He thought you didn’t know.

But you saw him.

You always saw him.

The first time, it was only a shadow: a towering figure half-hidden behind the black skeleton of a pine tree, watching you as you hung freshly washed sheets beneath a washed-out winter sky. Another time, you caught the briefest flash of his eyes, pale and aching with something that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite hatred, as he melted back into the dark.

The creature.

Adam Frankenstein.

The villagers whispered about a monster in the woods, a patchwork horror that should have never drawn breath, but you knew better. Monsters didn’t leave bread on your windowsill on nights you forgot to eat. Monsters didn’t stack kindling by your step after snowstorms, or set down a freshly killed hare just close enough that your old dog could sniff it out in the morning. Monsters didn’t linger at the edge of your light like a shield, taking every blow the world had meant for you.

So you started leaving things for him, too.

A still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and left on a flat stone near the forest’s edge. A thick, clumsily sewn shirt you’d stitched by candlelight, big enough to fit the breadth of his shoulders as best you could guess. A pair of gloves with uneven fingers. Each offering would be gone by morning, and in their place there’d be… nothing. No note. No mark. Just a silence that somehow felt shy.

Spring came slowly, softening the snow into streams and coaxing green from the hard earth. One bright morning, you took your dog and followed the familiar path beneath the budding branches, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. You could feel him behind you—no longer a rumour, but a steady presence in the spaces between birdsong and the crunch of twigs underfoot.

He was careful with his distance.

Careful with you.

You felt him before you saw him.

The air behind you changed—thicker somehow, as if the very forest were holding its breath.

Your dog’s ears flicked, tail giving the smallest wag, but he did not bark. He sat at your heel, as though he, too, had long grown used to the giant shadow that haunted the trees.

You stood in the clearing, sunlight painting your skirts in pale gold, fingers resting lightly upon your dog’s head.

“I know you are there,” you said, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You have been there for a very long time, have you not?”

Silence.

The birds went quiet. A breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—old smoke, metal, and the faintest trace of soap, as though someone had tried, clumsily, to scrub himself clean.

You swallowed your nervousness and smiled, though he could not see it. Not yet.

“Tell me, Adam,” you continued, your tone turning wry, “how much longer until you understand that I have always known about you… and that you do not frighten me in the least?”

Something shifted among the trees to your left. A heavy footstep, then another, crunching over last year’s leaves. Your dog gave a low, pleased whine.

Slowly, as though dragged forward by some unseen chain, he stepped out from the shadows.

He was larger than you had imagined, even after months of stolen glances. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the very shirt you had sewn by candlelight. The fabric sat oddly upon him, as if he were still unsure he had the right to wear something made with care.

His face—oh, his face.

You had prepared yourself for horror.

Instead, you found sadness.

Features too sharply cut, as though chiseled in haste and anger. Eyes a pale, unnatural blue, ringed by the kind of weariness usually reserved for much older men. There were scars, yes, and those patchwork seams that betrayed the unnatural hand that had pieced him together, but beneath them all… he was simply a man who did not know how to occupy his own skin.

He stopped several paces away, hands held slightly out from his sides, as though to show he carried no weapon.

“You… you ought to run,” he said at last, his voice rough and low, the words strangely precise yet hesitant, like a man learning to speak again after a long illness. “The villagers would tell you to flee.”

“The villagers,” you replied, “have never once stacked firewood by my door after a storm.”

His jaw tightened. He glanced away, as though ashamed.

“That was nothing,” he muttered. “A mere… task. I happened to be near.”

“And the hare left upon my step in January? Was that another mere task?”

He shifted his weight, great hands curling into fists. “You were thin,” he said grudgingly. “There were no tracks near your home. I deduced you did not hunt.”

“And the wolves?” you pressed gently. “The ones that never cross the boundary of my field, though their howls wake me in the night?”

His throat worked. For a moment, the creature looked almost… irritated. “They are foolish animals,” he said. “They do not understand when they trespass upon what is mine to guard.”

Your heart stuttered at that word.

“Yours to guard,” you echoed softly.

At last his gaze met yours. There was a terrible vulnerability in it, like a child braced for mockery.

“You ought not look at me so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You ought to scream. Or at the very least, avert your eyes.”

“I shall do neither,” you answered. “You have been my unseen champion all winter, sir. I should think it discourteous to shriek at you now.”

He frowned, as though the very notion of courtesy applied to him was offensive.

“I am no ‘sir’,” he said. “The man who stitched me together did not deem me fit for such a title.”

“Then what shall I call you?” you asked, ignoring the chill that raced down your spine at his choice of words. “The villagers speak of a monster. A demon. A fiend. I do not care for any of those.”

A shadow of something like humour passed over his face. “He called me Adam,” he said quietly. “As though I were the first of my kind.”

You nodded once. “Very well, Adam.”

Your dog, emboldened by your calm, trotted forward and sniffed at his boots. Adam stared down at him as though the small creature were some strange, new invention.

“He does not fear me,” Adam murmured, almost to himself.

“Animals are often better judges of character than men,” you replied. “He knows you have watched over us.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I watched to ensure no harm came to you,” he corrected. “Whether you knew of it or not is of little consequence.”

“On the contrary.” You took a small step closer. His eyes widened, as though you had moved a mile instead of a foot. “It is of great consequence. You believed yourself unseen, did you not?”

He hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Then you must also have believed that the bread, and the shirt, and the gloves appeared by some miracle of the woods.” You tilted your head. “Or did you imagine the forest itself had begun to sew?”

Colour—faint but unmistakable—rose along the visible seam of his throat. He looked past you, toward the stone where you always left your gifts.

“I thought…” He paused, visibly searching for words. “I wondered if perhaps you had set them out for the poor. For some wandering soul more deserving than I.”

Your chest ached. “And yet you took them.”

“Yes.” His gaze dropped to his hands, as though the gloves were still upon them. “I told myself I had stolen them. That you would never know. That is the sort of thing a monster does, is it not? Take what is not his?”

“If I leave something upon the edge of the wood with no name attached,” you said gently, “is it truly theft for the one I hoped would claim it… to do so?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled. “You… hoped…?”

“For whom else do you suppose I stitched sleeves of that length?” you asked, lips quirking. “There is no man in the village with shoulders so broad as yours, Adam.”

He stared at you as though you had struck him. Not in pain—more in stunned disbelief.

“You… knew,” he breathed. “You knew I was there. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“And you were not afraid.”

You considered this. “I was wary,” you said honestly. “At first. One does not wake to strange footprints and dead wolves without a certain degree of alarm. But then I saw you. Hiding like a boy behind those poor trees, trying very hard not to be seen. And I thought—”

You broke off, biting your lip.

He took a half-step forward despite himself. “You thought what?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, “that no true monster skulks in the shadows to keep a woman’s cottage safe through a winter as harsh as this last one. No true monster leaves food instead of taking it. No true monster looks at another living soul the way you looked at my dog last month—do not pretend you were not there, I saw you through the curtain—like you were afraid to even breathe in his direction for fear you might somehow break him.”

He said nothing. His breath misted faintly in the cool spring air, harsh and uneven.

“You should not look so kindly upon me,” he managed at last. “It is… improper.”

“Improper,” you repeated, amusement bubbling up despite the solemnity of his tone. “We are alone in the forest, Adam. There is no vicar here to scold us.”

“It is not the vicar I fear,” he muttered. “It is myself.”

Your smile faded.

“Why?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up as though they were strange objects he’d found rather than parts of his own body.

“These hands have done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I have torn wolves apart, as you have seen. I have broken men who sought to harm me. I have throttled hatred at its source and found only more hatred beneath it. I was created in violence and I fear I shall end in it as well.” His eyes lifted to yours, desperate. “I cannot trust myself near that which is gentle.”

Your throat tightened. “You have been near me all winter.”

“At a distance,” he insisted. “A barrier of trees. Of shadow. Of night. It is different now.”

“Is it?” You closed the gap between you by another small step. He sucked in a breath, shoulders going rigid. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, unnatural in its intensity, like standing too close to a forge. “I feel no danger from you, Adam.”

“You should.”

“But I do not.” You lifted your hand, giving him every opportunity to retreat. “May I?”

He stared at your outstretched fingers as though they were some holy relic. “I… do not know.”

“We shall discover it together,” you said softly.

After a moment that stretched thin as spun sugar, he extended his own hand, large and scarred and trembling just enough for you to see. You laid your palm against his.

Warm. Solid. Very real.

He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

“See?” you murmured. “You have not broken me.”

“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.

You squeezed his fingers. “Nor shall you, if I have any say in the matter.”

For a heartbeat, the forest was nothing but the two of you and the soft panting of your dog at your side. A bird dared a tentative trill somewhere above, as though deciding the danger had passed.

“You treat me as though I were… a man,” Adam said quietly, almost accusingly.

“You are,” you replied simply.

His brows drew together. “I am a collection of parts stolen from graves. I am a blasphemy against God and nature both.”

“You are standing in the sunlight speaking to me with more courtesy than half the men in town,” you countered. “If that is blasphemy, then perhaps we have misjudged Heaven.”

A startled, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. As though he had forgotten how ordinary mirth should feel in his chest.

“You should not say such things,” he chided, but there was no true censure in it. “You are too bold.”

“You have been listening to me mutter to myself all winter,” you reminded him. “You ought to know by now that my tongue is not easily tamed.”

“I know many things about you,” he admitted, voice going soft. “I know you speak kindly to your dog even when he chews your shoes. I know you hum that same song each morning when you light the stove. I know you eat too little when you are anxious. I know you cry when you believe no one can hear.”

Your breath caught. “You ought not watch a lady in such moments,” you said, flustered.

“I know,” he said, guilt flickering through his gaze. “And yet I could not look away. Your sorrow… it frightened me more than wolves ever could. I wished to tear apart whatever had caused it, but there was nothing there. Only you, and your hands shaking, and your tears falling into the dough you were kneading.”

You blinked rapidly, your throat thick. “You saw that.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think yourself a monster,” you whispered.

He hesitated. “Do you not?”

You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you, your hand still cradled in his. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes fully.

“If I say no,” you asked, “will you believe me?”

“I… do not know.” His voice cracked on the words.

“Then I shall tell you as many times as necessary until you do.” Your lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “You are not a monster to me, Adam. You are the reason I have slept safely these many months. You are the reason my dog still runs through these woods without fear. You are the reason I am standing here today, whole and unharmed.”

He swallowed hard. “Any man might have done as much.”

“But no man did.” You lifted your free hand to his chest, pressing your palm lightly over where his heart would be—if it beat. “You did.”

His breath hitched. For a moment, he seemed to forget how limbs functioned, standing utterly still as though one wrong move might shatter the moment into fragments.

“You should not touch me so,” he said weakly.

“And yet,” you murmured, “you do not step away.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Because I am selfish. Because I have spent a season watching you from afar and I am not yet strong enough to deny myself this one brief… kindness.”

“Adam,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He obeyed. Slowly, hesitantly, but he obeyed.

“There is nothing ‘brief’ about what I intend,” you told him. “You have guarded my cottage as though it were a kingdom. Will you not allow me, at the very least, to guard your heart in return?”

His lips parted, but no sound came. You could see the war waging behind his eyes—fear and longing and disbelief all tangled together.

“You… would keep company with me?” he managed at last. “Knowing what I am?”

“Knowing who you are,” you corrected. “A man named Adam who walks the tree line at night so that I may sleep. A man who refuses to let wolves cross my field. A man who looks at my foolish old dog as though he were some creature made of glass.” Your fingers curled briefly against his chest. “If that is monstrosity, I shall gladly consort with monsters.”

Another laugh—clearer this time—escaped him. It transformed his face, smoothing some of the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the scars.

“You are very stubborn,” he said.

“So I have been told.”

“And you would not… flee, if I came nearer? If I…” He faltered, gaze flickering to your joined hands. “If I visited your cottage when the sun has set?”

“I should be most put out if you did not,” you said lightly. “I have an extra chair by the hearth and no one to fill it. My dog prefers company. As, I suspect, do I.”

He stared at you as though trying to determine whether this were some cruel trick of the mind. At last, cautiously, he lifted his other hand to hover near your cheek, stopping inches away.

“May I?” he asked, echoing your earlier words.

You leaned into the space between, closing the distance yourself. His fingers brushed your skin—calloused, uncertain, trembling. He cupped your cheek as though cradling something far more fragile than you felt.

“You are warm,” he whispered, wonder in his tone.

“And you are real,” you replied.

His thumb swept once, reverently, along your cheekbone. “If I frighten you,” he said softly, “you must tell me at once. I will go, and I shall not trouble you again, though it break what passes for my heart.”

“I do not believe you capable of breaking my heart,” you said. “Guarding it, perhaps. As you have guarded everything else.”

His eyes shone, sudden moisture gathering there. He blinked it away quickly, as though ashamed.

“I do not understand why you would offer such mercy to me,” he murmured.

“Perhaps,” you said gently, “it is not mercy. Perhaps it is simply… affection.”

The word seemed to strike him with more force than any blow.

“Affection,” he repeated, voice barely audible. “For me.”

“For you,” you affirmed. “For Adam, who walks the forest so that I might live another day to bake too much bread and scold my dog and sew shirts far too large.” Your smile softened. “Stay with me, and I shall show you there is more for you than shadows and solitude.”

He drew in a long, shaky breath. When he exhaled, something in his posture eased—the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As though a burden he had carried alone for far too long had shifted, just slightly, into your waiting hands.

“Very well,” he said at last, voice low but resolute. “I shall try.”

Your heart lifted, light as the first spring breeze.

“Good,” you replied. “Then you shall walk me home, Adam. And after that, if you wish, you may sit by my fire and tell me all the things you have seen from the edge of the wood.”

He glanced once toward the deeper forest, then back to you—the woman who had left bread and stitched shirts and dared to speak kindly to the creature everyone else feared.

“As you wish,” he said quietly.

you don’t remember the exact moment it started — only the way it settled into your life like background noise.

it wasn’t that you stood out. not in the way people usually mean. you were average, maybe a little too quiet, a little too precise. you corrected the teacher once in ninth grade and never made that mistake again. you laughed at the wrong things, or too late, and sometimes people looked at you like you were a half-step behind everyone else.

then there was ace.

he didn’t bully like they do in movies. it wasn’t lockers and threats. it was attention. too much attention.

you learn quickly that reacting only makes it worse. so, you don’t. not in the way people expect anyway. 

when ace starts teasing you in ninth grade — calling you ‘professor,’ mocking the way you talk, the way you walk, the way your hand hovers in the air just a second too long in class — you decide, without knowing it’s a decision, to never give him anything.

no eye rolls. no snapped comebacks. no sulking walk-outs. 

just silence.

you become very good at being unreadable. on the outside, at least. but inside, it hurts. it always hurts.

you hate how visible you are to him — how you can sit in the back of a classroom, say nothing, and still feel his eyes on you. like he’s waiting for you to say something too formal, too strange, too you, just so he can take it and turn it into something worth laughing at.

and people do laugh. not cruelly — just reflexively. a nudge in the ribs, a chuckle, a sidelong glance. it doesn’t take much for everyone to fall in line.

you’re not sure what ace wants from you. that’s the worst part. his comments aren’t even that harsh. not really. it’s the intention behind them; the constant needling, the way he makes everything you do feel like a punchline.

like you’re not allowed to just be without explanation.

you hear him say once in gym class, “they talk like they’re auditioning for a bbc documentary.” you pretend you didn’t hear.

but later, in the locker room, you hear the rest quoting it. not in a mocking tone, just repeating it like it’s true.

it’s not the words that sting. it’s the fact that he sees you — and instead of making that matter, he turns you into some half-joke to pass the time.

you don’t cry, not in school. you go home, sit at your desk, and replay it in your head. you wonder why it matters so much, why he matters so much. and you hate that you care.

the truth is, you’re lonely. not in a dramatic way, just in the dull, constant ache of not being known way.

ace, for all his stupid comments and lingering stares, seems to know more about you than most people. but he never uses that knowledge gently. he jabs with it, pokes, prods, waits for cracks. but you never let them show.

you start changing the way you speak. you start second-guessing what books you bring to school, what clothes you wear, how you sit. you dull the edges of yourself, one after another, until you can walk through the hallways without hearing his voice behind you.

that’s your version of survival. 

eventually, he stops. or maybe you’ve become too boring to bother with. either way, by senior year, the comments fade. you don’t speak to each other again. and you don’t look back when you graduated.

university is different.

people don’t really notice you, not at first, but that’s fine. you’re used to it. you make friends slowly, you get better at being yourself again — not all at once, but in pieces. your voice doesn’t wobble anymore, you let your hair fall the way it wants to, you start to like the sound of your own laugh.

you finally became a person again.

second year, you’re early to class. you take a seat near the middle, a strange kind of confidence you didn’t used to have. you’re pulling out your laptop when someone drops into the seat beside you.

you feel it before you look. the lazy sprawl, the sudden shift in the air, and then the voice. 

“sorry, is this taken?”

you glance up. it takes you a second. because he’s older now. sharper jaw, broader shoulders, messier hair. but the grin is the same, so are those brown eyes that sparkles with mischief.

ace clemonte.

your body goes still, the old instinct kicking in, but your face doesn’t change. you shake your head. “no, it’s fine.” he nods and looks away, and it seemed like he doesn’t recognise you. of course he doesn’t. why would he?

to him, you were just a fun target. someone with too many syllables in their sentences. a straight back, a quiet mouth.

the professor starts, the class settles. you manage to stay focused — until he leans over and whispers something under his breath. a half-joke about the guy in front falling asleep. and you respond before you can stop yourself.

a low murmur, just audible enough. “or maybe he doesn’t find it performative enough to stay awake.” your voice is quieter now than it used to be, smoother, less rehearsed, but still yours. and you feel it happen. that pause.

he turns toward you, brows pulled together. then the recognition flickers in his face — not all at once, but slowly, like a fog lifting. “... wait,” he says, almost laughing at the coincidence. “no way.”

you say nothing and he blinks. “you’re… you’re ( name ).”

you stare ahead, eyes on the projector screen. he leans closer. “i didn’t recognise you.” you nod once, typing out your notes from the lecture. “that’s okay, i did.” the words land heavier than he expects. you don’t say them angrily — just plainly.

he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “you look… different.” you don’t answer. and in that silence, you can feel it — the weight shifting. for the first time, he’s not the one holding it.

he looks at you again, really looks, and you wonder what he sees now. does he remember how often he said your name like it was a punchline? does he remember how many times he looked at you like he wanted something, then punished you for not giving it?

maybe not.

but he knows something now, he knows you remember. and you hope it engraves in his head.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

ace never wanted to be in love with you. it would’ve been easier if he could’ve just hated you properly. but the truth? he saw you once and never looked away.

it was ninth grade. you were standing near the back of the library, mumbling something about greek tragedy structures to a teacher who wasn’t really listening. you gestured as you spoke; awkward, precise, and your voice didn’t wobble. it rang with clarity, like you had no idea people weren’t supposed to talk like that.

and something in him snapped.

it wasn’t romantic. not at first. it was need, possession. like he’d spotted a diamond half-buried in the dirt and couldn’t stand the idea of someone else getting to it before he did.

because if he noticed you, someone else could too.

and he wouldn’t allow that.

he made you his by making unapproachable. by dragging you down, inch by inch. mocking your voice, twisting your words. laughing at your posture, your clothes, the books you carried. every small thing that made you visible — he ripped it open and pointed for the world to see.

not because he wanted to humiliate you. because he wanted to ruin the way others saw you.

they didn’t laugh to be cruel. they laughed because he made it easy. made you easy to overlook, easy to dismiss, easy to ignore. that was his power.

you never gave him anything in return. no glares, no outbursts, just silence. and it drove him mad.

still, it worked. eventually, people stopped noticing you. you slipped into background noise. and you hated it, he could tell. the light started leaving your eyes by senior year. you rarely spoke, never raised your hand. you barely looked like the person he remembered.

and somehow, that made him furious.

because he’d fallen in love with the way you used to be. strange, upright, too formal, too sharp. like a diamond that hasn’t learned how to dull itself yet. and now you were quiet, flat, safe.

so he backed off. let you go, let you fade. but he never stopped watching.

he learned your patterns like religion. what classes you had, what time you left for school. he memorised your route home, the name of the bookstore where you liked to loiter even when you didn’t buy anything. the sandwich place you always picked for lunch even though you barely finished half of it.

by spring of senior year, he was already planning how not to lose you.

you never saw him follow you into the library, twice a week, just far enough behind the motion-activated doors didn’t open for him.

you never noticed when he passed your laptop in the hallway and took note of the login screen, memorising the school email. what he could find from there, he did. not easily, not quickly but obsessively.

when college application season hit, he knew your top picks before most of your friends did. knew your backups, knew the early deadlines.

he tracked your activity on the school wifi portal. found the server that listed the outgoing common applications. saw the name of your dream university, saw your second choice, saw the offer you accepted three minutes after you clicked it.

and so did he.

he didn’t even visit the campus. didn’t care about the program. he just applied, obsessively checking every few hours for updates, waiting for that email. and when he got in, it was like sealing fate. like you’d chosen him too.

he told himself it wasn’t stalking. it was love, it was insurance. it was his right, because he saw you first. he kept you from being ruined by other people. he was the one who knew the real you.

even if you didn’t know him anymore.

university was bigger, busier. and you were thriving in it.

the first time he saw you on campus, he thought he’d hallucinated you. but then you turned, and the sunlight caught your hair just right, and it was like someone hitting replay in his brain.

you didn’t walk like someone hiding anymore. you took space. you looked up. you laughed, soft, not the belly-deep kind, but genuine.

he watched you from across courtyards. through library windows. from three rows back in your shared electives.

you were changing. becoming the version of yourself he always imagined, but without him.

he hated it.

he loved it. he needed to get closer. but he waited.

he waited until the second year. until the literature course that you joined last minute. until he saw your name on the roster and showed up early, just to get the seat beside you.

when you entered the room, he didn’t look at you first. he waited until you settled.

and then; “sorry, is this taken?”

you looked up. right at him. and he saw it, the flicker. you recognised him. you knew exactly who he was.

but your expression didn’t change. your posture didn’t tighten. you just said, “no it’s fine,” and looked away.

he thought maybe that was it. maybe you’d ignore him again, like in high school. but then he made a joke — something harmless, forgettable; about the guy asleep in front.

and you replied.

cool. effortless. cutting, but clean. “or maybe he doesn’t find it performative enough to stay awake.”

and he felt it in his spine.

he turned toward you, the corner of his mouth twitching, that familiar pull rushing back like a tidal wave. “...wait,” he said, breath hitching, “no way.”

