog. He rubbed the back of his neck, ears burning faintly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to. I just…” He hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. “It’s been four weeks. Since he last called.”

The words hung in the air between you.

Jo looked down at his sketchbook, though he wasn’t really seeing it.

“I keep telling myself it’s fine. That he’s just caught up with the hunt. That he’s probably drinking with his friends somewhere in the mountains and forgot about me. He’s done that before.” His voice dropped lower. “But four weeks is a long time. Even for him. And I keep thinking… what if something happened? What if he got hurt? Or what if he’s on his way back right now and we don’t know?”

He finally looked up at you, eyes soft but uneasy.

“I’m not worried about him,” he said honestly. “Not really. But I’m worried about what it means if he suddenly shows up. About what that would do to this.” His gaze flicked around the cabin—to the shared blankets, the second sketchbook, the faint traces of your scent now woven into everything. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

Jo reached across the small space between you and gently took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“…I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly. “Part of me wants to keep pretending everything’s fine. That we have all the time in the world. But another part of me is scared that the second I let my guard down, everything’s going to change again.”

Jo's worries shattered on a Monday night.

The banging came just after midnight.

It was loud. Violent. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in the quiet of their little cabin. Jo shot upright in bed, heart slamming against his ribs. You woke with a sharp gasp beside him, ears pinned flat as another round of heavy knocks rattled the front door.

Jo was already moving before his mind fully caught up. He grabbed the first thing he could find—an old hoodie—and yanked it on as he stumbled out of the bedroom. You followed close behind, the new pink nightgown brushing your thighs, still half-asleep and confused.

When Jo opened the door, cold night air rushed in.

Two police officers stood on the porch, their faces grim under the porch light. One of them—an older man with tired eyes—stepped forward slightly when he saw Jo.

“Jo?” he asked carefully. “Jo, son of Rokujo?”

Jo’s throat felt dry. He nodded once, still gripping the edge of the door.

The officer’s voice was low, steady, but there was no easy way to say what came next.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said. “Your father was found earlier today. Up in the mountains. Looks like he was tracking a buck… and it turned on him. Gored him. He didn’t make it. We aren't sure how long it had been since the attack. He was cold when we found him.”

The words landed like stones.

Jo didn’t speak right away. He just stood there in the doorway, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, staring at the officer like the man had spoken in a language he didn’t understand. Behind him, you had gone completely still, one hand lightly touching the back of his shirt.

The second officer, a younger woman, spoke softer.

“We’re very sorry for your loss. We know this is sudden. We’ve already handled the… remains. There’s some paperwork that needs to be filled out, but it can wait a few days. We just wanted to let you know in person.”

Jo’s fingers tightened on the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. His ears were ringing. He could still hear the last phone call in his head—his father’s voice bragging about the big buck, saying he was staying longer.

And now he was gone.

Killed by one.

Jo swallowed hard. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet and rough.

“…Are you sure it was him?”

The older officer nodded once.

“His things were with him. We confirmed it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Jo didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He just stood there, breathing slowly through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere past the officers’ shoulders. You could feel the tension in his back beneath your fingertips—the way his shoulders had gone rigid, like he was trying to hold something enormous inside his chest.

After a moment, he gave a small, jerky nod.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice barely there. “For coming to tell me.”

The officers exchanged a glance. The woman spoke again, gentler this time.

“If you need anything—grief counseling, help with arrangements, anything at all—you can call the station. We’ll check in on you in a couple days.”

Jo nodded again, but it was clear he wasn’t really hearing them anymore.

When the officers finally left, the cabin felt too quiet.

Jo didn’t close the door right away. He stood there in the cold night air for a long moment, staring out into the dark trees like he was waiting for something else to appear. When he finally shut the door, the click of the lock sounded final.

He turned to look at you.

His face was pale. His eyes were glassy, but no tears had fallen yet. He looked lost—like the ground had suddenly shifted beneath his feet and he didn’t know where to stand anymore.

“…He’s gone,” Jo whispered, voice cracking on the words. “He’s actually gone.”