“you’re… you’re ( name ). i didn’t recognise you.” it was a lie. of course he did.

you didn’t blink. “that’s okay, i did.”

and that was it. that was everything. he watched you take notes the rest of class like nothing happened.

he didn’t say more. couldn’t.

because for the first time, the weight of what he’d done, what he’d taken, sat in his throat like a swallowed key.

and still, he wanted you. still, he wouldn’t move on.

other people talked to you now. sat beside you. laughed at your dry remarks, you didn’t need him anymore. not even as the villain.

but he needed you.

and no matter how many strangers walked into his life, none of them would ever be you. none of them had your voice, your eyes, the quiet precision that made him want to set the world on fire just to keep others from looking.

he knew it was sick. he didn’t care. because in his mind, you were already his.

and it didn’t matter how many years passed, didn’t matter how far you tried to run, didn’t matter how happy you looked without him.

he would follow you again. if you transferred, he would too. if you moved, he’d find out where. and if you ever looked at someone the way you never looked at him, he’d see it. he’d feel it like a knife under the ribs.

because he saw you first, and no one else gets to want you like that. not while he’s still breathing.

that’s why now, he has to make you his. one way or another.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

ace had stopped pretending. 

there was no more hiding it in half-laughs or sarcastic comments. no more keeping his obsession neat and folded in the quiet corners of his brain.

he wanted you close, always — and now he made sure everyone else saw it.

it started small. he sat next to you in every class. walked beside you after lectures, waited outside buildings he didn’t even have a reason to be near. eventually, he started showing up at the coffee shop you liked, the library, the art museum. that one corner of the quad where you liked to read on slow afternoons.

you never asked him to leave.

at first, you’d glance at him like you were waiting for the punchline — some joke, some sneer, the old version of him. but it never came. instead, ace started holding doors for you. carrying your bag. 

sitting close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. bumping his shoulder into you when you said something dry and clever, grinning like he hadn’t heard something so perfect in years.

he started touching you — light touches, casual ones, but they lingered.

a hand on your lower back when walking through crowds. fingers brushing your wrist when passing your phone. his knee knocking against yours and not moving.

and you… didn’t stop him.

you never pulled away.

you didn’t laugh it off or tell him to knock it off or say don’t touch me. maybe you thought it was just one of his antics. a phase, a joke without a punchline.

but the rest of the campus? they noticed.

they started assuming. some even asked. “are you two a thing?” and you didn’t correct them. you’d shrug, roll your eyes, and sometimes you’d say, “it’s just ace,” like that meant something.

and ace? he heard it every time.

‘it’s just ace.’ but it wasn’t. not to him. to him, you were already his. you just hadn’t realised it yet.

he took you to a small get-together one night. not really a party — just drinks on the grass outside someone’s dorm. there were string lights overhead and music you couldn’t really dance to. just let wash over you. ace sat next to you, kept you close the whole time. his arm slung over the back of your chair, fingers just barely brushing your shoulder.

you looked soft in the low light. your legs crossed, a drink in hand, half-smiling at something across the yard. you didn’t look like someone who had once been broken into silence. you looked like you belonged here.

and ace was proud.

he liked being seen with you like this. liked how people glanced at the two of you and assumed. liked how no one approached when he was near. you were safe that way.

but then he got up.

just for a second. to grab you both a refill, just a drink.

he glanced at you once before heading toward the folding table set up near the edge of the lawn. it wasn’t far. thirty feet, maybe. the line wasn’t even long. he could still hear the music, still see your outline in the glow of the lights.

but when he turned back, drink in each hand — someone else was standing next to you.

ace froze.

the guy leaned in, clearly saying something low by your ear. you gave a polite smile, not real, but not rude. the kind of smile people give when they want something to end.

but the guy kept going. said something that made your brows pinch. ace’s hands tightened around the plastic cups. and then the guy’s hand, it dropped.

not on your shoulder, not your arm. but your knee.

just resting there. too casual, too slow. the kind of touch that was always pretending to be innocent. but ace knew better.

you tensed, your smile disappeared. you glanced towards the table, towards him, like you wanted to leave.

and that was it.

the drinks hit the ground. he didn’t walk back — he stormed. silent, efficient, cold. he didn’t raise his voice, didn’t ask questions. just stepped between you and the guy like you were a fire he needed to shield with his own body.

“they’re not interested,” ace said, voice razor sharp. the guy blinked, confused, annoyed. “what—?”

he didn’t let him finish. “get your hand off them.” he said. there was no anger in his tone. not yet, just steel. the guy started to say something, to you, of all people, and ace cut in again.

“you touch them again,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “and i’ll make sure no one hears from you for a very long time.”

silence followed before the guy left. he didn’t push it, didn’t fight back. something in ace’s eyes made it very clear — this wasn’t worth it.

and then it was just you and ace again.

your eyes were wide. your voice was quiet. “you didn’t have to—”

“i did.” he said, already reaching for your hand. “c’mon. you’re done here.”

he walked you back to your dorm without another word. one hand wrapped around yours, the other clenched at his side. not saying what he was thinking, not saying what he wanted to do.

because inside?

he was still back there — standing over that guy, planning. he could’ve followed him, could’ve made it look like an accident. something fast, clean, quiet. no one would have to know. no one would touch you like that again.

no one would dare.

because you weren’t just someone ace liked. you weren’t just a person he followed out of infatuation. you were his reason. his air. his anchor to a world he hated. without you, he didn’t breathe right. without you, he unraveled.

and if that meant scaring people off? if that meant leaving bodies behind? so be it.

because you weren’t his partner. not officially. but one day? you’d see it. and when you did? you wouldn’t want anyone else.

not after him.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

the cool night air nipped at your cheeks as ace dragged you hastily through the crowded campus, his grip on your wrist tightening with each passing second. you couldn’t help but wince, squirming in his hold as you were forced to match his hurried pace.

“ace, it fucking hurts.” you snapped, yanking your arm free from his grasp. he glanced down at you, his eyes still smoldering with anger and something else, something you couldn’t identify properly.

shit, he was pissed. and hot as hell if you were being honest with yourself.

sighing, you rubbed your wrist as you continued walking beside him, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing. the dorm building loomed ahead, a sanctuary from the chaos of the crowded quad.

he followed you in, his footsteps heavy and measured as he trailed behind you. the old wooden floors creaked beneath your combined weight, the sound echoing off the barren walls.

a wave of relief washed over you as you pushed open the door to your room, the dim glow of the string lights casting a soft ambiance over the small space. without thinking, you stepped inside. turning to face ace as he hovered in the doorway.

“hey, i.. i just wanna say thank you,” you murmured, and you didn’t know what came over you. maybe it was the mood, but you leaned in to press a soft kiss on his cheek and your heart raced as you pulled back, your eyes fluttering open to meet his.

ace’s gaze darkened, his pupils dilating as he studied you intently. in one swift motion, he stepped forward, backing you up until your back hits the wall. his large hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

you gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into the leather of his jacket. he tasted like whiskey and cigarettes, the combination sending a jolt of adrenaline straight to your core.

“i’m not letting anyone else touch you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “you’re mine, you hear me? all fucking mine.”

a shiver ran down your spine, your body responding to the dominance and possession in his tone. you arched into him, your chest pressing against his as you wound your arms around his neck.

ace’s hands drifted up to your sides, his calloused thumbs brushing over the swell of your chest. he cupped them in his palms, kneading the soft flesh as he deepened the kiss.

breaking away with a low groan, he began trailing open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your racing pulse. you tilted your head back, giving him better access as your fingers tangled in his dark hair.

“tell me you’re mine,” he demanded, his breath hot against your skin. “tell me you belong to me,” his voice almost sounded as if he was begging, pleading to be yours once and for all.

maybe it was the influence of alcohol, but you couldn’t help but be swayed by him. he’s hurt you in the past, but he’s changed in the present, right? “i’m yours,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. “all yours.”

ace shuddered against you, one hand drifting down to palm your ass. he squeezed the globes, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist. you did so without hesitation now, locking your ankles behind his back as he began to walk you towards the bed.

he lowered you down onto the mattress, his large frame covering yours as he settled between your spread thighs. somehow, even in the throes of passion, he was gentle. careful.

he hovered over you, his elbows resting on either side of your head s he studied your face. a lock of hair fell into his eyes, his jaw clenched tight as he fought for control.

he leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, your cheek, your jaw, until he reached the sensitive spot behind your ear. you whimpered, your hips bucking up against his as he sucked and nibbled on the sensitive flesh.

ace’s hand slide under the hem of your shirt, his calloused fingers splaying across the small of your back. he caressed the smooth skin there, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

slowly, torturously so, he peeled off your shirt and tossed it somewhere across the room. the cool air kissed your heated skin, your nipples pebbling beneath the heat of his gaze.

he took a moment to admire you, his dark eyes roaming every inch of exposed skin. a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his gaze now clashing with yours.

“fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and husky with desire. “i can’t believe you’re mine.”

he dipped his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of your chest. he nuzzled into the valley between them, breathing in your scent as his relishes on the sole factor he has you now.

he looked at your chest once more before dipping down and drawing one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling gently. you cried out, arching into him as sparks of pleasure shot through you.

he took his time with you, lavishing attention on each chest until they glistened with his saliva. your hands slid into his hair, gripping the strands tightly as you held him against you.

slowly, he kissed his way down your stomach, dipping his tongue into your navel before continuing his path south. he tugged your jeans and underwear down your legs, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

now bare before him, you squirmed beneath his heated gaze. the ache between your thighs was impossible to ignore, your core throbbing with the need for his touch.

ace settled between your legs, his broad shoulders pushing them further apart as he leaned in to press a kiss to your sex. you whimpered, your head falling back against the pillow as you arched into his touch.

his fingers trailed down your stomach before brushing against your tight hole. you were dripping, your arousal coating his fingers as he took a good look at the mess you’ve made just from his touches.

he leaned in, breathing hotly against the sensitive hole before drawing it into his mouth. he took in the scent of you deeply, his tongue flicking out to circle around your hole rapidly.

your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping the strands tightly as you ground your hips against his face. ace groaned, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

he pulled away from your hole, seeing the slick he made before his fingers circled around your entrance. a single digit entered you, pumping in and out of your clenching walls slowly.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” ace murmured, his voice muffled by your thighs. “so fucking perfect.”

he added a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he curled them upwards to stroke the spot that makes you see stars. your inner muscles clenched down around the invading digits, drawing them in deeper.

ace worked a third finger finger alongside the others, his thrusts picking up speed and intensity. his other hand pressed down on your abdomen, making sure you feel every bit of his touch.

you were already so close to the edge, his ministrations pushing you rapidly towards your peak. your thighs began to tremble, your toes curling in your socks as the tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter.

“gonna.. gonna cum..” you gasped out, your grip on his hair tightening. “oh fuck, ace!”

your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your spine arching off the bed as you screamed your release. ace continued his ministrations throughout your climax, drawing out every last drop of pleasure from your spasming body.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, your body went limp. you collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving and skin slicked with sweat. 

he crawled up you body, his weight settling on top of you as he captured your lips in a searing kiss. you could taste yourself on his lips and it only field your desire.

he settled between your thighs, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. you could feel his arousal pressing against your belly, hard and insistent.

he broke the kiss to sit back on his heels, his hands gripping the waistband of his jeans. he unbuttoned them quickly, shoving the fabric down his thighs until he could kick them off onto the floor.

black hair trailed down from his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers. he dipped a hand beneath the fabric, pulling out his hard, aching cock.

he stroked it a few times, his fist pumping up and down the thick length. your mouth watered at the sight, your tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips.

he tossed his boxers aside, leaving him bare before you. he settled between your thighs once more, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance teasingly.

with a swift snap of his hips, he buried himself inside you, stretching you deliciously around his thick girth. a groan tore from his throat, his eyes fluttering shut as he savored the feeling of your wet heat engulfing him.

he began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm. his pace was gentle, almost tender, as if he was being careful not to hurt you.

your fingers slid up and down the muscles of his back, feeling them flex and tense with each roll of his hips. he leaned down to capture your lips, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with yours.

the kiss turned heated, turning frantic and desperate as ace increased his pace. your hips rose up to meet his, drawing him in deeper, harder, faster.

the feeling of his skin against yours, his muscles flexing and rolling beneath your palms, his breath coming out in harsh pants against your cheek, it was all too much.

you could feel another orgasm building, the tension in your belly coiling tighter and tighter. your walls began to flutter, clenching down around ace’s pistoning length.

“fuck, i’m close,” he grunted, his voice strained. “fuck, you feel so fucking good.”

he slammed into you two more times before stilling, his body going rigid above you. with a low, guttural moan, he came, his release sputing hot and deep inside you.

you clung to him as he twitched and shuddered through his climax, your inner muscles milking every last drop from his pulsing cock.

finally, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. ace collapsed on top of you, his sweaty skin sticking to yours as he fought to catch his breath.

he lifted his head to look at you, his dark eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction, awe, and a hint of something else.

“you’re mine,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy. “all mine.”

you could only nod, a small smile tugging at your kiss-swollen lips. you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him down for a slow, sensual kiss and… he’s hard again. you could feel it in your tummy.

well, now you know he definitely has a high libido. you just hope you could walk tomorrow for class.

You didn’t miss the voice-on-the-phone Caleb. You missed your gege. The one who’d sit cross-legged on your floor with a pencil behind his ear and do your math homework without even looking at the textbook. The one who’d hand you his phone already queued up with your favorite show, tell you to lie down on his lap, and stroke your hair while you slowly drifted off. He used to sneak snacks into your backpack before school, gave you the best nicknames, the worst jokes. Caleb made everything feel simple.

But this reunion was bittersweet in a way too.

Because this time, he wasn’t just coming home—you were getting ready to leave. Your acceptance letters sat in a neat, mocking row on your desk: different cities, different dorms, different lives. It was supposed to be exciting, and sometimes it was. But right now, the thought of walking away from this house, from him, made your chest ache.

You hadn’t even told him yet which school you were leaning toward. Or that you'd been accepted at all. Part of you didn’t want to decide. Part of you wanted to stay in this room, with Grandma’s turkey in the air and Caleb on his way, forever.

You stopped pacing and sat on the edge of your bed, bouncing your leg. Picked up your phone again. No new messages. No updates.

Ugh. He was always so slow. You’d definitely have to tease him about it later—maybe something about needing a calendar instead of a clock.

Deciding to stop torturing yourself, you shoved your phone into your pocket and bounced downstairs, drawn by the mouthwatering smell drifting from the kitchen. Your stomach grumbled in response.

The kitchen looked exactly how you hoped it would. Slightly chaotic, full of steam and clinking dishes, but cozy. Grandma stood at the stove, carefully spooning juices over the golden-brown turkey, her focus intense. She wore her usual holiday apron, the one with a cartoon reindeer holding a spatula, and her hair was pinned up in the same neat bun she always wore when she meant business in the kitchen. The window over the sink was fogged up from the heat, and a half-empty mug of tea sat on the counter beside a folded towel and a cooling pie.

She turned at the sound of your footsteps, her face lighting up with a tired but warm smile. "Dear, can you give me a hand? My arthritis is acting up, and this turkey’s pretty heavy. I swear, they make them bigger every year."

"Yes ma'am!"

You nodded immediately, already reaching for the oven mitts hanging by the fridge. Helping Grandma was non-negotiable, especially when it came to the turkey. Besides, this was your favorite part—slicing into the turkey, feeling the crisp skin give way under the knife, watching the steam rise as tender meat separated in perfect layers. That first cut always felt like a reward for the work, the patience, the buildup. You slid the mitts on and moved to her side, ready to take over.

"Careful," she warned, handing you the baster with a wink. "He’s a juicy one."

You grinned, nodding like a soldier receiving a mission. As you basted the turkey, Grandma leaned back against the counter with a soft sigh, watching you with a combination of pride and nostalgia.

"You know," she said, her eyes softening as she looked over the turkey. "I usually make Caleb do this part . You remember that one year? The second I turned my back, you snuck a whole slice and tried to blame it on him" She laughed, the memory pulling a grin across her face. " You always hovered right here, acting all helpful, but really just waiting for a piece to fall off the platter. You had gravy on your chin and still tried to look innocent."

"And then Caleb took the blame for me anyways and you pretended to believe him" you replied with a grin, but the memory pulled a giggle out of you before you could help it. You could still see it clearly—Caleb standing there with that guilty look he’d perfected just for your antics, apologizing like he’d actually done something wrong.

And Grandma, standing over both of you with that wooden spoon in hand, raising an eyebrow but never pushing too hard. She knew the truth. Of course she did. But she just sighed and let him take the fall anyway.

Just as you picked up the turkey to move it to the table, the sharp chime of the doorbell sliced through the air. You both turned toward the sound, and your hands trembled so hard you nearly dropped the roasting pan. A splash of hot juices nearly burned your wrist, and you hissed under your breath, steadying the pan with both hands.

You gasped, heart launching into your throat. “Oh. Is that him? He's late.” Grandma clicked her tongue and gave you a knowing, warm smile, knowing exactly what was going through your mind. “Don’t drop the turkey. Go on and let him in.”

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god! He’s here!

Your mind went blank except for that one thought, looping on repeat. You quickly and—miraculously—set the turkey down without disaster, fumbling a little but managing to avoid catastrophe. You wiped your hands on a towel that wasn’t nearly as clean as you thought it was and practically bolted for the front door. Every nerve in your body buzzed like you’d been plugged into an outlet. After all this time. After every late-night call, every dumb meme shared at 2 a.m., every message that ended with "soon"—he was finally here.

You paused at the door, took a breath. Your reflection in the glass caught your eye—hair slightly frizzed from the kitchen steam, cheeks flushed. You straightened your shirt. Cleared your throat like that would somehow organize the chaos inside you.

Then you swung it open. And there he was.

Warm violet eyes that lit up even in the bright afternoon sun. Tousled brown hair that practically begged to be ruffled. A sleeveless tank that clung to him just enough to show off arms that had definitely spent some time at the gym—whether intentionally or not. He looked tired, but smug, the corner of his mouth curling up the moment he saw you like he’d been waiting just to see your face.

“Heyyy, pips! Took you long en—oof!”

You didn’t even let him finish. You crashed into him, arms around his neck, squeezing like you never wanted to let go again. His bag hit the ground with a thud you didn’t even hear. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the faint scent of airport and his signature cologne.

He staggered back a step with a surprised grunt but caught you easily, strong arms wrapping around your waist in that old, familiar way. For a second, nothing else existed—just the two of you, in the doorway, like no time had passed at all.

"No...took you long enough, Caleb..." you mumbled, your voice muffled against his chest. The words were more instinct than thought, rising from a place that had waited far too long. Your hands clutched at the back of his shirt, needing the pressure, the proof he was really standing there.

“Missed me, huh?” he mumbled into your hair.

You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the smile in his voice—a soft curl of sound that wrapped around you like a blanket. And for once, your brain didn’t pull up a witty comeback or a teasing jab. Instead, there was just this quiet, overwhelming rush of everything all at once: relief, joy, disbelief. Your eyes stung, and you swallowed hard as you nodded against him, your throat too tight for anything else, your heart flipping like it was trying to break free.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” you whispered, the words unsteady, tangled between a shaky laugh and a tear threatening to spill. His grip around you tightened, grounding you with warmth and certainty, just for a moment—but that moment said more than a thousand explanations ever could.

“Okay okay, you don't have to” he said, a quiet laugh slipping from him. "Is that turkey I smell? Im starving.”

You pull back from him, playfully tugging his arm to rush him inside. God, he’s so much heavier than you remember. Solid. Like trying to tug a tree. He barely budges, just plants his feet and gives you that familiar smile that always made it hard to stay annoyed with him for long. It was infuriating—and comforting all at once.

"Yes, and you'd better hurry up 'cause I've already eaten most of it," you joke, flashing him a sneaky grin.

Caleb rolls his eyes, scooping up his bag from the ground with an exaggerated sigh. "Uh huh, sure. Like Grandma would ever let you do that before everyone’s seated. I bet she still guards the turkey like it’s the crown jewels."

You stick your tongue out at him like you’re ten again, and he retaliates with a quick ruffle of your hair, laughing as you duck and swat at his arm. It's clumsy and playful, and you hadn’t realized you this until it was happening again. Just like old times.

As you both step into the living room, the warmth of the house seems to wrap around you tighter. The lights are softer here, golden with age and memory, and the familiar creak of the floorboards under your feet brings it all rushing back. The framed photos on the wall—some new, some ancient—remind you of every version of this house you’ve ever known.

Grandma’s voice floats in from the kitchen, warm and steady, cutting through the ambient clatter of dishes and the soft hum of something bubbling on the stove. "Caleb, can you come here? How was the flight, dear? I heard there was a storm."

The sound of her voice makes you both pause. He glances down at you, that spark still in his eyes, then shifts his gaze toward the kitchen. His smile changes, softening like butter left out on the counter, melting into something gentler. That voice had been the soundtrack to so many homecomings, to so many recoveries after bad days, and you can almost see the years of memory flicker across his face.

"Coming, Gran! It wasn't that bad." he calls back, his voice a little louder, a little more boyish now, like some small part of him had never really grown up—even after everything.

You follow close behind, the scent of roasted turkey stronger now, pulling all of you home at once. Caleb’s bag bumps against his leg as he walks, and you trail just behind. Everything felt a little more real now.

You all settle into a kind of warm, chaotic normalcy as soon as you're through the doorway. The smell of sage and butter still floats through the air, blending with the low hum of voices and clinking cutlery. Grandma, ever the general of the kitchen, waves you toward the dining table with a firm command.

"Sit, sit! Let me and Caleb handle this."

You don’t even try to argue—it’s tradition at this point. You sink into your usual spot at the table, the cushion still slightly sunken from years of use, while Caleb drops his bag near the entryway and heads straight for the serving dishes like he’s been doing this every Sunday for the last ten years.

"Plates? Got it," he mutters, already reaching for the stack, moving like he knows where everything is—which, of course, he does. Grandma trusts him with plating, and always has. Her sharp eyes track his movements with silent approval as she finishes adjusting the last of the dishes on the counter.

But what catches you off guard, even now, is how naturally he makes his way to your plate first.

"Still acting like my servant, huh?" you tease with a crooked smile, watching as he starts scooping mashed potatoes. The way he smooths them into a neat little hill like he used to when you were little makes something tighten in your chest.

He shrugs like it's obvious. "If I don't spoil you, who else is going to? Now do you want green beans, or are you still picky like you were when you were ten and used to sneak them into your napkin?"

You raise your eyebrows, feigning offense. "For your information, I'm not a child anymore. I eat green beans now and have for awhile."

He snickers, reaching for the serving spoon. "You suuure about that? You kinda act like one still."

Before you can reply, he ladles a big helping of green beans onto your plate with theatrical flair, lifting the spoon like he's about to knight you. "Do you want me feed you too, pipsqueak?" he teases, giving you a sideways glance that dares you to challenge him.

"Caleb!" you snap, glaring at him, but it’s useless—you’re already biting back a laugh. And he knows it.