He just stood there for another second, staring at nothing, before his legs gave out beneath him.

He dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the living room, the impact soft against the old wooden floor. His hands came up to cover his face as his shoulders started to shake—not with loud sobs, but with the kind of quiet, broken trembling that looked like it hurt to hold in. His breath came out in short, uneven gasps.

You moved without thinking.

You knelt down in front of him, the hem of your nightgown pooling around your legs as you reached for him. Your hands found his wrists gently, trying to coax his hands away from his face.

“Jo…” you whispered, voice soft but steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lift his head either. His fingers stayed pressed over his eyes like he was trying to hold himself together by force.

You shifted closer, knees touching his, and carefully pulled one of his hands down so you could see his face. His eyes were glassy and red, but still no tears had fallen. He just looked completely lost.

“…He’s gone,” he choked out again, voice raw. “He’s really gone. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with that.”

You cupped his cheek with one hand, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know it’s a lot. Even if he was… even if things were bad between you, he was still your father. That doesn’t just disappear.”

Jo let out a shaky breath and finally looked at you. His eyes were wide and wet, full of something heavy and confused.

“I keep thinking I should feel something bigger,” he whispered. “Grief or relief or… I don’t even know. But mostly I just feel scared. Scared of what happens now. Scared that everything we’ve had these last few weeks is about to get ripped away. Scared that I’m going to have to become something I don’t want to be because of this.”

You leaned in and rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to figure everything out tonight,” you told him gently. “You don’t have to feel one specific way. You can be sad. You can be relieved. You can be angry. You can feel nothing at all. All of it is allowed.”

Your fingers threaded gently through his hair as you continued, soft and honest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “No matter what happens with the cabin or anything else. I’m right here. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Jo’s hands finally dropped from his face. He reached for you instead, gripping the fabric of your nightgown like he needed something solid to hold onto. His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he let out another shaky breath.

“…I don’t want to lose this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into your chest as he stayed kneeling on the floor. One of your hands stroked slow, soothing lines down his back while the other cradled the back of his head.

“You’re not losing me,” you murmured against his hair. “We’re still here. You and me. That hasn’t changed.”

Jo didn’t say anything else for a long time.

He just stayed there on his knees, clinging to you in the middle of the quiet cabin, while the weight of everything finally started to settle over both of you.

The next two weeks were quiet in a way that felt wrong.

The police came back three days after that night. They brought boxes—his father’s belongings from the mountain trip, along with the old truck that had been sitting in impound. Jo signed the papers on the kitchen table without saying much. His signature was steady, but his eyes stayed blank. When they handed him the keys to the truck and told him the cabin and land were now legally his, he just nodded once and closed the door behind them.

After that, Jo moved through the days like a ghost.

He still got up in the mornings. He still made coffee. But he did it all in silence, his movements slow and mechanical. Most days he sat on the couch for hours, staring at nothing, sketchbook unopened on the floor beside him. When you tried to talk to him, he answered in short, quiet sentences. When you touched him, he leaned into it, but the warmth in his eyes was dimmed. It seemed that even his father death had broken something soft. The light in his eye dimming the same way his mother had.

You did your best to stay close anyway.

You cooked when he forgot to eat. You sat beside him on the couch even when he didn’t speak. At night, you pulled him into bed and held him until he eventually fell asleep, your fingers carding gently through his hair. Some nights he reached for you in the dark, desperate and wordless, and you let him bury himself in you—slow, quiet—like he was trying to remember how to feel something again.

But most of the time, he was just… gone. Present in body, but somewhere far away in his mind.

It was late one evening, nearly two weeks after the police had come, when he finally spoke.

You were both on the couch. The fire had burned low. Jo was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the floor. You had been gently rubbing slow circles on his back for a while, not expecting anything.

Then, without looking up, he said quietly,

“…My mom used to hum when she did the laundry.”

His voice was rough, like it had been sitting in his throat for days.