He grins, smug as ever, and keeps going. "What, don't you remember when you would get lazy and beg me to feed yo—"

You grab a spoon and toss it at him with mock outrage, knowing full well it’s a futile gesture. Sure enough, he holds out his hand lazily, and the air around the spoon ripples as it freezes mid-flight—gravitational waves wrapping around it like semi invisible fingers.

"Cheater! Always using your Evol cause you know I'd get you otherwise," you tease, folding your arms and leaning back with a smirk. He laughs, flipping the spoon in mid-air and catching it effortlessly. "Oh really? You threw things at me our whole childhood and never once managed to hit me."

Grandma turns her head, not even looking, and calls out in that tone that made both of you freeze since childhood. "No evol usage at the table! I swear, I’ll take that plate right out of your hands, Caleb."

"Yes ma’am," he says with a laugh, stuffing the spoon into a drawer with exaggerated obedience.

You catch her smirking to herself before she turns back to the gravy. "Some things never change," you murmur, smiling to yourself. Caleb sits beside you now, nudging your elbow. "Seriously though, you want rolls? Or do I have to guess that too like some kind of food psychic?"

You nudge him back. "You’ve guessed wrong before."

"I’ll risk it," he says, piling one on your plate anyway.

You glance across the table, where everything feels familiar but a little fuller now, a little warmer. This moment feels suspended in amber—just long enough to make you wonder if time ever really moved forward here, or if you’d stepped right back into something you never really left behind.

"Ah, dammit. I knew I was forgetting something at the store," Grandma mumbles, walking into the dining area and pushing up her glasses with the back of her hand. Her apron is dusted with flour and her slippers scuff slightly on the floor as she stops beside the table, looking around with an expression that's equal parts frustrated and disappointed in herself.

You and Caleb glance at each other, confused, forks halfway to your mouths. "What’s wrong?" he asks, standing up halfway from his chair, voice full of concern.

She shakes her head with a sigh and waves a dish towel like a white flag. "I forgot the cranberry sauce. Didn’t want to make my own this year—too much trouble—and it completely slipped my mind. Guess we’ll just have to eat the dressing with the gravy, kiddos."

"No, no, it's fine. I’ll go grab some from the store real quick. It’s no problem," Caleb says, already pushing back from the table with a casual shrug. Before he gets far, you reach out and grab him, your fingers wrapping around his arm.

"You just got here and you're already leaving again? Caleb..." you say, dragging out his name in a playful whine, your expression softening into an exaggerated pout.

He pauses, looking down at you with that familiar, half-annoyed, half-amused glint in his eyes. Then, without missing a beat, he reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "You can come with, you know. No need to beg, Miss Clingy."

You huff, pulling your hand back and rolling your eyes like it's the most ridiculous suggestion you’ve ever heard. "I am not clingy."

"You literally just clung to me," he points out, smug as ever.

You open your mouth for a retort, but the spark of excitement blooming in your chest steals your words. The idea of walking to the store with him—just the two of you, like when you were kids on snack runs or pretending to go on missions—suddenly sounds like the best possible detour.

Grandma raises a brow but doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head and mutters, "If they’re out of the jellied kind, don’t come back." You both laugh as you head toward the door. Caleb pulls it open and the cold air rushes in, biting at your cheeks. The early evening light spills across the porch, painting everything in warm gold and sharp shadow.

"Adventure time," he says with mock drama, pulling on his jacket.

"For cranberry sauce," you reply, rolling your eyes but smiling. "Truly heroic."

As you step onto the porch, your shoes thud lightly on the wood, the sound muffled by the wind picking up through the trees. Leaves skitter across the driveway like tiny dancers, and you pull your jacket tighter, tucking your hands into your sleeves. You two begin your descent down to the store, begin to fall in the smooth rhythm of memories.

Caleb almost couldn’t believe it—couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—when the door opened and you stood there in the frame. For a moment, everything had went silent. No wind, no rustling leaves, no thoughts, even. Just you. Then you moved, and it hit him like a truck.

You had launched yourself at him with that same recklessness that always made his chest ache, and before he could say a word, your arms were around his neck, your warmth pressing into his chest, your scent—God, that scent—flooding his head like smoke. Sweet. Soft. Sinking into his ribs and curling there like it belonged.

Because there you were—real. Solid. Alive and soft in his arms after all those years of glitchy video calls and messages that never felt like enough.

You’d grown since he saw you last. Taller, more confident in your skin. Your figure had filled out in ways he hadn’t been prepared for. Ways he’d imagined late at night, then immediately hated himself for. But imagining it and feeling it—your body pressing up against his, completely unaware of what you were doing to him—was something else entirely. He’d tried to will it away, the sharp pulse of heat low in his stomach, the tension making his cock tighten in his shorts, but there was nothing he could do with you clinging to him like that.

He prayed you didn’t notice. That you wouldn’t pull away with a horrified look. That you’d keep holding on just a little longer. You smelled like home. Like his favorite memories. Like the only person who’d ever made him feel tethered to something real.

And through it all, one thought kept circling like a vulture: Mine. She’s still mine.

Not officially, of course. You’d never said it. But you never had to. The way you looked at him. The way you called him when your days were bad or when you just wanted to hear his voice. The way you ran to him like this moment had been waiting for years.

He’d spent every damn day in college forcing himself through lectures he didn’t care about, social events he loathed, professors who droned on and on—just for the chance to end the day hearing your voice. A few stolen minutes. A dumb meme. A sleepy goodnight. That was his fuel. That was what got him through. He'd even pushed himself to graduate early so he could come back home to you sooner. And now here you were, warm and real and smiling at him, like the wait had been worth it.

The neighborhood is quiet, a stillness that settles in just before dinner. A few windows glow with light, silhouettes of families moving inside. You pass Mrs. Langley’s place—her plastic snowman already out, even though it’s not quite December—and wave when you see her peering out through the blinds.

"Still watching for suspicious teenagers," Caleb mutters under his breath.

"We were the suspicious teenagers," you reply, elbowing him.

The store is only a few blocks away, but with the chill in the air and the sky starting to dim, it feels like its own little journey. You both fall into an easy rhythm, footsteps crunching over patches of gravel and the occasional rogue pine needle from someone’s wreath.

"You know," Caleb says as you near the corner, "I kinda missed this. Just...us. Doing dumb errands and pretending they’re quests."

You grin at him. "They were quests. Epic ones. Remember when we tried to find marshmallow fluff and ended up at that weird corner deli where the guy insisted it only existed in Canada?"

He chuckles. "And you believed him. For, like, three years."

"Hey, he had a very trustworthy mustache."

He laughed, reaching out with that casual ease only he could pull off, and gently tugged you to his side—away from the curb, onto the inside of the sidewalk. Closer to him. Always closer.

It was instinct now. Second nature. You didn’t even question it—just moved with him like it was normal. Like it hadn’t meant anything. But it meant everything to him. That simple movement made something tight in his chest loosen, just a bit. You were still so trusting. Still his.

God, you were perfect.

Every little thing about you set him on fire. The way your arm brushed his. The sound of your voice, laughing at something stupid he said. The scent of your shampoo, warm in the cold air. The way your skin felt when it grazed his—the softness of it like silk against the calluses on his hand. He’d touched you a thousand times before—flicking your forehead, ruffling your hair, guiding you by the elbow—but now, every contact felt loaded. Dangerous.

He remembered every photo you’d sent him. The sweet ones. The silly ones. The unintentional ones where your shirt hung just low enough to stir something that clawed at his self-control. And when you were gone—miles away, unreachable—those photos became something more. He'd touched himself to them more times than he could count. His guilty ritual on the nights he couldn’t sleep.

His phone had been covered in his cum more than once, it slipping down the screen and covering your face before he promptly cleaned it off.

Maybe deep down, he'd always felt this way. Maybe he’d always been on this edge, toeing the line between brotherly affection and something far darker. But he’d never acted on it. Never let himself slip. Not when you were still just a kid, still clinging to your stuffed animals and dragging him into cartoon marathons. He was good back then. Careful. Disciplined.

He would never have dreamed of tainting you. Of letting the thoughts in his head touch you in any way. Not his mei mei. Not the one person in this world who made him feel human.

But now?

Now you were grown. Beautiful in ways that felt unfair. Confident without realizing how much power you had over him. And walking beside him like you still trusted him completely—like he wasn’t choking on the things he wanted to say to you. To do to you.

It was harder now. So much harder to keep those thoughts at bay. To pretend his feelings hadn’t shifted into something deeper. Possessive. Hungry.

He watched you glance up at him, smiling like you hadn’t just unknowingly shattered every boundary he’d built around himself. And he smiled back. Because you didn’t need to know yet. Not all of it.

This was getting harder. Every step you took in front of him chipped away at the restraint he’d been holding together with frayed thread.

He hadn’t meant to look. He wasn’t trying to focus on the way your shorts hugged your butt, or how your breasts moved when you jogged a few steps ahead to point out some forgotten corner of the neighborhood, rattling off memories with that easy smile. The way the outline of your nipples were slightly visible. But God—it was impossible not to notice.

Everything about you demanded attention. Even when you weren’t trying.

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath through his nose. He needed a distraction. He needed something to ground him before his thoughts slipped too far again. You were right there. Laughing, turning to look at him with that light in your eyes like no time had passed. He couldn’t ruin this.

“So…” he started, forcing his tone into something light, teasing. “Pips. What’ve you been up to while I’ve been gone? Applied to any jobs yet, or still dodging adult life like it's the plague?” He flashed a smirk, hoping it came off as playful and not something else.

The effect was immediate. Your smile faltered—just a flicker—but he caught it. You slowed your steps, suddenly studying the sidewalk like it had something more interesting to say than he did. Caleb narrowed his eyes, every part of him snapping to alert beneath the surface.

He stopped walking. “Hey.” His voice came quieter now, gentler. “Did I say something wrong?”

"No! I just...I-" you stuttered, seeming to short circuit on the spot. You looked away from him and that silence did things to him. Bad things. His mind spiraled through a dozen possibilities in a second—none of them good.

“If you don’t want a job, it’s alright,” he said quickly. “You know that, right? I wasn’t trying to push. I just…I worry.”

He took a half-step closer, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. He wanted to touch you—grab your hand, tip your chin up, look you in the eye and make you see that he didn’t care what anyone else expected of you. If you didn't want to work? Fine. He'd take care of you forever if he had to.

“I just want you to be okay, and satisfied in life” he added, softer this time. “That’s all.”

He smiled again, but there was a hint of tension behind it now. A smile that said: Tell me everything. Don’t hide from me. Not you.

You sucked in a breath—a shaky, uneven inhale that made Caleb’s chest tighten before you even spoke. He could see it in your face, the storm gathering behind your eyes.

"I know," you said quietly. "It’s just...you just finished college and came back...and now it’s my turn to leave."

Your voice cracked, and for a second, it looked like you might cry. That expression shattered him. A thousand memories crashed in at once—nights on the phone with you tucked under your blankets, video calls with pixelated smiles, your voice through earbuds as he wandered cold campuses just to hear you say his name. He hadn't even been back a full day. He’d barely held you for more than a minute. And now this?

His heart slammed once against his ribs, then kept pounding.

He stepped closer, automatically reaching for your arm, needing the contact. Needing to ground you. “What do you mean? Are you moving out?” he asked, his voice a notch too calm. “That’s fine, if anything...it means we’ll be closer.”

He knew he was lying the moment the words left his mouth. He already knew. You weren’t just moving down the street. And you weren’t telling him this like someone with casual news. There was weight in your voice.

You looked away from him.

“No, Caleb” you said, almost a whisper. “Actually, I got accepted into a few colleges. So…I’ll be off doing that. None of them are in Linkon either” You hesitated, biting your lip like you didn’t want to say the next part. “I wanted to tell you, but…I didn’t want to ruin this.”

Ruin this.

Caleb’s throat went dry. His fingers flexed against the fabric of your sleeve, knuckles whitening for half a second before he caught himself. You were leaving. You had planned this. Made this decision without him. Held it in during all those calls. All those nights. And now you were here, looking at him with that apologetic expression like he was just another person in your life who’d you have to let go.

The thought made something cold bloom behind his ribs.

He forced a smile—a tight, careful one—and exhaled slowly through his nose. “You didn’t ruin anything, pipsqueak” he said, voice gentle, soothing. “You’re allowed to chase your future. You’re smart. You deserve that.”

But underneath the surface, his mind was spiraling. Running wild. Colleges. Dorms. New friends. New guys. People who didn’t know you like he did. People who hadn’t been there. Who hadn’t earned you.

He could feel it rising in his chest. That old, sick fear. Not just of losing you—but of someone else thinking they had the right to have you. Still, he kept his expression soft. He couldn’t let you see that part of him. Not yet.

“Where?” he asked, voice steady. “Where’d you get in?”

That simple question seemed to make you feel better.

Your face brightened almost instantly, like the clouds had cracked just for you. Caleb felt the shift in his chest—an aching pressure that loosened, only to come back sharper. You started listing off colleges, rattling them off with a kind of nervous excitement that made your voice go a little higher, faster. He listened. Of course he did. Every word was memorized before it even left your mouth.

You were glowing.

He couldn’t help it. He smiled too, soft and small, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes—but you didn’t notice. You were too caught up in the moment. Too focused on a future without him directly in it.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, reaching out to ruffle your hair like he used to. It was familiar. Innocent. A reflex built from years of habits. And you beamed at him like it meant everything. "You're gonna kill it. I bet you'll be top of your class too."

Then you kept walking, humming some tune under your breath, talking about dorms and classes and new cities you couldn’t wait to explore. Caleb stayed beside you, nodding, occasionally answering—but his smile began to slip, bit by bit.

His mind turned darker with every step.

Because you were excited. Too excited. And he knew you—he knew how easily you trusted people. How quickly you made friends. You’d get swept up in it. In the freedom. In the noise. You’d meet people who didn’t deserve you. Frat boys with perfect teeth and snake-oil charm, the kind who’d say just enough to make you feel seen. The kind who’d hand you a drink and smile too long while you weren’t looking.

He clenched his fist in his pocket.

You wouldn’t see it. You never did. You never noticed danger until it was too close. And Caleb had always been there to keep it away. Always. But if you left—if you were hours away, miles away—how could he protect you? How could he stop them?

You kept talking, laughing now, completely unaware of the storm churning in his head. Every step brought you closer to the store. Every word made it worse.

You two kept walking, but time felt warped. The distance from your front porch to the corner store couldn’t have been more than a few blocks, but with you beside him—talking, laughing, unknowingly unraveling him—it stretched out like a lifetime.

Then, finally, the corner store came into view, glowing weakly under the streetlight like some kind of checkpoint in a dream. “Oh! Caleb, we’re here! Fucking finally, that walk felt like forever,” you sighed, reaching for the door without hesitation.

“Let me get it,” he said quickly, stepping in front of you with more urgency than he meant to show. He caught the handle and pulled the door open, making sure to keep his body between you and the cold metal.

You smiled—wide, grateful, familiar.

That smile.

He felt his stomach twist. He used to think seeing you smile was the best feeling in the world. Now, it was something worse. Addictive. He couldn’t bear the idea of being without it. Of some stranger making you smile that way while he sat miles away, wondering if you'd already forgotten the sound of his voice.

You walked in first, brushing past him, your scent trailing behind like bait on a hook. He followed, jaw tight, hands in his pockets to hide the tension crawling up his arms.

The store was warm and overly bright. Too many fluorescents buzzing above. It smelled like stale coffee, processed sugar, and years of wear.

You made your way through the aisles like it was a treasure hunt, pointing out snacks you used to buy as kids, holding up a bag of off-brand cereal with a grin. Caleb stayed close behind, letting you lead, answering only with soft hums or low chuckles. His mind wasn’t here—it was on the ticking clock, on how little time he had left with you.

Then you spotted it. “Cranberry sauce!” you declared triumphantly, holding up the can like you’d just won a prize. You turned to him, expectant. “Grandma said jellied, right?”

He nodded, voice dry. “With the ridges from the can. Non-negotiable.”

You headed toward the register, humming, blissfully unaware that he was watching every move you made like he needed to memorize it. At the counter, you fished around in your pockets, frowning. “Shit. I forgot my wallet.”

Caleb didn’t even hesitate. He was already pulling out his card.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, smoothly sliding it across to the cashier. “I’ve got it.”

You gave him a sheepish smile. “You’re gonna start charging me interest soon for all the money I owe you.” He didn’t respond. Just watched you laugh as the scanner beeped and the bag was handed over.

If you left—if you went away to college, to a new city, to some other life—who would be there to open your doors? To cover for you when you forgot things? To protect you from people who wouldn’t know how fragile and precious you really were?

You thanked him with that same smile again. And it hit him all over: He couldn’t lose you. Not to distance. Not to time. And especially not to someone else.

Caleb started plotting the moment the store door shut behind you.

The bell jingled, the cool air hit your skin, and he shifted gears without a word. He moved faster now—just a little at first, but enough to make the difference clear. His stride lengthened, purpose behind every step. You didn’t notice right away. You were still talking, still laughing softly about the cranberry sauce like everything was normal.

But then your steps slowed.

“Hey…slow down…” you panted behind him, breath catching. He felt your hand grab at the edge of his jacket. You were trying to keep up. "You're still so hard to keep up with, you know that?"

He glanced over his shoulder, flashing a grin. “What? Still a slowpoke after all these years?” You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes this time. You were winded. Tired. That’s what he wanted.

No…not wanted. Needed.

You already couldn’t outrun him if you tried—he knew that—but this made it easier. Less fight. Exhaustion would do the work for him. A tired body was a weak body. A dependent one. He wasn’t going to hurt you. Never that. But if you stayed too energized, too alert when he pounced, you might actually get a few hits on him if you fought back. And he couldn’t allow that. Not when the future he so desperately wanted with you was already slipping away from him like smoke through fingers.

He kept going for another block, keeping the pace steady but relentless. He watched you in the corner of his vision—the way your breathing grew uneven, the way your steps started to lag. And then, finally, the telltale sheen of sweat began to form just beneath your hairline.

Now. He slowed, just enough to make it feel like a choice. As you both approached the old bridge that curved gently over the creek, he pointed toward it with a casual nod.

“Want a break?” he asked, voice easy, like this was spontaneous. “Maybe our carvings are still there. Let’s check.”

He said it with a warmth he didn’t feel. But you didn’t catch that. You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling faster than usual. You were tired. Perfectly tired.

He gestured again toward the bridge, a little more insistently this time. “Come on,” he added. “For old time’s sake.” And beneath the surface of his calm voice and boyish grin, his mind was ticking like a metronome.

“Hah…a-alright, but only for a few minutes…hah—Grandma’ll be pissed if we take too long…”

And his mind only got darker as you stepped forward, your gaze flicking down to the path under the bridge. You hesitated just slightly, just enough to show you still remembered the place. The old stonework, the arching curve, the colorful graffiti that never washed away.

He watched you go, every step of yours feeling like a countdown in his chest. God. Was he really doing this? Was forcing himself on you really the answer? He shouldn't. He knew that. He knew that.

But knowing meant nothing right now—not with your hair swaying in the breeze, not with your voice still echoing in his ears, not with the thought of you slipping out of this city and into someone else’s world without him.

There had to be other ways. Kinder ways. Slower, safer paths.

But his mind didn’t want them. His heart didn’t care. He’d waited too long, been good for too long. Always the patient one. The supportive one. The safe place. The one you could always run to, but never the one you planned on staying with.

And now you were leaving.

The image seared into his brain: you laughing in someone else’s dorm, lying in someone else’s bed, walking hand in hand with someone who hadn’t seen you in your worst moments and held you through them. The idea hollowed him out.

So no. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn't. He had to stake his claim. He was terrified even if he did things the "right" way, you'd never reciprocate how he really felt. That he'd be stuck simply playing the role of just your brother forever.

This wasn’t just about love anymore. It was selfish. Real. A part of him had always known it would come to this. That someday, he'd stop being the version of himself you'd grown up with and become something else—something much darker.

He needed to make it clear that he wanted to be way more than just your brother.

He followed you down the slope under the bridge, his steps slow and deliberate, eyes locked on your back. He remembered carving your initials there when you were both younger, yours nested just above his. A forever etched in stone before either of you even knew what it meant.

Now, more than ever, he wanted to make that real.

“Wow, this was so long ago. I can’t believe it still looks so brand new,” you said, your voice low with wonder as your fingers brushed over the rough stone. The initials carved all those years ago were still there, yours above his, like they were always meant to be that way.

“I know,” Caleb murmured. “Almost like it was yesterday.” He stepped in behind you, silent until the last second, and then closed the space between your bodies. Pressed himself gently—deliberately—against you.

You gasped at the sudden contact, instinctively tensing, your shoulders rising. You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move away either. He didn’t need words. He could feel the nerves rolling off you in quiet waves. The stiffness in your spine. The way your fingers froze on the stone. He hated how much he loved it. That tension. That breathless stillness. It wasn’t right, and he knew it—but it filled something hollow inside him. Something that had ached for too long.

He reveled in it.

It wasn’t just about closeness. It was about control. The power to pull you back to him no matter how far you drifted. To be the one you turned to when everything else felt uncertain.

He remembered when you were kids—how easily he could get into your head. A well-timed ghost story, a flicker of shadow near the window, and you'd be climbing into his bed before midnight, begging him to stay close. You’d always trusted him, even when he was the one who made you afraid.

And now, here you were again. Standing at the edge of the past, nervous and quiet, while he stood behind you like a shadow. He shouldn’t want to break you just to be the one who puts you back together.

But some part of him did. And he wasn’t sure he could keep pretending otherwise. Caleb’s hand moved to your waist slowly, like the movement itself had been rehearsed a thousand times in his head. His fingers settled lightly, but firmly, possessive in their stillness. You stiffened under the touch.

You felt so small compared to him.

So easily held. So easily overpowered.

And he knew it.

The realization hit him hard, low in his gut—not just the physical disparity between you two, but the power of it. You shivered at the contact, flinching just enough for him to feel the jolt travel through your body.

“C-Caleb…” your voice came out in a whisper, thin and uncertain.

You tried to recover quickly, clutching the grocery bag like a shield. “We should head back to Grandma… she’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.” You turned and stepped forward, trying to slip past him. But he wasn’t ready to let go. His hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist, halting your movement. “Hey…wait,” he said, voice barely more than a breath.

He felt the tremor run through you. A small, involuntary shiver that pulsed against his palm. Caleb's heart raced as he heard the words spill from your lips, the familiar sound of your voice laced with a combination of confusion and frustration.

"Caleb, seriously. What's up with you? You're acting so different...." Your struggle against his hold only fueled the fire burning within him. He sighed inwardly, a sound that escaped his lips as a resigned exhalation. Of course, you were going to make this difficult. This was never going to be easy.