“She had this soft voice. It wasn’t loud or anything, but it filled the whole cabin. I used to sit by the door and just listen to her while she folded my clothes. She’d smile at me sometimes… but it never really reached her eyes. Not after a while.”

Jo swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around each other.

“My father hated when she hummed. Said it was annoying. Said it made her sound weak. One day he came home and she was humming, and he grabbed her wrist so hard the laundry fell everywhere. She didn’t cry. She just… went quiet. Like she always did. And I sat there watching, too scared to say anything.”

He let out a shaky breath and finally looked over at you. His eyes were glassy, but no tears fell.

“I think that’s when I learned it,” he said softly. “That softness gets punished. That if you care too much, or feel too much, someone will take it from you. My father made sure I knew that every single day. And my mom… she tried to protect me from it. In her own way. But she couldn’t even protect herself.”

Jo’s voice cracked a little as he continued.

“Now he’s gone. Killed by the same thing he spent his whole life hurting. And I don’t know how to feel about it. Part of me is relieved. Part of me feels guilty for being relieved. And part of me just… misses the idea of having a father, even if the one I had was never really mine.”

He turned toward you fully then, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

“I don’t want to become him,” Jo whispered. “I’ve spent my whole life terrified that I would. But now that he’s gone… I don’t know who I’m supposed to be without that fear hanging over me. Without him.”

He reached for your hand and held it tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Scared that without him here, I’ll still find ways to ruin the good things. Like you. Like this.”

You squeezed his hand gently and leaned in closer, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re not him,” you said softly. “You’ve never been him. Even when you were scared. Even when you didn’t know how to be gentle… you still chose to be. With me.”

You brushed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Your mother sounds like she loved you the best way she could,” you continued quietly. “And I think she’d be proud of the way you’re trying so hard not to become like him. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You’re allowed to grieve him and still be angry at him. Both things can be true.”

Jo closed his eyes and let out a long, tired breath, leaning into your touch.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. “For staying. For listening. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a quiet hug, letting him rest his head against your shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “We’ll figure out who you are now… together.”

A week passed.

It moved slowly, like the cabin was learning how to exist in this new quiet. The grief didn’t disappear, but it settled into something heavier and more constant, like snow that refused to melt.

Jo was still quiet most days, but he wasn’t completely gone anymore. He started eating the meals you made without needing to be coaxed. He showered without you having to gently remind him. Some mornings you would wake up to find him already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, just breathing. Other mornings he would reach for you in his sleep, pulling you closer without saying a word.

He still hadn’t touched his father’s truck.

It sat outside like a ghost of its own, keys hanging on the hook by the door where Jo had left them. Every time he passed them, his eyes would linger for a second before he looked away.

One quiet afternoon, you found him in the living room with the sketchbook open on his lap for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t drawing anything new—just slowly shading over an old drawing of yours, like he needed something to do with his hands. When you sat down beside him, he didn’t speak right away. He just leaned his shoulder against yours and kept shading.

Later that evening, after dinner, he finally said something.

“I keep thinking about the truck,” he admitted quietly, staring at the fire. “It’s mine now. Everything is. The house. The land. All of it.” He let out a slow breath. “Part of me wants to sell it. Drive it into town and never look back. But another part of me… I don’t know. It feels wrong to just get rid of it like it never existed.”

You reached over and took his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” you said softly. “There’s no rush. You can sit with it for as long as you need.”

It took another week.

A quiet, heavy week where Jo seemed to be turning something over and over in his mind. He was still gentle with you—still reached for your hand in the evenings, still let you curl against him at night—but there was a new kind of stillness in him. Like he was finally starting to look forward instead of just surviving the present.

Then one quiet morning, while you were both sitting at the small kitchen table with half-finished mugs of tea, he spoke.

“I sold the house.”

His voice was low, careful, but steady. He wasn’t looking at you when he said it. His eyes were fixed on the steam rising from his mug.

You blinked, caught off guard.

Jo continued before you could respond, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup.

“I didn’t want to keep it. I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep living here. Not after everything. Not with all of his things still in the walls. Not with the way the woods feel like they’re still watching me. I almost killed you on this land.” He finally looked up at you, eyes soft but determined. “I want to go somewhere else. Somewhere we can start over. Just us.”

He swallowed, voice dropping even quieter.

“Maybe the city. Or… or even just the town. Somewhere closer to people. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like his.” His thumb brushed anxiously over the rim of his mug. “I already signed the papers. The buyer is paying cash. We can leave whenever we’re ready.”

Jo’s ears were faintly pink, like he was nervous about how you’d react. He reached across the table and gently took your hand, holding it like he needed the contact to keep going.

“I know i should’ve talked to you first,” he admitted, voice cracking a little. “I know that. I just… I needed to make the decision before I lost the nerve. This place… it’s never going to stop feeling like his. And I don’t want to raise a life here. Not with you. I want something that’s ours. Something that doesn’t carry all of that weight.”

He looked at you then, eyes searching, vulnerable.

“I want to start new with you,” he said softly. “Somewhere we can just… be. Without ghosts. Without having to look over our shoulder every time we hear boots on the porch that aren’t there anymore.”

Jo squeezed your hand gently.

“Only if you want to,” he added quickly, almost shy. “If you don’t want to leave, we can figure something else out. I just… I couldn’t stay here anymore. Not and still feel like I could breathe.”

He waited, thumb still brushing over your knuckles, his expression a mix of hope and quiet fear.

You were quiet for a moment after he finished speaking, your fingers still loosely curled around his. The words settled slowly between you—heavy, but not unwelcome.

Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at your lips.

You looked at him with soft eyes, ears flicking once as you gently squeezed his hand in return.

“…Okay,” you said quietly.

Jo’s head lifted a little, like he hadn’t expected it to be that simple.

You continued, voice gentle but steady.

“I understand why you did it. This place… it holds too much. Too many shadows. Too many memories that don’t belong to us.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “If selling it helps you breathe again, then I’m glad you did.”

You tilted your head slightly, thinking for a moment.

“We don’t have to go far if you don’t want to,” you said. “The town is nice. We already know some people there. Mrs. Satō is kind. It wouldn’t feel completely new.” Your voice softened a little more. “Or… we could go a town or two over. Somewhere close enough that it still feels familiar, but far enough that it doesn’t carry the same weight. Somewhere we can still walk to the diner. Still have quiet mornings. But start fresh.”

You smiled again, smaller this time, but warm.

“I don’t mind where we go,” you told him honestly. “As long as it’s with you. I trust you.”

Jo stared at you for a second, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. His ears burned pink as he let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it since he first said the words.

“…Really?” he asked, voice cracking just a little. “You’re not mad that I didn’t tell you first?”

You shook your head.

“I’m not mad,” you said softly. “I know you needed to do it this way. And… I want a new start too. Somewhere that’s ours. Somewhere we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your free hand over his on the table.

“We’ll figure it out together,” you promised. “Whether it’s the town, or the next one over, or somewhere else entirely. I’ll go wherever you want to go.”

Jo’s eyes softened, glassy with quiet relief. He turned his hand over so he could properly hold yours, squeezing it like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. “I was so scared you’d think I was rushing. Or that I was making decisions without you again.” He let out a small, shaky laugh. “I don’t want to do this without you. Any of it.”

You smiled again, gentle and sure.

“You’re not,” you said. “We’re doing this together.”

Jo brought your hand up and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a moment like he needed the reassurance.

“Okay,” he murmured against your skin. “Then… let’s start looking. Together.”

It took a week to pack everything.

Most of his father’s things were quietly sorted through and let go. Jo moved through the cabin slowly, like he was walking through rooms that no longer belonged to him. You stayed close the entire time, helping when he asked, and giving him space when he needed it. When he found an old photograph of his mother, he held it for a long time before carefully tucking it into the small box of things he wanted to keep.

On the morning you were supposed to leave, Jo stood in the middle of the living room with the truck keys in his hand. He didn’t move for a while. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back.