With a swift and determined motion, he yanked the bag from your grasp, the abrupt movement causing it to hit the ground with a sharp, metallic clang that echoed through the bridge. "Caleb!" Your voice rang out, a yelp of surprise and anger mingling in a way that sent a thrill through his veins. He spun you around with a force that left you breathless, your back pressing firmly against the cold, unyielding stone wall. The rough texture of the ancient stones bit into your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your face.

Caleb's knee pressed firmly between your legs, forcing them slightly apart. "I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Just let this happen. Listen to your gege." The words were a command, a plea, a promise all rolled into one.

And then, before you could react, his lips crashed onto yours, the kiss hard and intense, more passionate than he had initially intended. The taste of you, the feel of your body against his, it was intoxicating, a drug he couldn't resist. His hands, once restrained, now gripped you tightly, holding you in place as if you were a prize he had long sought to claim.

You struggled beneath his kiss, your body squirming against the unyielding stone wall, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. As Caleb finally pulled back, a long, glistening string of saliva stretched between your lips. Your face was flushed, a vivid heat that spread from your cheeks to the roots of your hair, and your chest heaved with each wild pant, your eyes wide.

The sight of you, so flushed and flustered, spurred Caleb on. He could feel his cock hardening in his shorts, a throbbing ache that demanded release. "Stop please...we c-can't do this," you pleaded, your voice a breathless whisper, your eyes darting wildly as you tried to push him away, your hands pressed firmly against his chest. Your struggle was futile, and Caleb knew it.

Suddenly, gravitational waves rippled around your body, a shimmering distortion that froze you in place, rendering you unable to move. Caleb's lips curled into a smirk as he watched you, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that was both thrilling and terrifying. "I can't stop," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "And I won't lie and say I'm sorry. Cause I'm not."

He sighed, a sound that was equal parts resignation and anticipation, and then his lips were on your neck, trailing hot, wet kisses that sent shivers down your spine. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and contour, his touch both possessive and tender. "You don't want this now," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin, "but I promise it'll feel good if you stop struggling. I've always taken good care of you haven't I?."

"Caleb, I'm serious!" you exclaimed, your voice laced with panic as you felt his fingers deftly unbutton your jean shorts, the zipper sliding down with a harsh rasp. He tugged at the waistband, pulling both your shorts and underwear down in one swift motion, the fabric catching on your ankles, rendering you even more helpless. The gravitational pull of his Evol held you firmly in place, your feet rooted to the ground, your struggles futile against the almost invisible force.

Caleb's breath hitched as your pristine, glistening pussy was revealed to him, a sight that made his heart race and his mouth water. He had never dared to look for so long, always averting his gaze during your shared baths as children, a sense of shame and respect for your innocence keeping him in check. But now, that moral compass had vanished, leaving only raw, unbridled desire.

"So am I." The words escaped his lips in a breathless whisper, a sound filled with awe and hunger. He crouched down, his eyes locked onto your exposed flesh, and then his tongue was on you, leaving a wet, hot streak against your cunt. You whimpered and moaned, the sound a mix of pleasure and protest, your body betraying you as it responded to his touch.

Caleb's tongue delved deeper, forcing your lips apart with a relentless, greedy motion. He sucked and lapped at you with the fervor of a starving dog, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. Your head fell back against the wall, a moan escaping your lips, a sound that was both a plea and a cry. "Ah...c-caleb....stop...!" You moaned, your voice a breathless whisper, but your body arched towards him, a silent invitation that he was more than willing to accept.

Caleb reveled in the sounds of your moans, a sound of pleasure that he had never thought he would hear from you, especially not in this way. The raw, unbridled sounds were intoxicating. Addicting. He was the first and only man to hear your sweet, desperate sounds, and the knowledge filled him with a primal satisfaction. The thought that he would also be the first and only man to take your virginity, right here under this bridge, sent a thrill through his body, making his cock thicken even harder.

“Ah…ah…ahh…agh….”

As he continued to lap at you with fervent, greedy strokes, the taste of you spreading across his taste buds, he felt your cunt pulsing over his tongue. You were already close, he could tell, and the realization spurred him on. He couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, not until you were completely undone, your body squirming and arching as he claimed you with his mouth.

Opening his eyes to meet your gaze, he watched as you promptly looked away, a flush spreading across your cheeks. Your gasps and moans filled the air, a breathless symphony that only served to fuel his desire. "Ah...! Mgh! Caleb! Stop! Im gonna..." You gasped, your voice failing as the first waves of your orgasm crashed over you, your body clenching around his tongue in a rhythmic, involuntary dance. You involuntarily grind your lower body against his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure overtakes you.

Caleb's heart raced as he tasted the remnants of your release on his tongue, felt the way your body responded to his touch, and he knew that this was just the beginning. He was far from done with you, and he intended to explore every inch of your body, to draw out every moan and gasp, until you were utterly spent and satiated beneath him.

Caleb watches as you shakily calm down from your high, likely still processing the overwhelming reality that Caleb, of all people, just gave you your first orgasm. Your mind races, trying to reconcile the intensity of what just happened with the familiarity of your relationship. You can't bring yourself to look at him, and the weight of the situation leaves you looking dazed.

Caleb notices your struggle, his heart clenching as he sees the tears rolling down your face. You begin to dissociate, your body trembling as you try to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions. "Hey hey, you're okay, baby. I'm almost done, okay?" he says, finally releasing you from the clutches of his evol. The sudden freedom catches you off guard, and you nearly fall to the gravel in tears.

Caleb is quick to catch you, his arms wrapping around you in a surprising embrace. You find yourself held against him, his warmth seeping into your chilled skin. "Let go of me...why are you doing this? I thought we were-" You manage to get out, your voice shaking with a mix of confusion and betrayal. But the sentence remains unfinished, hanging in the air as you struggle against him.

Caleb coos softly, his voice a mix of firmness and gentleness as he wrestles you to the ground. "You're adorable when you struggle. But it won't get you anywhere. Remember when we'd wrestle as kids? I always won" he murmurs, his words sending a shiver down your spine. You cry out, "Stop! Stop!" but your pleas fall on deaf ears.

"Shh, not so loud. Though I doubt anyone's crossing this old bridge," Caleb responds, his tone laced with a dangerous calm.

He promptly climbs on top of you, holding your wrists above your head as you continue to struggle beneath him. The weight of his body pins you down, and you can feel the hardness of his cock pressing against you.

The gravel bites into your ass and thighs as Caleb presses most of his body weight against you, his strength and dominance overwhelming. He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss that leaves no room for resistance. This time, you don't fight him; instead, you shakily open your mouth, allowing his tongue to explore yours with a hunger that matches his actions. The kiss deepens, a dance of desire and surrender that leaves you breathless and trembling beneath him.

As he pulls away, you look up at him, lashes wet with tears. This is the most beautiful you've ever looked to him. "Don't Caleb, please. Please. You can still stop. I won't say anything to Grandma..." Your voice is a whisper, a plea laced with desperation and a glimmer of hope that he might relent.

Caleb sighs, a sound that is both resigned and determined. He hikes up your jacket and shirt, his movements deliberate and unhurried, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Your sensitive buds are fully revealed, hard and begging for attention. "You still don't get it, do you? I don't want to just be your family. If anything, I want to be a different kind of family." His words are a statement, a declaration of his intentions that leave no room for misunderstanding. What don't you understand? Was making you cum with his tongue not a clear message?

Very well then. He'd make you understand.

You blink tearfully, your voice trembling as you speak. "I understand that you love me...a-and care about me. Right?" The words hang in the air, a plea for reassurance amidst the chaos of your emotions.

Caleb nods, his expression tender. Of course he loved you. He loved you more than words could ever express. That was the whole reason he was doing this—to prove that he was the only man who should ever be inside you, that no one knew you better than him. He gave you a small, reassuring smile, but it was tinged with a hint of something darker.

He reached for the hem of his shorts, his movements slow and deliberate. "I do. So so much. Its why this needs to happen. You'll understand very soon." His voice was low, a promise laced with a dangerous edge.

You watched him pull down the rest of his shorts, your heart racing as panic surged through you. "T-then this shouldn't happen. You don't do this to people you love. You don't rape them!" Your voice was a desperate cry, a plea for him to see reason, to stop before it was too late.

Caleb sighed, a sound that was both resigned and patient. He pulled his hardened cock free from his boxers, the sight of it making you suck in a sharp breath, your panting growing more rapid and shallow. He lined himself up against your entrance, beginning to rub his tip against your wet hole. "No. You've got it all wrong. This is good for you. I'll be very gentle, just hold still, okay?"

"Caleb! Cale-." Your voice caught in your throat as a sharp pain radiated through you. Caleb groaned as his cock slipped past the first bit of your tight walls, feeling you tense underneath him from the pain. He was much larger than average, so it was going to be a bit of work, but god if you didn't already feel amazing. He felt almost sorry that he had to do it this way.

His warmth invades you, stretching your wetness to its limit. You dig your nails into his back, leaving half-moons in his skin. "It h-hurts," you whimper, but he only whispers in your ear, "You're doing so good, just a little more." You bite your lip, tasting copper as he forces himself another inch inside. "It'll feel good soon," he promises, but all you can focus on is the pain.

You cry out in agony, your nails digging into him even harder as he gently pushed forward again. The feeling of your wet pussy sucking him in was almost overwhelming. "Scratch me, bite me, yell if you need to, okay? You're doing so good, f-fuck."

His heart nearly bursts as you begin to use your hands to try and pull him closer, clearly desperate to have something to ground you within all the pain. He was always your source of comfort, even now that he was quite literally forcing himself inside you. He found it adorable. He was more than happy to be your anchor as he pushed deeper, and deeper into your wet walls. You were in more tears now, shaking beneath him as he broke the last bit of your innocence, staking his claim on you.

You were finally, utterly all his.

"Hah...ah...Caleb..." you cried, trying desperately to blink away the tears. "Baby, don't cry, I'm right here. You're taking me so well, I'm already in," Caleb cooed, leaning his forehead against yours as he pulled back out slightly and pushed back in. "You feel so good, better than I ever imagined."

No words came out, only moans and groans as he reached the back of your walls, pushing against that spongy part inside you. The sensation was intense, and he could feel every inch of you clenching around him, your body adjusting to his size. Caleb's pleasure was building with each thrust, the mix of your wetness and the tight grip of your body driving him wild.

Soon, your moans of pain began to transform into moans of pleasure, and it became easier for Caleb to pump in and out of you, your wetness growing more and more, much to his delight. Caleb leaned down for another kiss, your breaths mingling as you panted and whined against him. "Feels so...oh...fuck!" Your face was flushed, and your body was covered in a layer of gravel and sweat.

"Feels good?" he panted, anchoring his hands on either side of your head. "Y-yes..." you breathed, clutching onto his shirt now. Yes, just what he wanted to hear. "Good girl, see what happens when you listen to Caleb and don't fight it?" You sniffled, nodding your head.

"H-hold me please." You were clearly breaking down at this point and just wanted comfort from the person you could always run to.

Caleb obliged, picking you up from the gravel and shifting you both so you were sitting on his lap. A bit advanced for an ex virgin, but you didn't seem to mind, already clutching onto him and sobbing as he held you close, bouncing you up and down on his cock. The new angle allowed him to hit even deeper, and he could feel every inch of you gripping him tightly. Caleb's own pleasure was building, the sight of you so vulnerable and needy pushing him closer to the edge.

"F-fuck I love you. So so much," Caleb moaned, his voice husky with emotion and exertion as he held you tightly against him. "I did this cause I love you." His body was slick with sweat, and his heart pounded in his chest as he felt your tight, wet walls clenching around his cock with each movement. "Mghm! I-I..." you sobbed, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your nails digging into his back, leaving even more angry red marks of your desperation.

Caleb's hips moved in a steady, relentless rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet, sucking sound. He could feel every inch of you, your body yielding to him completely. "I'm not going to pull out...you know what that means, don't you?" he whispered, his voice low. You gripped him tighter, your body tensing as you understood the implications. He felt you nod your head against his shoulder, a shiver running through your frame.

"I'm gonna cum in this sweet little pussy, and you'll have my baby won't you? No more college. No more leaving. Okay?" Caleb's words were a promise more than a question. You cried out, your body shaking and shivering in his arms as you realized the weight of his words. Not like you had much choice anyway. He would cum as many times in you as he had to to ensure you had no way to get away from him.

"N-no please Caleb don-...fuck...I-i'm cumming...!" You pant, your body convulsing as you grind your hips against him, finally breaking and orgasming once more. Caleb feels you clench and grind on him, which only pushes him over the edge. He holds your hips firmly in place as he groans, slamming into you with a final, powerful thrust, painting your insides a creamy white as his cock throbs inside you. His release is intense, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He had come this far, and he wasn't taking no for an answer. You whine and attempt to get off him as he fills you, but he quickly catches your lips in another kiss, silencing your protests. He only lets you go once he's sure he's filled you with every last drop. Your panting is ragged when you yank away from his lips, your body shaking and in full-blown hysteria now. "No! Fuck! How could you? If I get pregnant..." you sob, your tears wetting his shoulder.

"Shhh, it's okay. I'll take care of everything like I always have. You know that, don't you? Don't cry," Caleb soothes, his voice a low murmur against your ear. He holds you tightly, his arms wrapped around you protectively, as if to shield you from the world and the consequences of what just happened. His cock is still hard inside you, pulsing with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

You looked up at him, tears welling in your eyes, the light in them fragile and trembling. Your voice came out in a whisper, cracked and raw.

“I’m scared Caleb…I’m scared.”

And just like that, the years seemed to vanish. For a moment, it wasn’t two people on the cusp of something broken and strange—it was you and him again, younger, smaller, in a dim bedroom lit by nightlights and half-lidded promises. You, clinging to him after a nightmare. Him, wrapping you in a blanket and whispering stories until your breathing slowed.

That same helpless need was in your eyes now.

And it shattered him.

If he could bottle this moment—your trembling lips, the way your voice reached for him, the unspoken request for comfort—he would. He’d keep it locked inside forever. A sacred thing. Proof that you still needed him.

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, and pressed soft kisses to the tears as they slid down your cheeks. One. Then another. His hands were gentle now, holding your face like it might fall apart in his palms. And maybe it already had.

He broke you.

And now he’d pick up the pieces.

He knew this wasn’t going to be simple. This shift between what you were and what he wanted you to become—between adopted siblings and a whole new family entirely—it wasn’t going to be clean. It would be messy. Awkward. Painful. But if it meant you staying with him… if it meant you saw him the way he saw you…he’d walk through fire for it.

He’d be everything you needed. Brother. Protector. Lover. Home.

Just as long as you never left.

“I know,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Gege’s here. I always will be.”

He held you until the hysteria passed—until your sobs turned to sniffles, and your body stopped shaking in his arms. Your fingers curled weakly into his shirt as your breathing finally slowed, and you just stayed there, trembling, spent, but no longer spiraling.

Caleb didn’t say anything for a while. He just held you close, one hand running gently down your back, anchoring you. He’d never felt more needed. You let yourself fall apart in front of him and that meant everything.

When your body started to shift with discomfort, he slowly helped you slide off of his cock, moving carefully and wordlessly as he watched his cum slide out of your cunt with a deep sense of satisfaction. He adjusted your clothes with quiet, focused hands—nothing hurried, nothing inappropriate.

Still, some of his cum lingered on your thigh—unavoidable, really. You whined, flustered and embarrassed, and tried to brush it away.

“God, Caleb, this is so gross…”

He offered a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “I’ll help. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

And he did. With a napkin from his jacket pocket, and gentle movements, he helped you clean up. Part of him felt guilty for the mess. But the other part—the louder part—felt something close to elation. You hadn’t pushed him away. You weren't trying to run even after he buttoned your shorts back up and tied your shoe that had come undone in the chaos.

When you finally tried to walk, you winced, just barely, but he noticed. Caleb was instantly beside you, arm wrapping around your waist. “No, no” he said, his voice low and final. “You’re not walking.”

“What? Caleb—no, I can—”

But he was already moving, slipping one strong arm under your legs and hauling you up against his chest with effortless strength. His other hand clutched the grocery bag, the corner of the can of cranberry sauce pressing against the thin plastic as it swung at his side. You let out a startled gasp, cheeks flushing as your arms clung to him instinctively. “I said I’ve got you,” he murmured, not looking for permission anymore.

And with you cradled against him, the air cool and quiet around you, Caleb began the walk home—slow and possessively content.

Neither of you said much on the walk back. The silence was fragile. Like speaking would crack it wide open and let too much in. You let out the occasional sniffle, face buried against Caleb’s shoulder, your arms looped loosely around his neck. Your fingers clutched him tighter every now and then, like your body remembered fear even if your voice had gone quiet.

Caleb didn’t ask what you were thinking, though the ache to know gnawed at him. He didn’t just want to be the cause of your unraveling—he wanted to be your comfort too. Your constant. The arms you trusted, the presence you clung to when the world didn’t make sense. But he knew better than to push.

You needed time to process what happened. To understand what had shifted. Because things had changed—indefinitely. And whether you wanted to admit it yet or not, the line between what you were and what you’d become had been crossed.

By the time you reached the porch, the sun had deepened. The cool air clung to your clothes and the scent of roasted herbs still drifted faintly through the windows. Caleb adjusted his hold on you, careful, almost reverent, as he cradled you with one arm and held the bag of cranberry sauce in the other.

Just as he stepped onto the welcome mat, the door swung open. Grandma stood there, apron still on, her expression unreadable for a half-second before her eyes did a quick scan—your flushed face, his tense jaw, the plastic bag hanging from his hand. Probably wondering why Caleb was carrying you, but likely chalking it up to your feet hurting and Caleb spoiling you like he always did. Instead of mentioning it, she smiled.

"Figured you took me seriously when I said don’t come back if it’s not jellied," she said, her voice breezy. "Hurry now, I’ll warm up the food."

Caleb gently set you down on your feet, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary before slipping away. You wobbled slightly but steadied yourself. He stood close, watching your face for the smallest sign that you might start talking about what happened.

But you only nodded, eyes lowered, and followed your grandmother back inside.

And just like that, the house swallowed you both again. Familiar. But forever altered.

Later that night, the house was quiet. The stillness made your thoughts louder. You lay curled beneath the covers, facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Your breathing was even, your body still, but inside your chest, your heart was racing. You heard the soft creak of your bedroom door as it eased open.

Footsteps.

You felt heat rise—not just from embarrassment or nerves, but from the confusion threading itself tighter around your thoughts. An aching heat begin to spread between your legs. The lines had blurred. You were so so confused now. Caleb had always been safety, steadiness. Family. But now...now you didn’t know what he was.

You had thought about what happened under the bridge all day, the painful ache between your legs not letting you push it to the back of your mind. You never that you'd think of him that way, much less lose that innocent boyish image you'd always had of him. Your virginity was gone, taken by Caleb of all people...

Caleb had given you your space, but it was clear you couldn't avoid him forever.

The blanket lifted slightly. You flinched at the touch. “C’mon,” he murmured. “I know when you’re actually asleep, pipsqueak.”

He sat down on the edge of your bed with the weight of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. His fingers reached out and gently combed through your hair, like he used to when you’d cry after nightmares. The rhythm was the same, but the air between you had changed. Thick with everything unspoken.

You opened your eyes. Just barely. But said nothing. He didn’t stop. Just kept stroking your hair, watching you quietly in the dim light spilling in from the hallway.

“You understand now, don’t you?” he said after a long silence. His voice was low. “I did it for you. Everything I’ve ever done was for you. Out of love.”

He paused. “Even if things are hard at first… we’ll find our way back. We’ll find happiness again in our own way. I know it. I'll be whatever you need me to be if it makes this all easier for you. But I can't go back to pretending I don't want more.”

“Caleb…I…” You paused, voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a breath. You didn’t know what to say. Every word felt like a landmine. "What you did was awful...you really hurt me."

He was getting in your head, and it scared you. The way he looked at you now. The way his voice dropped when he spoke to you like the world narrowed down to just this. Just the two of you.

These new feelings—confusing, tangled, impossible—wrapped tight around your chest. They felt wrong. They had to be wrong. Rape couldn't mean love could it? But you wanted to trust him. You always had. And some part of you still did. And part of you just wanted to feel safe again. Wanted him to make it safe again.

Caleb leaned in, resting his forehead gently against yours. His breath mingled with yours, warm and steady. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You hoped he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t feel how much you were shaking beneath the surface.

You could feel the heat of him—his closeness. His steadiness. “I know,” he whispered, voice low, threading into your bones. “But you can’t convince me you hate me with every fiber of your being".

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to consume you. "No...its not hate. I don’t know what this is..." you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of confusion and fear. "I just know I don’t want to lose you. I don't want to lose the Caleb I've always known."

Caleb's response was a soothing murmur, a promise that cut through the chaos in your mind. "You won’t. Don't be silly" he assured you, his voice steady. "We're just becoming closer than before."

There was a moment of stillness, a pause where the weight of his words hung in the air, offering a sense of security that you desperately needed. Then, his voice dropped into a whisper, a secret shared between just the two of you. "If you're not too sore, I'd like to make it up to you. We can't make too much noise though or Grandma will hear us."

You swallowed, the reality of your situation sinking in. The thought of being discovered sent a shiver of apprehension through you, but also a creeping heat across your cheeks. "You’ll be good and quiet, won’t you?" he asked, his tone playful with an edge of command.

You nodded without thinking, your throat too tight to speak. “Yes...,” you breathed, barely audible, like saying his name softly would distract you from the turmoil in your head. His lips met yours with a quiet certainty—soft at first, but gradually grew in intensity. The warmth of his mouth sent a slow ache curling down your spine. His tongue moved with careful intent, easing your lips apart, slipping past them with a kind of reverence that made your breath catch.

His hands framed your face like something precious, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, anchoring you even as the world narrowed to the heat between you. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the sheer tenderness of it. The way he touched you wasn’t rushed. It was like he already knew what you needed.

And maybe he did. Caleb always knew. You just wanted to feel safe. Caleb knew what was best. Maybe it was better this way...

As the night stretched on, everything blurred—the taste of him, the sound of your name murmured like a promise, the way sweat clung to your skin as your bodies clung to each other. You knew, deep down, things had shifted.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊, unspoken ones. Learn fast, or leave your guts in the dirt. Watch the wind. Never name what you can't kill. And above all—never trust the partners they assign you.

Kazu had to learn that last one early.

He'd buried too many half-eaten corpses to believe in coincidence. Most died because they didn't listen—blindly thinking they were apex by default simply for being born human—only to die at the maws of the very monsters they sought to outsmart. He had survived this long because he knew better.

No noise was ever just wind. No body was ever just a body. No "lost traveller" ever truly wandered into black pine territory.

And monsters? Not all monsters were disfigured, snarled and bore fangs—no. Some wore faces that smiled too much, spoke sweetly, laughed and chattered with townsfolk like they'd never eaten raw meat by the handful.

That was why he worked alone, or as close to alone as the Guild allowed. He didn't like watching people die, and he liked trusting them even less. Babysitting rookies was the worst kind of assignment—ink-hands in the Guild always threw him one when they'd run out of uses for their wet-behind-the-ears recruits.

'Toughen 'em up,' they'd say. 'if they make it a week under you, we'll know if they're worth keeping.'

But they never make it a week.

So when he got the dispatch with the latest name—no face, just initials and a curt write-up, like the Guild didn't even believe their own pick—Kazu had already written them off. Some no-name wannabe with a polished sigil and a blade, probably. Here to ask too many questions and fall behind when things get bad.

Maybe he’d play along, entertain them for a day or two, let them believe they were doing the work while he cleaned up the mess behind them—then snap the illusion and scare them off before another rookie's name is crossed off the list.

That was the reality of it. He wasn’t brought in for company—he was called when things had already gone to hell. He was what they sent when there was no one left to evacuate, when the town militia was found strung up like scarecrows, when they didn’t care what did it—only that it stopped, and when failure wasn't an option because someone else had already failed.

He never asked for thanks or waited for gratitude, neither did he want it—not from the Guild or survivors, not from anyone still breathing after dawn.

All he wanted were clean kills, silence, and solitude. That was all for the best.

It was a good run, right up until they handed him you.

When he finally meets you—his assigned rookie—you were waiting for him barely past the treeline, sitting squat against the bark like you had nowhere else to be, eyes so dazed you looked like a lost child—as if you weren't in one of the oldest kill zones this side of the ridge.

For some reason, he got the feeling you'd been here, waiting for him all morning. He'd never admit it, but that thought alone sat bitter in his sternum.

And maybe that was the thing that irritated him—the fact that you didn't look like anything. You didn't carry yourself like a person trying to impress, someone arrogant enough to think they could keep up, or a coward scared out of their mind. Just... neutral. Boring. Calm. The Guild had sent him warm bodies before, all nerves and overeager chatter, but this? You didn't say anything as he approached, only watched him like you were waiting for him to speak first.

He didn't. Yet.

Instead, he took one long look at you and committed everything to detail. Your clothes were Guild-issued but too soiled and dirty to be new. Pack was light. Your boots clearly hadn't seen enough mud, and the weapon hung over your back was sharp but discolored—old, but it hadn't been used for any real work.

That was enough to convince him you weren't a normal rookie, at least not in the typical sense.

"...You're quiet." he says at last, low and flat.

The words leave him without much thought, more observation than accusation, but the moment they do—your head tilted slightly, pupils dilating in the process. Not wide-eyed with fear, or to size him up. You were just watching—curious and placid, but a little too still.

You blink once. Then—like you just realize you forgot to reply, "Oh. Should I not be?"

The sound of your voice startled him more than he'd like to admit—not because it was too loud or harsh, but because it was gentle. Wrong. Gentle never belonged in places like this. Not the kind of gentle that cut through hush like a ripple on a stagnant pond. It was a tone better suited for lullabies and nursery tales, never an occupation where recruits die on the daily, oftentimes without carcass to be spared.

For a split second, he wondered if you could be a mimic. He had seen mimics before, beautiful flesh stitched ones that could copy a human's laugh to the breath hitch. They always got the eyes wrong, though—too lifeless and wild, more reminiscent of animal than man—that was always the tell-tale sign, but those eyes of yours...

They gleamed, like maybe you were just happy to be here.

"I read the handbook," you add quickly, as if that might help. "It said not to speak to superiors unless necessary. That is necessary now, right? Since you asked?"

He stared at you.

You stared back, earnestly—but all that he could think was:

What the hell were you?

He didn’t draw his blade. Not yet. But the weight of it suddenly made itself known against his palm, as if it, too, felt the pressure shift. He didn’t trust instincts blindly, but he didn’t ignore them either—not when they hissed like that, low and certain. There was something off about you, something he couldn’t name outright.

You don't smell of danger the usual way—no sweat, no iron, no nothing. You smelled neutral, neutral in a way nothing in the wild ever was—and even if you were human(which he highly doubt), not even the most hygienic of people could ever bore a scent so... devoid.

And yet, you still smiled at him—softly, without guile. Not the grin of someone winning a game, nor the brittle stretch of a liar. None of that—only warmth, like the simple act of standing across from him in the forest had made your whole week.

"You're Kazu, aren't you? I'm assuming you are." you continue to speak, rocking slightly on your heels and ignorantly unaware of his inner turmoil. "You're way taller than I thought. I mean—not in a bad way! Just. Surprising.” there was no fear in your words, no performance, only open wonder.

He holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out in a thin stream.

"You're not what I expected, either." He says finally—his tone is even, but the statement carried an edge, and he knew it. He meant for it to land that way—a warning. A subtle flag in the earth between you.

You didn't say anything at first, only tilted your head with such an innocent precision it dragged his gut into a knot. "Is that bad?" you ask, "Should I change?"

The question should've been benign, maybe even self-deprecating. Yet the way you asked it—flatly, plainly, like you meant it—sent a subtle chill crawling up the back of his neck. His mind caught on the phrasing.

Before he could stop himself, he muttered, "...What?"

You perk up like a child caught misbehaving, "Sorry!" you say bashfully, waving your hands as though that could brush away the building tension you yourself weren't aware of, "I just thought—you know, maybe I said something wrong, so I could try again?"

You go still for a moment, brows pinching into a tight, thoughtful crease. The change was quick and exaggerated, like watching an amateur actor flick through expressions in a scripted play.

"...If you didn't like my first sentence, I can say it a different way—or in a different tone—or I could even say something else entirely. People usually like jokes first, or compliments—or for hunters—questions about their gear, don't they? Is there a… protocol for this?”

You looked so genuinely curious, face drawn into a serious, almost scholarly concentration, as though the social dynamic of monster hunters was a puzzle to pick apart instead of a living environment. Kazu didn't move. Not forward, nor backward. All he knew to do was watch.

The problem wasn't what you said.

It was how you said it.

This wasn't the oddball rookie trying to prove themselves with overcompensation, or the wide-eyed cadet chattering to fill the space fear usually occupied. It wasn’t that he sensed danger. If anything, that would’ve been easier. This—you—were something else entirely, something fundamentally flawed. You weren't wrong in the traditional sense. You smiled sweetly, your face expressive, but you were... misaligned, like a doll with it's joints screwed backwards. A creature wearing a person's corpse.

And so, without missing a beat, you stepped a little closer. Not enough to be threatening or to trigger a response, but just enough to maybe suggest you didn't quite understand the concept of boundaries.

Then—quietly, like you were admitting to a secret: "I memorized your file." you say, softer now. "..well, what little I could of it. It seems like the Guild doesn't like to share, but they always forget to wipe the backlogs in the archive building." you smile—not conspiratorial, not smug—just pleased with yourself, as if you didn't just admitted to an espionage. "I wanted to be prepared. You've been out here so long, so I thought maybe if I studied enough, you wouldn't think I was useless. Or..." your voice trails off, "..disposable."

He stared at you then, longer than before. Not because he was impressed or because he was moved—but because that word, "disposable", had fallen off your tongue too naturally, with what felt like too much practiced familiarity. It had the same weightless uncertainty, as when a child parrots a word they've heard adults say—only because no one told them not to.

It wasn't pity or concern he felt. No, what stirred in his chest was far from that. Sharper. It was instinct, again—the kind that had kept him alive this long. Something about the way you stood there, proud of the stolen information, easy to be judged, made every hair on his neck want to rise, just barely. You shouldn’t know how to get into Guild archives. You shouldn’t speak of things like that so casually. You shouldn’t be smiling at him like this was a first date of all things.

And yet, you are, eyes wide and waiting, posture open like you didn't fear what he might say. Like you were expecting approval, even.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is dull. Dry. More baffled than accusatory.

"...You're really serious, huh."

It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet, stunned declaration from his side.

For the first time since stepping into the clearing, something inside him shifted. He thought he'd seen it all before: puffed-up swaggers of overconfidence, quiet trembles of fear, the forced calm of rookies too green to realize their bravado was transparent—but you? You weren't faking it. You weren't putting on a show. There was no angle nor bluff to call. You didn't even try winning over. You were sincere, maybe even thrilled to be here.

About him.

About the job.

About being out here—in this forest—like it's some storybook adventure instead of the death sentence it really is.

"Is that a bad thing?" you ask, after a heartbeat of silence.

Kazu doesn't answer immediately. The wind rustles the trees in long, slow breaths above you both, carrying with it the kind of hush that usually warned of something watching. Only- something about you made the familiar forest suddenly feel foreign.

He'd met monsters in his time, had burned things that mimicked wailing infants, hacked apart forms that flickered between man and beast mid-scream. He knew what danger looked like—how it moved, how it breathed and spoke—but you unsettled him in a way nothing else ever had. Not because of how you looked, but rather, because of how carefully you did. Every motion, every word, every tilt of your head came with a precision that felt practiced. It wasn't wrong, exactly—just.. off-mark enough to make him feel like the one under scrutiny, and not the other way around.

You stood there, as you continue to wait for his answer like it actually mattered—your posture relaxed, hands open at your sides, chin tilted up slightly like the breeze was something to savor and not a prelude to something worse. You were smiling again, that strange gentle thing that wasn't quite strained or forced. It sat on your face like it belonged there—that's what unsettles him most.

"No," he says finally, after too long a pause. "it's not bad. It's just... rare."

You seemed to consider that, mouth parting, slightly, brows lifting like you were trying to make sense of something that didn't compute, instead of just listening. "But rare is good, right?" you ask, hopeful.

He watches you, the edges of his mouth threatening something that might've been a frown, or a grimace. In truth, he doesn't know why he's still standing here—still talking and listening to you. Usually by now, he'd cut the conversation short, laid out the bare essentials and set the pace without looking back.

Not to abandon—never that—but to keep things efficient, clean. Detached. The less rookies relied on him, the longer they might last.

But you aren't a normal rookie—it should be a question if you're human at all—and you aren't asking for help, you're just... waiting, watching, and for reasons he couldn't explain, Kazu stayed.

He should’ve left you already.

Should’ve walked away, put distance between you before anything could escalate—but instead, he asks—against his better judgment, before tension sank its claws in deep: “Why are you here?”

The question catches you mid-thought—not enough to rattle you, but enough to give you pause. Then, as if it had been waiting on your tongue all along, you say softly, ‘Because I wanted to be.’

All that did was make his jaw tighten. He almost laughed—wanted to, maybe. Like it was ever that simple. Like this job hadn’t taken better hunters for less.

"No one wants to be here," he says flatly, a little harsher than intended.

You only look at him, unblinking. "That's not true. You're here."

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be." he snaps, turning his back to you. "I'm needed here."

The woods swallowed his words as soon as they left him. He started walking soon after. The underbrush gave away beneath his boots with practiced quiet, and he half-hoped you wouldn't follow,

But you did.

Your footsteps were too light—too agile and exact. No rookie should move like that, unless they'd trained far longer than their records implied—or weren't a rookie at all. When he glanced back, you were still there, eyes wide, feet following in the sunken patches left by his, copying his gait like a duckling after its mother.

'Memorized his file'.

That thought stuck to the inside of his skull like rot. There were only three people still breathing who even had access to those backlogs—and none of them were rookies.

"I know I'm not what you expected," you say after a moment, your voice just behind his shoulder, "but I can learn, fast. I'm not strong or experienced yet, but I'm good at listening. I won't get in your way."

Kazu doesn't answer.

The wind picks up again, rattling through black pines in an uneven rhythm. A murder of crows shriek overhead and vanish eastward. He stops and waits, if only to observe. No movements between the trunks, no scent on the breeze—it's still too quiet, though.

And still you stood there, unbothered, still watching him with a face lacking of any fear or caution.

"I don't care about glory," you add, almost absentmindedly. "or the promotions, or the Guild. Not really. I just want to be there—live life to its fullest. What better way for that than this?"

He turns then, just slightly—enough to look at you again.

Your expression didn’t change. If anything, your eyes softened like it was a confession, not a fact. Yet there was no weight to the words, no illusion nor idealization, only... an honest admission, plain and bare.

"Live?" he repeats, in blatant disbelief.

"Yeah," you confirm, the ring of your voice barely above the rustle of leaves. "live."

You don't elaborate. You don't have to. He's a hunter—he's seen enough to know when people say things they don't mean. The way your gaze held his now—steady and sure—like the pain of it was familiar but not resented, he knew that look. Had seen it in survivors clinging to half-scorched homes, orphans clutching talismans over their late parents' cooling bodies. In inns, he'd seen it in mirrors, sometimes, in the silence that settled after grueling missions. That's the look of something that understood living hurt more than dying, yet chose it anyway.

But something about it felt wrong. Not bad, or fake, not exactly—but out of place—reminiscent of when sunlight shone through carbon smoke. There was something about your posture, something about your manner of speaking that screamed not ignorance, but absence; absence of the after-math that follows when world teaches you what it cost to survive, or worse (at least in his opinion)—like it had, but you liked the lesson.

He should've shut you down right then and there—told you living had nothing to do with this job—that survival wasn't the same thing as being alive—only, he didn't. Again, just for a breath, his hand hovered near the hilt—but for some reason, he hesitated, and whatever instinct had flared… dulled. He let it go.

The way you said it—live—like it was the greatest ambition a creature could have. Not glory, or peace, just the raw, senseless choice to keep waking up, keep walking forward, even if the road clawed at your feet.

"You picked the wrong job." he mutters, voice low—not as a warning, but a fact.

You smile anyway—a faint and soft twitch at the corner of your mouth. You agreed, and you knew.

"I know."

It has been a grand seventy-two days since Kazu first met you, and he still can't sleep right.

It's not rare for him to stay up late, near campfire while the moon rises high, sword in reach as he keeps one eye on the forest, and the other on you—sleeping far too soundly for a place like this.

He watches you often, after the fire has burned low and the woods have settled back into their nightly hum—not out of affection, or curiosity, no. He watches you the way he follows blood trails winding from villages into the foliage, the way a herding dog fixes its gaze on a wolf draped in sheepskin, waiting for the moment the disguise falls away.

Except, that moment never comes.

Every night, you lie down without a sound. There's a distinct kind of stillness to the way you sleep—no tossing, no muttering, no restless twitch beneath the weight of slumber. You always lie there, still, breath-slow and arms tucked neatly like a corpse awaiting burial—more statue-like than human, he thinks.

You don’t sleep like normal people do, and yet, for all his suspicion and certainties—he hasn’t done anything about it.

He's had plenty of time, truly. The hunts you've been assigned to aren't easy ones by any means—terrain scorched beyond recognition, pits lined with organic shredded remains, and guideposts mangled into symbols no human hands wwould've ever carved. These past months, you've been witness to what most don't live to describe: a worm that bawled with human lungs, thumb-sized crawlers that picked through corpses for ivory, a small, child-like thing that bled with tar when struck. Despite it all, you never flinched or faltered, and Kazu... he saw everything.

How you don't breathe hard after a chase, don't get hungry at the right time. Some missions, you take wounds that should lay a hunter low, only to shake it off with nothing but a clean, thin wrap around the injured area.

And once—once, you stood with blood trickling from the side of your neck, soaked in someone else's intestines, but for all your wit—the first thing you thought to do was to look at him and ask, 'Did I do good?' like a damn dog waiting for a treat.

He should've run you through then and there—split you from collar to hip and watch to see what came out—but instead, he only nodded gruffly, and told you to clean up. He hated that he did. Why?

Because he knows what you are. He doesn't know your species. No page in the Guild bestiary matches you exactly—too neat, too clean, too weak—but he knows a monster when he sees one. You're one to respond too quickly, speak too evenly, move too smoothly. Real people stutter. Real people get nervous—and yet, here you are, two steps behind him on every trail, asking for instructions, jotting down field notes like a bootlicking tagalong.

And for seventy-two days, he allowed it.

Worse—he's grown used to it.

Somewhere along the line, he started portioning extra rations without thinking, grumbling reminders when you forgot to clean your blade or adjust your grip. He’s begun watching you not out of threat assessment, but out of habit. He knows the tilt of your head when you’re puzzled, the way your eyes squint and wrinkled when you lie. He's seen you laugh and he's seen you panic, usually whenever you trip over your own words and forget what to say next.

And damn him, but it's start to... affect him.

He's begun warning you about the environment before each job, muttering "Stay close." when the forest starts to get too quiet. He yells less when you mess up, and instead just sighs and mutters under his breath like a parent tired of repeating themselves. He watches you bandage wounds wrong and reaches over without a word, fixing it himself, grumbling “Don’t pull it so tight, you’ll lose circulation.”

You shouldn't be under his skin, but here you are—nestled in his routine, engrained in the way he moves now—his pace slower, stride shorter, all so you can match. Every time you forget a task or miss a cue, he finds himself not scolding, but explaining in that gruff, unchanging tone that tries so hard to pass as cold but is far too careful to be cruel.

You've grown on him how moss grows on stone, and just like that—slowly, without his permission—he's started making room for you in the places no one else fit.

That night, you burn the rations, said you wanted to help—so you took the skillet from his hand and waved him off like it was the simplest task in the world. In blatant horror, he watched as you fumble the firewood, watches the flame lick too high, and watches blackened strips of jerky curl into charcoal at the edge of the pan.

You look at him, sheepish. "...Oops."

His eye twitches.

“You absolute idiot.” The words come out with all the dry finality of a death sentence, but there's no real bite to them. Kazu snatches the pan out of your hand and slams it back onto the fire before the next strip of meat becomes another casualty.

You eye the scorched meat with a grimace, nudging a curled blackened strip with the edge of a stick like maybe, maybe, if you prod it enough, it'll look more edible.

"Okay, so, maybe it's a little... crisp." you offer, rubbing the back of your neck in an abashed apology. "-but crispy's a texture, right? Some people like smoky flavors—very smoky—so-"

He stops, and turns to you.

Very, very slowly.

“I like my food not announcing our position to every goddamn thing in a two-mile radius,” he growls, punctuating the sentence by stabbing a forked stick into the blackened heap. “If something with teeth shows up tonight, you’re on bait duty.”

You hold his gaze, too used to the barbs by now to flinch, just standing there with your hands still curled mid-apology, your head slightly lowered in mock defeat—but your eyes light up. You weren't sorry—not really. And worse? Kazu could tell.

“Sorry,” you offer, belatedly. “I'll do better next time."

He scoffs under his breath and turned back to the meat. It's salvageable. Barely.

You sit back across the fire, cross-legged with your chin in your hands, watching him now in the constant quietly devoted way you always did—as though everything he did mattered, as though even his smallest of gestures carried meaning, as though he was your sole anchor in an ever-changing world that kept shifting beneath your feet. You didn't even try to help again. You just kept watching, happy and content, as if this little moment—burnt food and all—was another page you'd commit to memory.

That moment, it hit Kazu in an instant.

He turns his back on you before another word could be said—ears red.

He hates this. Hates that you're worming your way into his habits. Hates that he's memorizing your tells. Hates that he's begun listening for your footsteps when you wander too far out of sight— but more than that, more than anything, he hates that he doesn't hate it.

He doesn't look at you when he sets the salvaged strips of meat on a flat rock to cool, nor when he pushes the least-burnt portion toward your side of the fire and offers a single word, firm: “Eat.” Not an offer—an order, one you obey without question, because of course you do—you always do. That’s half the problem.

You take the food with a small nod and a faint smile, like he’s handed you something like a rare delicacy—never mind that it smells faintly of burnt bark and overcooked sinew. You always look at him like that—like he’s something to be thankful for, something safe and good—that's the one thing that gets his breath stuck in his throat, over and over, because you're not supposed to think that. You’re not supposed to look at him that way, not with that quiet reverence like he’s someone worth being near. It’s not fair.

He's not good.

He's a killer, no different in theory from the very monsters he slays on the daily.

He's murdered people who died shaking, choking on their own tongues in the name of 'mercy', ended the lives of possessed children too far gone to save. He's buried comrades with trembling hands and dug up others just to bring their bones home—because not all monsters swallow whole. The Guild says “no remains recovered”—but most of the time, that just means Kazu was there first, always the quiet end to someone else's failures, cleaning up the mess no other hunter wanted to claim.

And you—whatever you are, whatever you pretend to be—you look at him like none of that matters. You still sit there with singed fingers and soot on your cheek, anyway—chewing through burnt meat with your usual quiet focus, as if eating next to him is something sacred—like he isn’t already building contingency plans in his head for the day he finally has to gut you,

because he knows it's coming.

There's no perfect version of this story where you're just some weird, overeager rookie with too-clean boots and too-perfect manners. The truth is: you aren't normal, no matter how soft your voice is, no matter how flawlessly you imitate the motion of humanity. The seams are too straight, and timings too perfect. Kazu’s spent most of his life watching monsters pretend to be people—watching people become monsters—and the line’s thinner than most would care to admit.

But you? you walk said line like a tightrope, barefoot yet unbothered. It's really only a matter of time before you slip.

Kazu thinks he’ll be ready for that moment—that when it happens, he won’t hesitate—won’t freeze the way he always feared he might if it came to it. He tells himself he’s just playing along, watching from up close to get a better angle. He tells himself that the extra rations, the shared fires, and the too-soft voice he uses with you sometimes—it’s all a tactic, part of the game. He’s humoring you. He’s baiting you.

Except—he isn’t. Not really. Not if he's being honest to himself.

He's letting you get close—has let you get close, for far too long. Somewhere between all the bloodshed and burned dinners, all the eerily silent and strangely peaceful walks through monster-thick woods, you've become his—but not in the romantic sense. He doesn't want to think so. You're not his partner nor his friend.

You're his problem. His burden.

And he can't stop looking for you in the quiet. Can’t stop listening for your steps behind him. Can’t stop the twitch of his fingers toward his sword whenever you stray out of sight. Not because he's cautious you'll strike him, but because he fears something else will.

That's worse, somehow, because it means it's already too late for him.

The thing is: he's killed monsters—beautiful ones—beings that wore the face of lovers, of children, of family. He's done the hard thing—chosen survival over sentiment. It's what he does. It's what he's good at—and yet, when he looks at you, he can't imagine pulling the blade fast enough. He imagines hesitation, a breath too long, a misstep—and he imagines you smiling through it all, asking him how well you did on your last mission together.

He should kill you. He knows that.

But you’re still here, still warm at his side, still tracing patterns into the dirt with your finger while he watches the shadows.

Maybe that's why every night he doesn’t do it—for every night he lets you sit too close, sleep too near—he trades another piece of instinct for something quieter. Heavier.

The ache of almost trust. The dull, sour fear of knowing he's slipping.