“We don’t have to rush,” you said quietly.

He let out a slow breath and covered your hands with his.

“I know,” he murmured. “I just keep thinking that once I lock this door, it’s really over.”

You didn’t push. You just held him tighter until he was ready.

When he finally turned around, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I’m ready,” he whispered. “I think I’ve been ready. I just needed to say goodbye.”

He locked the cabin for the last time.

The truck was already packed with everything the two of you were taking. Jo helped you into the passenger seat like he always did, then climbed in beside you. For a long second, he just sat there, staring at the cabin through the windshield. Then he started the engine and pulled away without looking back.

The drive took just under two hours.

You sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded in your lap, watching the trees thin out and the roads become wider and smoother. Jo drove in silence for most of the way, one hand resting on the gear shift, the other loosely holding the steering wheel. Every now and then his fingers would twitch, like he was still getting used to the idea that this truck—once his father’s—now belonged to the two of you.

When you finally pulled up in front of the small house, the sun was already starting to dip low.

It wasn’t much—a modest two-bedroom with faded blue siding and a small porch that creaked when you stepped on it. But it had a little yard, and the windows let in plenty of light, and most importantly, it didn’t carry the weight of the cabin. No antlers on the walls. No memories soaked into the floorboards.

Jo turned off the engine and just sat there for a moment, staring at the house through the windshield.

“…This is it,” he said quietly, almost like he was testing the words out loud.

You reached over and gently placed your hand over his on the gear shift.

“It’s nice,” you said softly. “It feels… calm.”

Jo let out a slow breath and nodded. He looked over at you, ears faintly pink, eyes soft but still carrying that tired, careful look he’d had ever since his father died.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked. “With leaving everything behind? With… starting over with me?”

You smiled, small and warm, and squeezed his hand.

“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want to start somewhere new with you.”

Jo’s shoulders relaxed just a little. He brought your hand up and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles before finally opening the truck door.

The first night in the new house was quiet.

Most of your things were still in boxes, stacked in the living room. The two of you ended up sitting on the floor together, eating takeout from a small diner down the road. Jo was quieter than usual, but not in the heavy, distant way he had been before. This silence felt different—thoughtful, almost peaceful.

After you finished eating, he leaned back against the wall and looked around the empty room.

“It’s strange,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not hearing the wind through the trees. Not wondering if my father’s boots are about to hit the porch.” He glanced at you, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I keep waiting for the fear to come back. But it’s not here.”

You shifted closer and rested your head against his shoulder.

“It’s going to take time,” you said gently. “For both of us. But we don’t have to rush. We can just… be here. Together.”

Jo was quiet for a moment. Then he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured. “But I’m really glad you’re here.”

You reached up and gently touched his cheek, guiding him to look at you.

“You chose to be kind,” you said. “Even when it was hard. Even when you were scared. That’s why I’m here.”

Jo’s eyes softened. He leaned in and kissed you — slow, warm, and a little shy, the way he always kissed you when his heart felt too full.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. “For choosing me too.”

The house was still mostly bare, but the bedroom was one of the few rooms that felt somewhat ready. Before leaving the cabin, you and Jo had quietly ordered a bed, mattress, and a few other basics to be delivered ahead of time. When you stepped inside earlier that evening, the simple wooden bed frame and fresh sheets had already been set up in the center of the room, waiting for you.

After finishing the takeout on the living room floor, Jo stood up and gently pulled you to your feet. He didn’t say anything at first—he just laced his fingers through yours and led you down the short hallway.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft glow from the hallway light spilling through the open door. Jo turned to face you, his cheeks already faintly pink as he reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“…Can we go to bed?” he asked quietly, voice low and a little shy. “I want to be close to you. Properly.”

You nodded.

He guided you to the bed, and helped you out of your clothes slowly, his hands warm and careful. When you were both bare, he pulled back the covers and laid you down on the new bed before climbing in after you. For a while, he just held you, his fingers loosely laced with yours as he traced slow patterns over your skin.