The moment lingers, quiet and heavy, only the pop and crackle of the fire filling the silence he doesn’t know how to break. Kazu stares into the embers like they might answer something for him—like the flicker of flame might burn away thoughts clawing too close to the bone. His arms are crossed, legs stretched out but rigid, still plagued by tension he refuses to name.

Then—quietly:

"Why haven't you eaten yet?"

The question breaks the silence gently. There’s no accusation in it, no challenge—just a simple, observant softness that lands somewhere deep. Kazu doesn’t flinch then, but something in him stalls, just a little.

His eyes shift, flickering to you, then away again. He hadn’t realized you were still watching him like that—chin still propped up in your hand, your legs folded close, voice quiet and steady—not teasing, not overly concerned. Just… noticing.

He doesn’t answer right away. There’s no snap, no bark—just a long, slow exhale through his nose like he’s trying to breathe out the weight pressing behind his ribs. Kazu shifts slightly, glancing at the scorched meat still cooling near the fire. His stomach doesn’t grumble. He’s long past the point where it does.

“I’m not hungry,” he murmurs eventually, his voice terse and under-breathed, almost an afterthought.

Regardless, you keep looking at him, not pushing, not prying—just, there. Present in that quiet, uncanny way of yours. “You’ve been up since before the sun, but I don't see you eat enough.” you say, and it’s not meant as a scold—just the simple truth, and spoken like so. You've been paying attention to things he doesn't even bother noticing anymore.

That only makes something in his chest stir—nothing sharp, just tired, and old—like dust being kicked up from a corner of an old antique.

He huffs softly and reaches out, slow and quiet, picking at one of the less-burnt pieces with his fingers. The movement is unhurried and mechanical, like he’s going through the motions just to take his mind off static in his head. He doesn’t look at you when he chews—doesn’t grimace either. It tastes like smoke, like ash, and if he were to be poetic; like the draining feeling of countless days blending into each other—but it's food, and he's still breathing. That alone should be enough.

"I'll eat." he says after a beat, quiet and evenly. "You don't have to worry."

You blink at him, and although your expression doesn’t change much, something in your eyes softens.

"Okay." you smile, nod, and settle back into your spot by the fire. There's no commentary nor satisfaction to follow—just the ever-present serene expression you always wear beside him.

You're not harmless and he knows that, but you're his monster now, and that—somehow—that’s worse than anything else. because not like this does he know what to do with something that belongs to him. He knows how to kill, how to end, to survive, but this—this slow unravelling of trust—this presence beside him that’s too steady, too real, too there—it unsettles him in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s not a trick, neither is it a treat. It’s just you, sitting in the firelight, asking him to eat, looking at him like he genuinely matters. He doesn't dare meet your eyes on nights like these.

Perhaps that's the worst part of it all—that he's beginning to believe you.

Kazu swallows, jaw tightening. Silence settles again, but not quite heavy and cold like before, just present, as if the forest itself is holding its breath for reasons he'll maybe never know.

But he's doomed, and he knows at least that.

He's always been doomed. This is just a new shape of it.

Nearly an hour has passed since the Guild representative signed off your latest report, wax seal pressed crooked against the parchment. Since then, you still haven't let go of it. The paper's folded clean and careful, tucked between your palm like a precious keepsake rather than the bureaucratic obligation it really is. Kazu hasn't asked to see it—but then again, he never does. The confirmation of another slain woodland creature had barely left your lips before he was already shouldering his pack, muttering something about supplies and the road ahead.

But then—just as the trees thinned and a few dozen rooftops began to peek through the dusk, you heard it.

Music.

Soft at first, just beneath the blacksmith's clangor and the chatter of open-air market, so faint it could've easily been mistaken for wind blowing through chimes—but no, the melody held shape. You could hardly make out the sounds of flute and drum blending into each other, and the faint rhythmic call of strings coaxed to laughter. It was coming from town square—weaving its way through footfalls and merchant haggling, calling out to you before you even realized you’d turned your head to follow.

..a festival, or so you assume.

Noisy, bright, colorful lanterns crowding the streets where kids ran wild along stalls packed to the brim with sweets you've never seen before. For a moment, you're stunned, just standing there to watch.

Kazu doesn't stop walking until your footsteps don't follow.

When he turns, he's already a few paces ahead on the trail, boots scuffed against the worn earth and stray pine needles. You're not looking at him. Your gaze is fixed beyond the forest's mouth, where the muddy path slopes down towards the town below. Lanterns flicker and dance in the air like firefly between houses, while the faint echo of people's laughter rises with the breeze. The town is alive, breathtakingly so: music that drifts through the air in uneven bursts, the warm scent of roasted grain and smoke curling up from obscured stalls.

You stand there quietly, as if caught in a trance.

"There's a... celebration." you breathe.

His exhale is already heavy.

"We're not staying."

But you're already turning toward it, drawn to the distant flicker of lanterns like moth to a flame. Your face contorts to something like a mix of curiosity and excitement.

You turn back to him, "Just for a while?" you plea.

"No." he cuts in, dry and decisive.

"Not even just to look?"

The silence you receive isn't disapproval, but it doesn't feel like agreement either. Recently, you've begun to recognize the way he hesitates—how he tends to let silence answer for him, as though he's giving you space to reconsider on your own—but he doesn't ever say no.

So you decide to press, softer this time: "We don't have to go in if you don't want to, just.. closer, if only for some time."

His eyes narrow, words that you don't catch tumbling out in a barely audible mutter meant more for himself than you, before his voice finally sharpens with resolve.

"Ten minutes," he scowls, not quite looking at you anymore. "no more."

Your eyes widen—not with triumph or glee, but a quiet, grateful kind of wonder. You hadn't expected him to give you anything at all. "Ten minutes," you echo, the words barely louder than a whisper. You nod firmly, like memorizing the moment. "Okay," you smile, "ten minutes."

Kazu grunts, the sound lacking its usual weight. He adjusts his pack, shrugs his shoulders as if the leather strap suddenly itched, and begins walking again—not looking back to see if you're following.

Of course you are.

You catch up to him in seconds.

The two of you walk side by side, though not quite together. There’s a few inches of space between your shoulders that neither of you tries to close, but it’s not uncomfortable—only existing. As the forest thins behind you, giving way to the stir of town life, Kazu remains quiet. The scent of fried oil and sweet batter hangs heavy, slowly drowning out the damp, piney breath of the forest behind your backs.

The town sprawls before you both, vibrant garlands hung in uneven lines between posts and wooden ledges, while lanterns flutter in the wind like little captured suns, flickering warm hues of gold and red. Music spills like water from every corner—laughter, rhythm, the clap of drums over the murmur of voices calling out greetings and bartering with stall-keepers.

It's... a lot. Noise, movement, light—too much to co-exist.

Kazu keeps you in his periphery as the crowd thickens. Part of it's instinct—he always watches, always prepares for the worst—but another part of him, the part he doesn't like naming, is watching for your sake; for the twitch of your fingers, the quickening of breath, the signs of overstimulation in a place far too overwhelming for your liking. He knows what this kind of environment does to people like you, or—he thinks he should.

But you don't stiffen. You don't even show a flicker of discomfort.

No, your eyes go wide—yes, but not in alarm. It's wonder. Your steps start to slow, and you're stopping to enjoy the moment instead of shrinking away. Your gaze skims over paper lanterns bobbing in the breeze, catches briefly on a vendor tossing sugar over skewered fruit, lingers longer on a pair of children darting between legs with streamers in tow. You stand at the edge of it all, breathing slow, your face unreadable—until it isn't.

There's an awe to your expression that hadn't been there moments ago.

Kazu's brows twitch subconsciously, and he... falters.

He'd been half-ready to drag you out himself if your hands started to shake, or if your voice suddenly dropped below a whisper—but instead, you're here, breathing even. Not just holding steady, but enjoying it.

Your reaction isn't dramatic. You're not rushing to join the crowd and tumbling over yourself in excitement, but there's a subtle ease in your movements. You're letting down your guard without even realizing. He catches it, and for a second—he too, forgot what he was watching for.

Once, you glance back at him, not sheepishly or questioningly, it felt more to him like you were just checking for his presence—to see if he's still with you.

He is. Why wouldn't he be?

And like countless times before, he doesn't speak. Neither does he reach for you. He keeps close though, pace purposely matching yours like that's always been how it's meant to be.

This.. isn't what he expected when he chose to keep you around, but it doesn't matter. Not like he'll ever stop watching you, anyway.

"..It's loud." you comment, but it's not a complaint—more-so a factual observation, like how the sky is blue or blood is red. There's a quiet kind of awe in your voice, almost innocent—the type of fascination you'd expect from a child's first time at a candy store.

"I think I like it."

Kazu doesn't respond as he moves to stand just slightly ahead of you, blocking the crowd's spills from touching you too directly. He doesn't mean to hover, but it's somewhat become second-nature by now. Old instincts, conditioned by numerous prior ambushes.

Places like these breed carelessness, only fools would assume a crowd means safety. You're not even fully in the square, just somewhere past the outskirts, standing where trees thin into cobblestone—but the air's already too different. Charged, restless joy of people who aren't watching for danger—ironically, it only makes him more cautious.

You're still holding the report in one hand, but it's become an after-thought. You've forgotten it was ever there in the first place.

“Kazu,” you say, after a moment. “does it ever feel like… like you’re only watching people live? I think I get it—the purpose, the patterns—but joining in… I don’t think I’d know how.”

He doesn't answer right away. Your words feel too honest for his usual brand of snide dismissal, too vulnerable for him to ignore; honesty that didn't expect anything in turn.

He huffs eventually, low. "Then don't."

You glance over, and he doesn't meet your gaze.

"Just look. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you murmur, surprised by the warmth curling in your chest. "It is."

And somehow, it really is. You stand together in the narrow space between torchlight and shadow, far enough away that no one notices either of you, close enough that you can hear the music rise and fall like waves against stone. He says nothing else, and you don’t offer anything in return. Something about the stillness between you feels fragile, like a thread pulled taut but not yet frayed. You don’t move, neither does he. The world carries on around you and you let it.

Maybe that’s what makes his throat tighten when he glances sideways and sees the firelight catch in your eyes, even here, far from any hearth. For all that you aren't, there's a flicker in your gaze that makes him forget it—makes him wish, dangerously, that you were.

So when a child bolts from the crowd—skewer in hand, feet pounding past without aim—

Kazu doesn't think. His arm shoots out on instinct, hand closing over your shoulder, pulling you in close—too close. As if he could keep that flicker. As if holding you could make the wish real.

Startled, you look at him in surprise.

"Watch where you're standing." he grunts. It comes off more gritty than it needs to—short, clipped, like he's scolding you, though it doesn't land the way he expects. In the end, that's not really what he meant to say.

You blink. Then, without flinching or shifting away, you nod. "Sorry."

You stand there for a breath—no more—just long enough to feel the weight of Kazu’s hand on your shoulder before it slips away, fingers hesitating for a fraction too long before they release. The pressure leaves behind a ghost of warmth, as if some part of him hadn’t meant to let go so quickly, or had only just realized he’d grabbed you at all.

The child’s long gone, vanished into the crowd like a leaf carried by wind, and Kazu doesn't speak again, adjusting the strap of his pack with a sharp tug, like the motion might ground him—something solid and familiar to occupy hands that had moved before he’d thought.

Your gaze flicks back to the festival.

"They're wearing masks." you observe aloud, head tilted just slightly. Sure enough, dancers in painted crane-faces twirl between booths, steps timed with the playful trill of flutes. Their garments are mismatched but vivid—fluttering robes, strings of beads, paper charms trailing from sleeves like falling petals.

He shifts beside you, clears his throat. “...We should go.”

You glance up quickly. “Already?”

His eyes narrow again—not in anger, just a tic. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but when he exhales, it’s softer than before.

“We still have six minutes,” Kazu mutters.

You gape, dumbfounded. "You're counting."

He shrugs, just enough for the strap of his pack to shift. "Someone has to. I said ten, didn't I?"

You breathe out a quiet laugh and take a few steps forward. This time, he doesn’t follow right away, only watches as you approach the edge of the crowd, where a vendor offers candied plums on polished sticks. The smell makes your stomach twitch with unfamiliar interest.

You don't notice when he appears at your side again. He doesn't look at the plums, neither does he comment on the way you squint on the pricing and freeze when you realize you have no money.

He just pulls a coin from his own pouch, tosses it the vendor's way, and walks away.

You accept the sticks automatically, syrup already tacky on your fingers. "Kazu!" you call, hurrying after him before the moment slips away. You're unsure whether to thank him or question what just passed.

...maybe a little bit of both.

He briefly lifts one hand in the air behind him, but you catch the slight stiffness in his movement and the flush creeping up the side of his neck. It's unclear to you if the gesture is meant as a wave or dismissal, and you don't think he knows either.

"...Are you blushing?" you ask, not teasing—just saying it like you're trying to confirm something you didn’t expect to see. Your words hang there, honest and unembellished, and for a moment, the only answer you get is the stiff set of his shoulders as he keeps walking. His pace doesn’t change, but you notice the way his hand drops a little faster than it should, like he's trying to cut off the motion before it gives too much away.

You glance down at the candied plums in your hand, then back at him, lips parting before the words come without much thought. “You didn’t have to buy them, you know.” Again, it’s not an accusation. Not gratitude either—just fact, like you’re still sorting out what to make of it yourself.

“You wanted it,” he replies, brusque as ever, though his tone lacks bite. His eyes flick sideways, almost too fast to catch, as if he’s trying to gauge whether you actually like it, or whether this, somehow, was the wrong call. But you’re already licking a bit of syrup from the corner of your mouth, head tilting in mild surprise.

 “It tastes like plums,” you manage between chews, the stick still at your lips, “but… better?”

 The second plum stick is still in your hand, warm and sticky. without thinking, you extend it towards him. "Want one?" you hum.

But Kazu only casts it a dubious glance, then snorts. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You paid for it."

"I paid for you."

Your head tilts, eyes flicking to him with a sudden kind of confusion.

"..What?"

He scowls. "I meant the plums."

You don’t push—just let the smallest smile curl onto your lips, amused in a way that doesn’t need teasing. Silently, you extend the stick again, patient and insistent. He hesitates, scowls deeper, then mutters something under his breath in what you now consider typical Kazu fashion—before ducking forward slightly and taking a bite straight of the skewer. His mouth pull into a sharp line the moment he chews.

"Tastes like medicine," he mutters with a grimace.

"..really?"

You peer at him, skeptical. “I don’t think it tastes like medicine.”

He gives you a look, flicking a crumb from his glove. “Then you’ve clearly never had medicine.” he jests—you think, and for a split moment, there's the faintest upwards curl on his lips.

You feel the urge to laugh, but manage to hold it in.

"Want the rest of mine?" you gesture, still holding out the second stick.

He rolls his eyes, "No." but he doesn't tell you to stop offering, either—so you just keep walking beside him, still holding the extra skewer in your hand like maybe he’ll change his mind.

The festival continues to bloom around you, loud and alive, music rising from every direction. Drums beat low in the chest, a steady pulse beneath the swirl of flutes and what you think are performative strings that leap with gusts of wind. The same group of dancers from before twirl past with ribboned sleeves and bells wrapped around their ankles, casting ripples of colors across town-square.

Amidst the chaos, someone tosses a fistful of paper petals into the air and children chase them like butterflies. The scent of fire-roasted corn lingers in the space between stalls, mingling with something floral and sticky-sweet—incense, you guess, or maybe sugared rice cakes steaming in their baskets.

You slow down a little, taking it in—not wide-eyed anymore, but still quiet with a kind of awe you don’t really know how to name. There's nothing else you’re supposed to be doing right now. No Guild forms to fill, no other monsters to hunt, no next destination hounding your heels. Just this—music, people, color, your hand sticky with sugar, and Kazu… not exactly smiling, but he seems content.

You glance over again and catch him watching you—he doesn’t even pretend to look away this time.

“What?” you find yourself asking.

He frowns, which is his usual default, but this one... feels different. "...Nothing." he huffs.

You don't push, you've learned not to when it comes to Kazu. Instead, you find yourselves pausing near a game stall—small clay pots lined up in rows, a basket of bean bags beside them and a sign boasting some local dialect variation of three down, prize won. The prizes aren’t anything special, just a mix of wooden charms, glass beads, and poorly-stitched dolls, but something about the way they’re all piled together draws your eye.

Kazu notices your interest and scoffs. "That's a scam."

You squint, looking at him questioningly. "It's a festival game?"

“Same thing.”

Still, you step forward. There’s something oddly charming about the way the clay jars are all different shapes and sizes, and you’re curious if the game’s rigged or just genuinely difficult. The middle-aged man running the booth smiles toothily and offers you a bean bag with fingers bent at odd angles.

When your gaze returns to your trusty travelling companion, he's already fishing coins from his pouch.

You stiffen, brows twitching in uncertainty. "I didn't say I wanted to play."

"You were looking." he says, as if that explains everything.

You accept the bean bag, a little stunned, then weigh it in your hand thoughtfully. It’s lighter than it looks. Your throw isn’t particularly strong—but on the second try, a jar wobbles and tips off the plank, shattering on impact.

Kazu lets out a short breath. “…Huh.”

You look back at him, smug. “Guess it’s not rigged.”

He doesn't reply, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth,again, almost like he's fighting a smile and losing. You miss your third throw, but the man counts the shattered pot with a nod and lets you pick a prize anyway.

You hover for a moment before reaching toward the back of the pile—picking out a tiny carved animal figure. It's some sort of bird, maybe a falcon, its wings out-stretched mid-flight. The carving isn’t masterful, but the way it fits in your palm makes you like it even more. You turn it over once in your hand, then extend it out to Kazu without thinking.

He blinks at you.

You hold it steady. “For you.”

He stares at the bird, visible confusion on his face. “Why?”

You hum, "You paid."

"That's... that's not—"

“Maybe not. Still.” You nudge the figure toward him a little more insistently, and he takes it eventually—slowly, like it burns. His fingers close around it like he's afraid it'll crumble at first contact.

You walk again, weaving between lantern strings and children in animal masks. The candy’s half gone now. You’ve stopped offering him bites, but you keep the second stick in hand anyway. Kazu still keeps the bird, the little wooden carving finds its home within the crevice of his pocket.

Soon enough, your attention is grabbed once more by a fire dance that's about to begin—spinning performers with flares in each hand, breath soaked in oil and exhaled in long, steady ribbons of flame. The crowd gasps in delight. You flinch at the first roar of fire, and Kazu shifts, just barely brushing against you, a subtle check for any tremble in your shoulders.

But you don't pull away. There's no need to.

“…You’ve got syrup on your face,” he mutters.

You reach up to wipe it away, missing by a few centimeters.

“No—left. More left.” He lets out a soft, barely audible huff, then reaches forward and smudges it off himself with the corner of his sleeve. You stare for a second, thrown off, as he draws back.

“There.”

“...Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand lingers in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Somewhere, another chime rings, delicate and high. You tilt your head toward the sound and spot a charm stall—little paper fortunes hanging from strings, inked prayers written down with careful brush strokes. One of the attendants offers you a reed pen and a scrap of parchment without a word. You glance back at Kazu.

“You write one too?”

He gives you a look. “What would I even write?”

You consider, “Something you want?”

“Don’t want anything.”

You raise a brow.

He sighs. “Nothing they can give.”

You nod, and don't ask again

Either way, you still get to write something. You don't think too hard about it, just let the words come as they are, no frills or poetry—just transparent honesty. A wish small enough to feel like your own, but meaningful enough not to lose its shape if ever spoken aloud.

You hang it on the charm line with the others, a flutter of parchment caught in a passing breeze.

Kazu watches.

When you turn back, he still waits for you, hands in his pockets, one still curled faintly around the carved bird, eyes half-lidded beneath the firelight—but present.

You're more than sure ten minutes have passed by now. You're more than certain he knows too.

"Can we look around a bit more?" you ask, careful, watching his face for any flicker of hesitation, already bracing yourself in case he says no—but still hoping he won’t.

He remains silent for a moment, gaze dragging over the lanterns, over the path ahead, over the swell of people beginning to thicken near another bend in the street. His brows furrow—not in refusal, you think—but in a kind of reluctant resignation.

"..If we must."

You brighten, but you keep it mild. No need to spook him now.

Your pace quickens slightly as you lead him toward the narrower part of the plaza, where booths line both sides of the stone path in loose, irregular rows. The heat from the fire dancers still lingers in your skin with each step. It's only been a handful of minutes since you arrived, but something in the air makes time feel weightless—like it’s suspended between heartbeats and flickering lanterns.

You walk without any real aim, letting the sounds and smells guide you. Kazu doesn’t stop you, just lets you lead, his steps always keeping pace. The bird in his pocket taps gently against his leg.

Eventually, you find yourselves drifting near the eastern end of the square, where the lanterns hang lower and the music grows fainter—replaced instead by the soft ringing of chimes and bells. The crowd here is thinner, older. Couples linger longer at stalls, their fingers entwined as they examine trinkets and charms meant to bestow anything from safe travels to good fortune in love.

The mixed smell of incense and pressed herbs is thicker here, but you don't mind. It's a soothing counterpart to the sugary stickiness still clinging to your fingers.

You stop in front of one such stall—its surface cluttered with bundles of dried sage, lacquered charms shaped like hearts and cranes, and little clay animals painted with looping red strokes that immediately remind you of the wooden carvings from the festival game prior.

The vendor is an older woman with curly hair wrapped into a red scarf, leaning over the counter as you approach.

“Ah,” she beams. “Looking for luck, are we?”

You glance down at the display. The hand-painted sign above it reads Fortunes for Love, Fortune, and Friendship! in charmingly uneven script, flanked by a doodle of two rabbits holding hands.

“Not really,” you tell her, but you’re already leaning in a little closer. The trinkets are small, almost forgettable, but oddly compelling—soft-wrapped bundles and little painted stones, one shaped like a fox head with golden eyes.

“You should try the couple charms,” the woman says suddenly, with a conspiratorial twinkle in her voice. “Always been lucky, those ones.”

You pause, “Couples?”

“Aye.” She nods toward a section near the back of the table, where two miniature tokens are bound together with thread. One red, one black. “To bring closeness and good fortune. Bind them together at midnight, and your paths won’t stray.”

You hesitate. "We're not—"

But the vendor only smiles wider, nodding toward the space between you and Kazu, where your elbows nearly brush and neither of you have noticed.

“Ah, don’t mind me,” she muses. “I’ve got an eye for these things. From what I can tell, you’ve got that look about you.” She titters, tapping a finger to her temple. “That quiet kind of closeness. You kids don’t need to say much, do you? You just are.”

The vendor lady gestures to Kazu with a knowing little nod. “He’s got the face for it, too. All grump on the outside, sweetheart on the inside. I’ve known plenty of men like that. My late husband was just the same!”

You turn instinctively, gaze drawn to Kazu’s face.

He’s frozen.

Utterly, unmistakably frozen—the kind of stillness that speaks louder than words. His mouth is pulled taut, his eyes narrowed in that flat, impassive expression you’ve seen several times before—but this time, it feels more defensive than annoyed.

“We’re not a couple,” he says flatly, teeth barely unclenched.

The vendor waves a hand. “Ah, not yet, then. My mistake.”

For a moment, you half-expect him to storm off, but surprisingly—he just.. stands there. Bristling, maybe, but not leaving. His shoulder is still angled toward you, his hand tight in his pocket around that little wooden bird. You can’t read his expression anymore, but you think you know him well enough by now to guess he's probably regretting ever letting you lead him into this part of the square.

Nonetheless, you can't help but smile a little, a bit crooked this time.

“Guess we fooled her,” you lean over and whisper, barely more than a breath.

"She's wrong." Kazu argues back, as if your little encounter with the old lady is something that needs clarifying. For a moment, it almost felt to you like he's trying to shake off the weight of that single word: couple.

"I know," you hum. "does it bother you?"

Kazu doesn’t respond right away. He glances off to the side, jaw flexing slightly.

Then: “…No. Just stupid.”

You nod once, and turn your attention back to the charms. Your finger rests lightly atop one of the braided cords again, this time letting it catch against the pad of your thumb.

The vendor watches you both, smile never fully fading, but she doesn’t push. Just leans back and pretends to busy herself with reorganizing her wares.

Kazu exhales slowly, almost a sigh, and after a long moment, he hands you his pouch and murmurs, “Get it if you want.”

You glance over, "The charm?"

His face twitches. "Yeah. Or don't."

You study him for a second longer, then quietly pay for the set. The vendor ties one around your wrist, fingers light and practiced. You thank her with a slight bow, then take the second cord, holding it out to him like an offering.

Kazu stares at it, then at you. His eyes narrow again, hesitant.

“I don’t—”

“It’s just a charm,” you say, voice soft, not teasing. “You don’t have to wear it.”

You mean what you say, but he takes it anyway.

He doesn’t tie it on right away—rather, he takes a moment to hold it between gloved fingers, examining the threads. You don’t press. He can do what he wants with it.

..But, as the two of you walk away again, returning to the quieter paths threading the festival’s edge, you catch the flicker of motion at his wrist. The cord is there—clumsily tied, looped twice, the knot imperfect but secure.

He notices you looking.

"..Did it wrong." he mumbles.

You don’t laugh. “It’s on,” you say simply, as the corners of your mouth twitch for what felt like the hundredth time tonight.

He grunts under his breath—you don't know if it's in agreement, or just to fill the air between you. Regardless, he keeps walking. The path is narrower here, veering off from the main lantern-lit square, paved with uneven stone and canopied overhead by willow branches that sway like heavy curtains. With the festival’s noise muffled behind you, the hush that settles feels deeper, more natural.

Crickets chirp softly in the grass, and from somewhere out of sight, wind chimes sound with a fragile clarity, barely there at all.

Neither of you say much for a while after that, footsteps continuing to fall in uneven rhythm. There's no conversation to spark when your shoulders brush once when the path narrows again. You don't fail to notice how the charm at your wrist glints just slightly upon being touched by the low light of a passing firefly.

You guess the same can be said for Kazu, because you catch him staring at it, before looking forward again.

"It's dumb," he mutters after another moment of silence, "the whole binding thing—midnight and all that."

You hum, half to show you’re listening, half because you’re not sure what to say yet.

"Superstition," he adds, a firmer now, like saying it with more conviction would make it sound less like a choice he made.

You glance down at his wrist, anyway. The cord's still there.

"Maybe," you say in reply. "but I think it's a nice kind of dumb."

Although Kazu doesn’t answer that, his pace slows a little. Not a full stop, just enough that you fall into step beside him again, his shoulder no longer ahead of yours but level. He draws in a breath like he’s about to say something else—but whatever it is, he lets it go and resumes walking.

You listen to the crunch of gravel beneath your boots, the whisper of wind through distant banners, and something else—his hand brushing near yours again, not quite a touch, but he's close enough for the heat of your hands to overlap.

It stays like that for a while.

Later, you tilt your head toward him, voice quiet and low. “Still want to head back soon?”

His silence stretches, staying quiet for a beat too long. His jaw shifts—like he’s chewing over what to say. Then, without lifting his gaze: "..Let's walk a bit more."

You nod wordlessly. The quiet has settled too comfortably between you to bother breaking it. the world has dimmed here, quieter. Even the festival seems far off, muffled by trees and distance.

Your fingers drift a little closer. The gap between your hands narrows until your pinkies nearly touch, neither side closing the distance. He doesn’t tense, but there's a thin layer of tension in the way he moves.

Contact never comes between you. What hangs is only thinner than thread, but it holds just fine. It just so happens that lantern light glints briefly off the charm at his wrist, tied haphazardly, a loop barely secured.

No one moves to fix the knot.

Hours later, by the time you finally settle for an inn—the cord remains tied, frayed ends brushing his wrist like it never came close to coming undone.

Kazu's hands are soaked in someone else's blood.

It clings to the lines of his palms, thick and half-dried where it’s seeped into his skin and dark as rust beneath his fingernails. It’s splattered across the folds of his jacket, caked on the blade that remains clenched within his palm, smeared across the earth where your body had fallen.

Your head lies in the dirt, just a few feet from where he’s kneeling. Your eyes are closed. Peaceful, almost. Too peaceful for his liking.

He can’t move.

The air is heavy, weighed not only by the scent of copper and soil but by silence as well. It's the kind to ring hauntingly in one's skull, only ever following after a scream.

Your scream.

His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, everything else the cause rather than physical strain, the weight of what had just happened settling in like stone in his gut. The fight with Tarin had been brief, hardly even a fight in the end.

It lasted only a few seconds.

There had been no real contest, no struggle for dominance or skill. Kazu’s blade had pierced through the other man's skull as easily as if it were soft bark, too quick and too clean for what he truly deserved. A single motion, brutal and efficient, born more from instinct than rage, and it had all been over.

He should feel vindicated. Furious. Something.

Yet all he could do was sit there, knees dug into the dirt, staring at the limp body that refuses to die. He watches the faint twitch of your fingers, the barely-there shudder of your chest. It should be impossible. It is impossible. He'd saw the wound, the severing.

But your body doesn't go still.

He stares at it, unmoving, as the blood dries sticky between his fingers. A bitter taste creeps up in his throat, foul in its essence. It's then that without meaning to, his mind flickers—not to the moment of the fight, but to the one that started it all.

It began with a voice.

"Well, I’ll be—didn’t think you’d show up again, Kazu. Haven't seen 'ya 'round these parts for some years now."

A man stood beneath the dappled shade of pine, leaning against a sloped tree trunk. His stance was relaxed, one thumb hooked in the strap of his gearbag, the other hand loosely holding a waterskin. His clothes bore the practical wear of fieldwork—dusty hems, scraped leather, streaks of what looked like dried blood clinging to his inner tunic. His hair was longer than Kazu remembered, sun-burnt at the tips, and messily half-tied.

His voice came from behind, breaking the hush of dusk like a twig underfoot—too easy in its humor to be entirely casual. Kazu stopped dead in his tracks, bootheel pressing into old pine needles as he turned just slightly to confirm the voice. He didn’t need to. He already knew.

There was an easy grin tugging at his mouth, but his eyes—they didn’t match it, steel-colored and sharp. Those eyes were shaped too alert to be relaxed. He wasn't looking at Kazu.

He was looking at you.

"Tarin," Kazu said after a beat, his voice flat with recognition. He didn’t offer a greeting so much as confirm the man's name like he was clocking a piece of intel. Whether that was how he usually greeted old colleagues or just the ones he had reason to be cautious around—it wasn’t always easy to tell, even for him.

The other hunter didn't seem the slightest bit offended in response. If anything, the lack of warmth only made him smile wider. “Still a man of many words, I see.”

Kazu grunted but said nothing.

Tarin pushed himself off the tree and approaches without hesitation, gait easy but measured. Automatically, Kazu stepped half a pace to the side, angling himself in front of you.

“I didn’t expect you this far north,” Tarin remarked nonchalantly, “last I heard, you were working eastern routes—contract cleaner for the old southern garrison. Rumor was, you went solo.”

Kazu finally spoke, low. “I did.”

“Hah,” Tarin exhaled a short laugh, “figures. Coordinating never seemed like your scene."

There was amusement in his voice, but something colder pulsed beneath. His gaze slid past Kazu and landed on you, sharp and deliberate. It lingered too long to be casual, eyes flicking over the guild seal tucked at your hip, the way you shifted your weight, the subtle closeness you kept to Kazu’s side—

"You his new side-kick?" he asked, not unkindly—but the way he phrases it makes his intention clear. This wasn't a genuine question, but a probe.

You hesitated.

There was something in his eyes—not quite humor, nor hostility… yet. It felt more like a weighing—a quiet, deliberate measurement, masked by a lazy smile. He’s not looking at you, but through you—toward whatever connection you might have to Kazu.

Kazu didn’t give the silence time to stretch.

"They're with me."

Three words. Flat. Final.

Tarin raised a brow, not at what’s said, but at what’s not. He held up both palms, mock-apologetic. “Didn’t mean anything by it, just saying. I'm surprised you’re letting someone stick that close. You used to bite the heads off our quartermasters just for trailing behind you.”

Kazu didn’t rise to it. His stance didn’t change, but there was a faint shift—just enough that someone like Tarin would catch it. And he did. His smile dimmed by a fraction. He looked down at the waterskin in his hand, turning it once by the neck, almost absently.

“You headed for the old ridge route?” he prodded, voice turning casual again. “Heard a few things about movement up there, not just the usual strays.” another look your way, then back to Kazu. “You might want a second map.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Kazu replies.

Tarin held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His hands dropped from his belt, the weight of his stare lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then, like it had cost him nothing, he added, “Mind if I stay with you for the road?”

The question hung there, like it wasn't already assumed. Kazu saw the shift of his pack strap, the way he was already moving like he expected to join. He almost said no. It was right there on the tip of his tongue.

“We’re two days out from Western HQ,” he says instead, voice clipped but level. “Keep up, and don’t get in the way.”

The memory loses its grip, lacking in closure. The air has changed. The silence isn’t the same anymore; not quite lighter, but disturbed, as if the forest itself had shifted position while he was locked in thought. His eyes return, slowly, to the ground in front of him.

You lie there, unmoving. The space between your head and your body still hasn't changed. Nothing has moved, yet, something is wrong.

Kazu pushes himself to his feet. The stiffness in his joints doesn’t come from exertion, but tension. The blood has begun to dry at the edges of his gloves, flaking where his knuckles flex. He ignores it.

He steps carefully, almost piously, toward your body.

It's then that he sees it.

A thin strand—no, not quite a strand; something organic, wet, and pale, like a vine or a root—has stretched from the exposed flesh of your severed neck. It snakes out in a cautious, almost tentative motion, glistening faintly in the dappled light that breaks through the treetops. A matching branch extends from your neck stump, twitching once before stilling, as if sensing its counterpart nearby.

His breath stills.

More follow. Fine, translucent threads, branching out like veins or mycelium, begin weaving their way through the dirt. They move slowly, with purpose, like limbs remembering what they used to be. The distance between your head and body isn’t much—barely a few feet—but the quiet persistence with which your biology reaches out to reconnect it is enough to make his stomach turn.

Not out of fear, nor revulsion like he'd expected.

It’s awe—a twisted, reverent kind of awe. Awe that burrows itself in his chest and leaves no room for fear.

He swallows hard.

Your body doesn’t convulse. There’s no violent jerk or grotesque movement. The regeneration is quiet, solemn. A biological process, he supposes. Already, the strands are reaching one another, brushing together with cautious, delicate touches, then winding tighter, almost tenderly. They pulse faintly, like breath, and begin pulling.

Kazu feels his heart hammer once, painfully.

"You know what they are, right?" Tarin’s voice had cracked, caught somewhere between incredulity and desperation, his heel scraping backward in the dirt. He’d raised his bloodied hands, as if it could stall what was already coming. “I’m doing you a favor, Kazu! Why are you looking at me like that?!”

He tried to justify it, even then. As if mere words could scrub clean the horror written into the scene. What was already done is irreversible. Kazu knew what you were—what the Guild would call you if words got out: abomination, liability, target. Tarin had only acted accordingly. Kazu understood that. But he didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Not since meeting you. He's been defying his duties as a monster hunter for a while now.

The moment he turned a blind eye to the odd cadence in your steps. The moment he started making sure you slept first during rotation shifts. The moment he adjusted your cloak in the rain— even to the moment he stitched your arm himself after a raid and muttered about how “lucky” you were to heal so well. Each choice he's since made was a quiet defection to everything he's ever known.

In the past, he used to tell himself it was only tactical patience—that he was only waiting for you to slip—but deep down, he knew the truth: he had already chosen you over the Guild a long time ago.

Kazu drops to one knee again, carefully, the ground still warm from spilled blood. His breath clouds faintly in the cooling air, though sweat dampens his collar. One leather gloved hand hovers above the rejoining strands for a moment, uncertain, then slowly lowers until his fingertips graze the dirt beside them. He doesn't dare touch the threads themselves—not out of fear, but some distorted version of worship.

You’re not screaming. You’re not writhing. Fortunately, there is no pain he can see; just a peaceful stillness still etched into your face, made grotesque only by context. Your head lies inches from reattachment, and already your body has accepted the command. Your flesh has begun to knit, slow and subtle, with a movement that feels less like tissue repairing than instinct falling into place.

A new silence has fallen. No longer one thick with death's undertones following your decapitation—a different kind; silence that watches. That waits.

Kazu briefly glances back at what remains of Tarin’s corpse. It lies a little ways off, face-down in the underbrush, half-concealed by ferns. Blood still seeps slowly from the base of his skull, forming a dark pool that soaks gradually into grass and soil. He remains motionless. Dead. No magic nor crawling resurrection to follow his current state.

It's a morbid little reminder that only confirms what Kazu already knows: some things stay dead. Other's don't.

He turns back to you. The strands have grown thicker now, winding together in wet coils, anchoring your spine to itself. There’s no tearing or tension, only seamless reconnection. A seam being steadily stitched close. The process itself is as meticulous as it is surreal—terrifying only in its elegance.

Kazu breathes in, slow. The iron stink of blood hangs sharp in his nose, but beneath it—faint and earthy, something else has begun to rise: a fungal note, rich and wet. Mycelial. That’s what it reminds him of. He wonders if this is the smell of the forest reclaiming its own.

Had he half a mind, he would be preparing to put you down properly. He would be finishing it—ending this with the same mechanical efficiency he'd shown Tarin. That would be the clean answer. The right one.

But at this point? He's far from sane.

So he lowers himself until he’s sitting cross-legged beside you, if only just to keep watch—not protectively, not yet. Curiously. He's decided to be a witness of what comes next. You’ll wake soon. He knows this the same way he knows how to draw a blade—instinctively. Maybe, somewhere along the way, your rhythms had long since wounded themselves into his own.

He waits only a moment longer, watching the fleshy threads draw closed like the last pull of a careful stitch. It’s not done—not fully, not yet—but it’s enough. The connection has been made. The rest, he knows, is just time. Time and care.

Kazu breathes out, steadies himself, then moves.

The act of gathering you is delicate and measured, you deserve that much. He starts with your head, fingers careful as they cradle it. He lifts it slowly, keeping it level, letting the organic threads still connecting you stretch rather than break. The strands are wet and pale and flex like tendon, but they don’t resist him. They yield, slackening just enough to accommodate his movement. He cups your cheek with one thumb, brushing away a smear of dried blood with the edge of a knuckle, and carefully presses your head against his chest—one arm wrapped beneath it, supporting the base.

Your body comes next.

He shifts to crouch beside it, lifting your shoulders first and then your torso, careful to keep you aligned. Your limbs dangle limply, like a doll’s. Too limp. He doesn’t like that. So he adjusts your arms—folds one across your abdomen, the other beneath it. There you go. That’s better.

You’re not heavy. That's not it. If anything, you feel too light—too insubstantial for something that had the chance to end him—for someone who’s become the axis around which everything else revolves. It unsettles him, this frailty. The soft quietness of your breathing, the looming sense that your body is only borrowing time. That, he thinks, has always been what terrifies him most.

Still, he keeps you close. Closer than necessary, really. He doesn’t realize how tight his arms have wound around you until a twig cracks beneath his foot, snapping him forward, and instinct tightens his grip without thinking.

“…Tch.” He exhales through his teeth, readjusts, and moves.

You don’t stir then.

..Good. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

The place he takes you isn’t far—just a small cave set into the hillside, shallow but sheltered, obscured by a veil of hanging roots and vine. He's camped there before, some years prior to meeting you. It's a fallback spot for poor weather or retreat—dry, cool, defensible.

He moves quietly, despite the burden in his arms. The weight of you—your blood-soaked cloak, your slack limbs, the faint warmth of your head resting against his shoulder—ought to unnerve him, truthfully. Would've for any other person. Instead, it calms him in a way he can’t fully explain, something about it steadying. Grounding.

Once inside, he lays you down as though you are a relic he dare not mar. Which, of course you are.

The coat goes first—spread out neatly across the stone floor like a makeshift bedroll. He carefully lowers you onto it, adjusting the angle of your head so it rests aligned with your spine, his fingers subtly tucking the cords that have begun to fuse along your neck. He doesn’t rush nor fumble. Each motion is deliberate. Intimate, in a way.

A small fire follows, meant only to sterilize. He sets water to boil, sprinkling in dried herbs from his pouch. Pinebark and feverleaf rise on the steam, filling the cave. When he comes back to you, he’s stripped his gloves, sleeves cuffed past his elbows. None of the marks matter. He’d earn a thousand more to ensure this never repeats.

Barehanded now, he works quickly: he unclasps his satchel, retrieves the sterilizing tincture, and the few supplies he’s hoarded over months—not Guild issue, but things he stole from clinics, traded for in hushed corners of waystations.

Not for himself.

He dips the cloth into the cold, astringent-smelling brew, then presses it to your skin, wiping along the raw edges of your neck where the muscle jerks in shallow pulses.

His hand trembles once before he steadies it. “No sign of infection,” he mutters, almost trying to convince himself, “Tissue’s holding... good.”

He doesn’t look at your face right away. His focus stays on the mechanics—cleansing the blood, wiping away the dirt that clings in the creases of your skin like soot.

It isn’t until he’s halfway through cleaning your chest—until the worst of the blood has been cleared and your breathing, though shallow, has steadied—that his gaze finally rises. He looks at you then—really looks.

Something in him pulls taut.

Your face is still slack with unconsciousness, and although you're still alive—still breathing, that peaceful, calm expression you wear only reminds him of the dead. He stares for a long moment, fingers stilled, cloth limp in one hand. A breath catches in his throat and shaky upon its release. He leans back on his heels.

“You idiot,” he breathes, barely audible. "reckless, stupid thing…”

The senseless accusation lingers for only a moment before it turns back on him like a blade flipped in reverse. He exhales a bitter, humorless laugh, and his fingers slip through your hair, combing gently through the blood-matted strands.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “That’s not fair, is it?” his hand stills. “You didn’t let him. I did.”

The truth of it hits like a punch to the chest. His other hand drops to the ground beside you, palm flat against the blood that stains the moss in dark, drying patches. His hand finds the ground there, steadying himself from the slow press of something he doesn’t want to name.

What really gnaws at him—was that he had known. A part of him had, from the very moment he noticed Tarin eyeing you with that predatory gaze barely hidden beneath all his easy charm.

Just like Kazu had, Tarin saw right through your disguise.

It wasn't hard to tell he knew; the tilt of his stance, the angle of his questions—how his eyes had lingered when they shouldn't. He'd notice it all, every single fraction of a second he laid his eyes on the other hunter.

And yet, he let it slide.

He’d told himself it wasn’t worth drawing blood over, that keeping things civil was smarter, that he could control the space between you, that Tarin wasn’t foolish enough to try anything while Kazu was watching.

Ultimately, he just hadn't been watching close enough.

Look where that got him now.

This wasn't a slip, the same way it isn't an accident of timing or tactics, or a failure borne of his oversight.

He made a conscious choice that let someone close enough to hurt you.

Worse than that—he had stood there, thinking he could afford to wait, as if mere caution and observation on his part would be enough. He'd seen the warning signs, knew something was wrong—but didn't act.

He gave Tarin the chance to strike.

He nearly let you die.

For a moment, Kazu is no different from a statue. When he moves again, it's to pull his blanket free, gently spread it over you to keep your limbs from cooling, then sit behind you, cross-legged once more, your head resting just inches from his thigh.

He says nothing when he reaches out, brushing a thread from your cheek. It sticks faintly to his skin—warm, damp, fragile. It reminds him of the way veins are fragile. The way hearts are.

His eyes linger for a moment, and it occurs to him, distantly: he has never seen you look so peaceful.

A flicker of something wicked twists behind his ribs.

“Whatever you are,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the lines of your skin, to the rise and fall of your chest.

“Abomination. Anomaly. Miracle.” his voice sinks, “It doesn’t change anything." he murmurs, barely any louder than a whisper. “You’re still mine.”

He doesn’t realize his hand is still resting against your cheek until the heat of your skin begins to seep through his callused palm, a fragile pulse beneath the thin layer of tissue that has only just begun to re-knit. The contact is absurdly intimate, out of place with the sterile logic he ought to be clinging to—yet he makes no move to withdraw. His thumb drags a slow path across the arch of your cheekbone, feeling the slick tack of drying blood in its wake, and something within him twists so sharply it feels like it might split him down the center.

Minutes drag by. He busies himself with small, necessary things—tending the fire, re-wetting the cloth to dab again at the edges of your wound, checking the pulse in your throat. Each motion is clinical, precise, but beneath the practiced detachment there is a relentless, gnawing preoccupation: the certainty that nothing he does will ever be enough.

He cannot clean you of what you are any more than he can scrub his own hands free of everything he’s done.

The threads at your neck have begun to thicken, taking on a denser, more opaque color, darkening where they knit themselves deeper into muscle. If he listens closely, he can hear the tiny, wet sounds of regeneration: soft clicks and damp little pops, like raw wood splitting under slow pressure. When he glances at your face, your lashes have begun to twitch, small spasms that hint at returning consciousness. He doesn’t know if he hopes you will wake soon or if he dreads it.

With a quiet exhale, he presses the back of his wrist to your cheek—testing for fever, but also reassuring himself that you’re still warm. Still here. Your skin is cool, but not dangerously so, the faint heat of life still pulsing beneath it. He lets his hand linger, thumb brushing the fine edge of your jaw. The sensation grounds him, a tactile proof that you are no phantom.