Eventually, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, tired, but warm in a way they hadn’t been in a long time.

“…Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I just really want to feel close to you right now.”

You smiled and nodded.

Jo leaned in slowly, one hand cradling your cheek as he kissed you. It started gentle — warm and unhurried—but deepened as your fingers curled into his shoulder. He made a soft sound against your mouth, his hand sliding down to rest at your waist.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’ve said it out loud yet… but I do. So much.”

Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

Jo’s ears burned pink, but he smiled—small and shy—before kissing you again. This time it was slower, deeper, full of everything he’d been holding in.

His mouth moved down your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone and the curve of your breast with slow, lingering presses of his lips. His hands stroked your sides, your waist, your thighs—gentle and warm, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you beneath him. Every so often he would pause to look up at you, checking your face with those soft, worried eyes, as if making sure you were still okay.

When he finally settled between your legs and pushed inside you, it was slow and careful, just like always. He let out a shaky breath against your neck, his arms trembling slightly as he sank deeper.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll go slow… I promise.”

He kept his word.

Jo moved in deep, unhurried strokes, his forehead resting against yours as he rocked into you. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together beside your head while the other cradled your cheek. He kissed you between every soft thrust—sweet, lingering kisses that made your chest feel warm and full.

You could feel how much he was trying to make it last for you. His breathing grew heavier, and quiet, desperate little sounds kept escaping him every time you clenched around him, but he didn’t rush. He stayed slow, sensual, focused entirely on you.

When you finally came, your back arching softly off of the sheets—jo kissed you through it, swallowing your soft moans as his hips kept moving in that same steady rhythm.

Only after you had come down did he let himself go.

His thrusts grew slightly faster, more desperate, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he whimpered your name.

“I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped.

You nodded, and he pulled out at the last second with a broken, shaky moan. He came across your stomach in warm pulses, his whole body trembling above you as he rode it out. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breathing hard, one hand still tightly holding yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Jo eventually lifted his head, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. He looked down at the mess on your stomach, then back at your face with a soft, embarrassed expression.

“…Sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I still can’t last very long with you.”

You reached up and gently touched his cheek, smiling.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “I like it when you lose control a little.”

Jo let out a small, shaky laugh and leaned down to kiss you again — slower this time, sweeter. He carefully cleaned you up before pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.

He held you close, one hand stroking gently up and down your back— fingers traced slow patterns along your spine.

“…I think we’re going to be okay,” he whispered into the quiet. “For the first time, I really believe that.”

You smiled against his skin and pressed a soft kiss to his neck.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “We are.”

© 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱! 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is my longest fic to date with 26,281 words total. i've been writing this since the beginning of my blog and finally got the time to sit down and finish it. im so proud of this. i absolutely loved writing jo and our sweet deer reader. i absolutely loved building scenes for this as well. im not sure if mid way it looks / feels rushed,, i really wanted to get into the other scenes of the fic since i knew if i kept writing more and more details it would reach 30k words heh so some scenes may feel / look a bit rushed.. sorry !! but anyway ! i adored writing this. the concept started out so small and grew to become something so beautiful. i hope you guys enjoy and love this fic as much as i do.

𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 open . . . . . : @ikigaijo @blueuijoo @0wisewisdoom @d3adg1rlie @yudaism @sh1n3-4h4na @starl0stt @yeonyeonbun @vickiluvsjo @ampiesworld @rubyidk @maytaurus20 @whoisgwyn @simplyscrewed @meowieshibal @zzniya @1014b @deerhuntings @tokunodoll @crushonfuma @enha-crumbs @zucchini-thepowerfull @pendragonfaye @guliexe @natthefreak @sailorinthesie @rikusqirl @mitsuyas-version @freetobeey @xukeiko @fumaid @livelaughloveseventeen @berrysoft7 @gummiiiee @radxdga @hhoneylix @crdteezv @pageraf @yandere-stories @jpow345 @itzhbu @reisdoll @horangiungnico @patrickbatemansgf @yethoughts

𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲, 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲.

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