His mouth is dry. The fire flickers, sending restless shadows crawling up the cave walls—sharp and wavering and alive in a way he feels he no longer is. He wonders, distantly, what this will mean when you wake. Whether you’ll remember what happened, whether you’ll understand that even now he can’t make himself finish it—can’t do the thing he’s been trained to do all his life.

That thought alone leaves him feeling raw, skinless, like every inch of him has been scraped open to the air. He shifts, letting his palm fall away to rest on the edge of the blanket, careful not to disturb the delicate strands still knitting your throat together. The mycelial cords flex with each subtle movement of your pulse—faint but steady, an undeniable proof of life. It feels profane to look at it so closely, yet he can’t look away.

He can’t help but think how grotesquely beautiful it is—this process by which you refuse to stay dead. There’s a gentleness to it that’s worse than any horror, a quiet certainty in the way your body repairs itself. He finds himself thinking if you even need him here, or if you’d have reassembled yourself just the same whether or not he’d laid a hand on you.

Kazu draws in a slow breath, feeling the way it catches on something heavy in his chest. He rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though he could physically dislodge the ache lodged deep in his chest.

Outside, night is falling properly now, blue darkness pooling between the trees like ink poured over the land. The fire offers only a small radius of light, and beyond it, the forest waits, unknowable. He tries to tell himself that’s what he’s listening for—any sign of pursuit, any consequence to what he’s done—but it’s a lie.

The only thing he’s listening to is you.

Your breathing is shallow but even, and every time your chest rises, it loosens something tight in his throat. It is an absurd thing to feel relief over. You were decapitated, he thinks, almost distantly. You should be dead.

But you aren’t.

He wonders if you’ll hate him when you wake. If you’ll look at the corpse cooling somewhere out in the ferns and see only the hunter he used to be—see that, in some ways, he still is. He wonders if you’ll know that, if Tarin hadn’t made the first move, it might have been Kazu himself someday, blade in hand, duty outweighing anything else.

The thought makes him sick.

...He'll remember to properly dispose of that man's body later.

Slowly, he shifts to brace one arm along his bent knee, lowering himself just enough to study your face at closer range. You still carry a strange kind of innocence, even with the dried gore painting at your hairline. The pulse at your throat has steadied to something approaching normal, and he watches it a moment longer than is necessary, almost hypnotized by the fragile proof that you are here, still by his side.

He thinks of all the things he has never said aloud. The long, silent hours spent letting and watching you move ahead on the trail, cloak dragging in the underbrush, the strange pang he felt every time you glanced back to check that he was still behind you. The first time you’d laughed, soft and startled, at something he’d muttered under his breath.

He has spent too long pretending he does not care.

His hand lifts again without conscious thought, fingertips hovering just above the place where the strands of your spine have begun to fuse. He doesn't touch them. Instead, he drags his knuckles lightly along the curve of your jaw, tracing the line where skin and hair meet.

“You’re still mine,” he repeats, softer now—as if by saying it, he can bind the words into the space between you—make it something solid and undeniable. His breath trembles as he draws it in, releases it again.

He wants to tell you he’s sorry. He wants to promise he’ll never let this happen again. He wants to ask you what you truly are, to hear you answer in that low, careful voice that has always felt like a secret kept just for him.

But none of it comes out.

And as if in surrender, he leans forward until his forehead brushes lightly against yours. The contact is brief, the barest graze of skin, but it leaves him feeling stripped to the bone. His eyes close. For a moment, he lets himself imagine that this is something he deserves—that whatever you are, there is still something between you worth holding onto.

When he pulls back, your breathing hasn’t changed. You don’t stir. The cords at your throat flex faintly, still working to mend the last of the damage. Kazu watches them, feeling a strange kind of astonishment hollow him out.

His hand drifts to the blanket covering your chest, smoothing it once before falling away. He doesn’t move to clean himself—doesn’t bother with the blood drying in cracked lines across his skin. It feels almost appropriate that he should wear it, like a mark of what he’s chosen.

He settles in behind you again, one knee drawn up so he can rest his elbow across it, keeping his weight low. His gaze never leaves your face. If anything comes for you now—guild enforcers, scavengers, the rot of his own conscience—he’ll be there to look out for you.

His thoughts continue to circle, uncapable of settling. He thinks of Tarin’s final expression—shock, confusion, that flicker of something almost plaintive. The moment the blade went in, all that pretense had dropped away, leaving only the raw human panic of a person who realized too late that he’d overplayed his hand. Kazu wonders if, in that last instant, Tarin understood how inevitable it had been.

He almost hopes he did.

But then his gaze returns to you, and all that grim satisfaction curdles back into a softer feeling, sick with regret. He can’t pretend this was only vengeance—that it was only Tarin’s death he’d chosen, because in that split second, Kazu had decided to kill for you, to do whatever it took to keep you breathing—even if the price was the last of whatever loyalty he still owed to his old life.

He sighs, dragging a hand over his mouth. His throat feels dry, scraped raw from the inside.

Your breathing hitches.

The first sign is so slight he nearly misses it: a faint flex of your fingers, the slow curl of one hand against your chest. Your eyelids flutter again—this time not a spasm.

Kazu’s heart lurches. His hand drops back to your shoulder, steadying himself more than steadying you. For the first time since he laid you in this cave, he feels an honest surge of relief—hot and almost painful in its intensity.

Your head shifts against the folded edge of the blanket. The damp strands bridging your neck flex wetly as you move. A thin sound escapes your throat—an unformed, husky exhalation—and then your eyes crack open, unfocused and glassy.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it shakily rushes out of him.

You blink, once, slowly. Your pupils contract against the dim firelight, tracking with a sluggish, dreamlike quality. He waits, afraid to speak, afraid that if he breaks the silence you’ll reveal yourself as simply some illusion conjured by the exhaustion and grief of his mind.

But you don’t vanish.

Your gaze drags over the cave, then over yourself—taking in the state of your body, the stitched line of tissue at your neck. Your brows knit faintly, as if puzzled, though there is no immediate panic. He wonders if you’re even fully aware yet of what happened.

Your eyes finally find his.

It feels, absurdly, like impact—like being struck square in the chest. Even half-lucid, you still look at him with earnestness in your gaze—death, blood, the sheer monstrous fact of your survival somehow only sharpening the terrible softness within your eyes.

Kazu wets his lips. His voice feels terribly rusted when he tries to speak.

“You’re awake,” he says. It sounds too small and inadequate for what this moment should be.

Your mouth moves as though you mean to answer. No words come, only a rasping breath. You try again, throat working. He can see your confusion sharpening, awareness creeping back in, and with it, the knowledge of how close you came to ending.

Guilt coils through his gut like a python, twisting until he has to drop his gaze to your chest, to the quiet lift and fall of your breathing. He can’t look at your eyes any longer—he can’t bear to see recognition bloom into fear or accusation.

He feels your hand shift, clumsily reaching out. It lands against the fold of his coat draped over you, your fingers twitching weakly. You don’t try to push yourself upright and a part of him is unspeakably grateful for that. He doesn’t think he could stand to watch you strain right now.

Your fingers curl into the cloth, like you need something—an anchor.

He understands. He feels it, too.

Kazu exhales, long and low. Slowly, he slides his hand back to yours, covering it with his palm. He doesn’t dare squeeze, afraid of jarring your freshly-mended body, but he holds you there, offering what he can.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, some pathetic bastard of a promise and confession. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

Safe, he thinks, but the word tastes like a lie. Nothing is safe anymore. Not you. Not him. Not whatever life might await you on the other side of this cave, if word ever get out of your true nature.

Still, looking down at your hand in his, he knows there’s no part of him that regrets it.

He would do it again, a thousand times.

He shifts and lowers himself further until he’s leaning over you, so you don’t have to strain to see his face. He doesn’t bother to hide the weariness there, nor the raw, inexplicable tenderness that tightens his throat when he meets your eyes.

“Rest,” he murmurs, softer than before, his thumb brushing across the line of your knuckles. “I’ll keep watch.”

Kazu doesn’t say the rest—that he’ll keep watch as long as it takes—that he'll be here, whether you wake in ten minutes or ten hours. After all, he's already surrendered something of himself to you, something that can never be reclaimed, and he is too exhausted to pretend otherwise. In the quiet ruin of this night, he's found something steadier than loyalty or duty—a need so profound it no longer has the shape of desire but of inevitability.

You are his now, the same way he is yours—whichever way the claim runs doesn’t matter. Oath or confession, no words he can dredge up will ever be large enough to encompass the gravity of what he feels.

That is why he sits here, beside you in the dim light. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in an unthinking rhythm, memorizing the minute twitches of your fingers as sensation returns. The world has shrunk to this single point of contact, the slight give of your knuckles beneath his touch, the fragile heat that reassures him you are still real.

He wonders, distantly, whether this is what it feels like to be damned—if damnation is nothing more than the recognition that you will choose the same person, over and over, no matter how much it costs you.

He lets the thought settle, heavy as wet earth in his chest, and feels something give way beneath it—quiet and inexorable. Your breathing evens out by degrees, the shallow hitch smoothing into a steadier rhythm, and he watches each rise and fall of your chest as if it alone could anchor him to what remains of his purpose. The fire has burned low, shadows lapping at the edges of the cave like dark water, but he makes no move to feed it yet. He can’t bear to break the quiet that has settled between you.

In this thin margin of time—after violence, before consequence—he allows himself to believe that nothing else matters—that if you open your eyes again and call him by name, it will be enough to absolve every sin trailing behind him like a long, bloody wake.

His hand tightens fractionally over yours, thumb sweeping a final, trembling arc across your knuckles.

If it is damnation, so be it. If this is the price—this ruinous devotion, this soft annihilation of everything he once thought he was—he will pay it gladly.

When the fire gutters low and the dark presses in, when the guild’s retribution finally comes to collect what he has stolen, he will not run. He will not yield you up to them, or to any other power that dares claim the right to unmake you.

He will be the last line between you and every blade that would see you undone.

You’d expected things to shift once you crossed that line. But you hadn’t expected it to change like this. As sweet and intoxicating as it is, it scares you. The one constant in your life, the one who always grounded you - your relationship with him is shifting too quickly, like a pendulum reaching its tipping point.

You turn your head to view his sleeping profile comfortably. His brown hair falls onto his smooth, convex forehead while his long eyelashes are shut closed. His sharp nose lets out deep, rhythmical breathing, and his pink lips are slightly parted.

He’s so sound asleep that it’s endearing.

You wonder how he’s so comfortable with this sudden change.

You slowly free one hand from under his arm and brush a few loose strands of hair from his face.

Then you lean in and press a soft kiss to his nose.

His arms tighten around you in response.

“…!”

You blink, startled, as he lets out a low groan and pulls you closer, your face pressed to the curve of his neck as he exhales deeply into your hair. The scent of his skin, warm and familiar, fills your lungs, and the heat of his bare body radiates into yours. It’s grounding and dizzying all at once.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” You murmur, lifting your face slightly so as you don’t mumble into his skin. You note the hoarseness of your voice with a wince.

“…Don’t worry about it” He half-sighs, half-murmurs, voice rough and low with sleep. His hand finds your hair, stroking gently. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah?” you reply, but it comes out more like a question.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

He pulls back, searching your face with eyes so soft they almost seem liquid - amethyst with a touch of gold. When you meet his gaze, his smile blooms, and he leans in for a quick peck. It’s featherlight, but it sets your heart fluttering.

“Well… I sound like a monster.” You say. Your voice is so croaky you almost don’t remember what you usually sound like.

He chuckles. “You need hot tea. Anything else?”

You shift under the sheets, stretching slightly. Your body aches here and there, but nothing sharp or unbearable.

“I don’t think so… just a bit sore.”

“That’s good. I was worried I went overboard…”His voice is so gentle, it almost vibrates through you. “Was it okay?”

“It was… good.”

Your cheeks flush even as you say it, suddenly shy.

“Really?” he says, breaking into a wide, gummy grin.

You nod.

“I loved it too.” He says, his voice catching like he’s overwhelmed. He pulls you even closer - the way he presses into you and tangles his limbs with yours - it’s like he’s trying to figure out a way to merge into you. “It was amazing.”

He starts to shower your face with kisses. From your forehead to your fluttering eyelids, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks, everywhere.

You can’t help the smile that creeps up your face as he does it.

“Hey, your stubble burns-” you grumble, rubbing your finger against his chin to prove your point.

“This, pipsqueak, is what you call the epitome of manhood.”

You roll your eyes. He’s winding up to say something cocky again. You try to pull your hand back, but he catches it and presses it against his jaw.

“Now why’re you making that face? You were happy about my manhood last night, when I made you cum so hard, so many-“

You place both of your hands on his mouth to get him to shut up. Your face is burning while Caleb bursts into laughter, pulling you tighter by the waist.

“Have some decency, Caleb.”

“My bad. My bad.”

His deep chuckle vibrates through your chest. He cups your face, this time finding your lips. You trade soft, teasing kisses, like baby birds pecking, until each one grows longer, more tender, melting into the next until you’re breathless, dazed and drunk.

The way his soft lips suction yours - it’s strangely addictive.

The atmosphere soon becomes heated like the night before. You meet his dark eyes again and feel yourself getting swept up in it. You also notice something hard and heavy resting against your thigh.

But you also remember-

“Wait-“

As Caleb comes in to kiss you one more time, angling his face like he means it, you place a hand on his muscular shoulder and push him gently.

“What time is it?” You say out loud.

You ignore his weight on your collarbone as he huffs and rests his head on it, as you twist to reach your phone on the nightstand. His large, calloused hands strokes lazily at your waist.

“It’s one in the afternoon!” You exclaim, looking at the time on the screen.

You pat his back. He doesn’t budge, face still buried in your shoulder.

“Caleb get up. We both have classes at two.”

You stroke his shoulders, down past his shoulder blades to his back in big motions - an attempt at being tender with him. You feel his muscles twitch under your palm.

Suddenly, he bursts up from bed, lifting you with him so you straddle him like a child.

You let out a small sound as you hang onto his neck for dear life. Your head grazes against the ceiling as Caleb stands on the bed, like it’s a podium, and he’s the gold medalist.

“Since we are running out of time, I’ll be pipsqueak’s personal maid today. How about we shower together first?”

You pinch his cheek as he leans in to kiss you again, stepping off the bed and striding toward the bathroom.

“I think this maid is full of ulterior motives.” You say, as you feel something hard bump against your ass with each step.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You hear him merrily hum a familiar tune - his favorite rock band song - as he lets you down.

You absentmindedly turn around to view your reflection in the bathroom mirror - and gasp.

You look terrible. Your face is swollen, your hair, which dried haphazardly while you were in various unnatural positions, is a mess, your lips looks like it was stung by a bee, and red and purple marks bloom across your skin - on your thighs all the way up to your neck.

You look towards the cause of it all - standing behind you, now silent and gauging your reaction through the mirror - and you can hear the gears in his head turn as he searches for the right answer to give you.

“…It looks good on you?”

“How am I supposed to go to swim practice like this?”

“…Sorry,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you close. “I got carried away. I won’t do it again.” He kisses your neck between words. “Will you forgive me?”

As you feel his hot breath on your sensitive skin, any complaints you had at the tip of your tongue fly away like the puffs of a dandelion.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

You stare absentmindedly at the blackboard at the front of the lecture hall.

You ended up kissing Caleb - fervently, desperately - and getting each other off in the shower, again.

You feel like your brain is fried.

Surely you must’ve gotten dumber.

You sigh and drink hot tea from your stainless water bottle - something Caleb was adamant on packing for you, alongside a simple sandwich - before the two of you left the house.

Speak of the devil - your phone screen lights up as a new message arrives from him.

[Listen well in class :D And let me know if you feel off or anything, ok?]

You smile and type in a simple reply.

[ok <3]

Then you notice a message from Ethan. It’s from yesterday.

[Did you get home ok?]

It must’ve arrived shortly after you arrived home, but you were busy up until now doing… other things. You shortly pause before sending a reply.

[Sorry, just saw this. Yeah, you?]

His response is crazy fast. You see it turn read as soon as you send it.

[Yeah. I mean, you dropped me off. lol]

Another message piles below.

[It was fun. We should hang out again some time :)]

You notice the professor walk up to the podium and start the lecture.

You rapidly send a reply and tuck your phone in your bag.

[Yeah me too. Sure!]

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

You internally groan as the professor announces a team project due during midterms. As if echoing your soul, a collective groan ripples through the classroom.

When class ends, you agree to partner up with the only two friends you’ve made in your major - both seated next to you.

“It’s a tough schedule. How about we just get it over with this week?”

You nod, and the three of you decide to meet during the shared free period.

You head to the library together, bags slung over your shoulders.

“By the way Y/N, isn’t it way too early to wear turtle neck?” One of them tell you as you leave the lecture hall. “Aren’t you hot?”

“Not really. I have-” You cough to make it sound believable. “-a cold.”

“Tell me about it. You sound like a witch.”

You gape at her. She laughs at your expression.

“It’s not that bad?” You ask, in your defense.

“It might be a slight exaggeration.”

As you walk, you notice your phone lighting up with Caleb’s name on it. You pick up the phone while your friends talk about something involving class.

“Hello?”

[Done with class pipsqueak?]

His voice has a bright, excited edge to it.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

[Where are you? I’ll head over.]

“I’m heading with my friends to the Auburn Library. You don’t need to come?”

[…Right. What about after your physics class? Should we get dinner out?]

“I might have dinner with my friends. We need to talk about a group project. Besides, don’t we usually get dinner separately on Mondays? I’ll see you at home?”

[Sure. Okay then. See you at home.]

You note the slight fall of his tone.

“Yeah, see you.”

You end the call to see both your friends looking at you with great interest.

“Who’s that?” One of them asks.

“My brother-”

You awkwardly pause mid-sentence. Flashes of skin on skin intrude your mind.

Brother? Step-brother? boyfriend?

You stare back at their puzzled looks as you swallow down the guilt and force the sentence out.

“Yeah, my brother. He was just asking about dinner.”

“You’re so lucky.” Your friend sighs. “My brother wouldn’t care less if I starved on the street. You guys are, like, really close huh?”

“…Yeah. I guess so.”

You manage a smile and the conversation moves on.

The heat you get swept up in when you’re with him, and the ice cold plunge when you have to talk about what the two of you are.

You wonder if you’ll ever stop flinching at the difference.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Caleb is already home when you arrive - typing on his laptop on the couch with the TV on, its noise barely filling the space. He looks up the moment you walk in.

“Hey,” you say, smiling.

“Hey. Busy day, huh?”

You drop your bag and stretch, yawning. “Tell me about it. Group project stuff took forever. I might have to meet up with them a few more times this week.”

He hums in response.

You head to the kitchen to get some water, phone in hand.

You smile at some random picture your classmate sent you in the group project chat, while pouring yourself a glass of water.

You nearly drop the glass you’re about to drink when you feel Caleb’s arms wrapping around you gently.

When did he get this close? You didn’t hear a thing.

“Next time, call me if it gets too late. I’ll come get you.”

He says, mouth close to your ear. You feel his chest flush against your back.

“I shared an uber with my friend. It’s fine, she lives near by. I don’t want to bother you.”

You turn around to meet his eyes. He shifts his hands so that they rest on the counter, enclosing you between.

“Not calling me bothers me more,” he says, voice low. “I was worried. You know how dangerous it gets out there this late. Plus, you aren’t exactly in the best condition.”

“I texted you that I was riding with her,” you reply, your tone flat - just bordering on defensive.

His eyes turn few degrees colder.

“Seconds before getting in the car,” he says quietly. “After hours of silence. Might I add.”

“I was working on the project.”

You frown. He doesn’t usually make an issue out of this.

You try to brush it off and move past him, but his hand catches your wrist before you can.

He turns you gently - but firmly - back around.

“Caleb,” you say, the irritation slipping into your voice. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

He scoffs softly, shaking his head.

A bitter smile tugs at his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You know… I’m thinking maybe I’m the only one who can’t stop thinking about yesterday.”

His gaze is fixed on you - earnest and intense - maybe a little too much.

“I want to be with you all the time. Every second. But maybe…” he trails off, voice lowering, “you don’t feel the same.”

You exhale, chest tightening.

“That’s not true,” you say gently. “I just… I had things to do. It doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you.”

He studies you for a beat longer, then finally steps back with a short sigh.

“Sorry, pips. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine.” You say, this time reaching out to lace your fingers with his, to which he flinches ever so slightly.

You take this opportunity to speak out about what’s been on your mind.

“I just… feel like I can’t keep up either.”

His brows knit, gaze softening with concern.

“With the pace of all this,” you add. “I mean, we’ve known each other for ten years. And now suddenly… everything’s different. You seem so sure, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But for me…”

You trail off, unsure how to put it into words.

Caleb squeezes your hand gently.

“You think this is fast?” he repeats, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “If I told you I’ve been holding back more than you can imagine… how would you feel about that?”

“…You’re holding back?” you echo, eyes widening slightly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you against him. You feel it immediately - his arousal, solid and unmistakable, pressing into your stomach. The sheer rawness of it heats you up in an instant.

“I get like this just from thinking about you,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice low and sinful, almost reverent.

Like a prayer, or a confession.

You swallow. “Since when?”

He pauses.

“…Would it matter?” he says at last. “But after last night… it’s like I can’t think straight anymore.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

You feel yourself slipping into the grasps of his deep, intoxicating gaze.

“Won’t you take responsibility?”

His voice is low. Though its melody is wrapped in devotion, its content is daring.

You nod. For some reason you’re trembling from anticipation.

He looks at you, waiting.

Hesitant, you lean in and press your lips to his.

He deepens the kiss instantly. He grabs your chin and angles it to lock you in place.

The kiss is more like a statement than a tender act.

But for some reason it gets you riled up.

You moan, shamelessly against his mouth, to which he answers with a deep, aching sound of his own.

You stagger back until your knees bump against the edge of the couch. You sink into it, breathless, while he leans over you, still pressing you in with a relentless kiss.

You break the contact with a gasp, lungs burning, chest rising and falling like you’ve just surfaced from underwater.

But he leans in again, chasing your mouth like he can’t bear the distance. You quickly press a hand to his chest, pushing him back.

You meet his eyes that are a little bit too focused and dark, again, like the first time you kissed him. That undercurrent of hunger that feels deeper than just desire.

Though he’s usually easy going, you’ve started to notice that he gets uncharacteristically intense every time things get heated up.

Dazed, your breath still ragged, you stare at him. And, as if he can’t wait, he urgently brings his mouth to your ears to suck them tenderly.

“Mm- Caleb…”

Your voice trembles as your fingers clutch his shoulders, body melting back into the cushions.

Then, as if the angle isn’t good enough for him, he shifts. In one smooth motion, he pulls you forward and settles onto the couch, rearranging you until you’re straddling him, chest to chest.

You jolt as his rock hard erection grinds into your groin.

You look down to see the grey fabric of his sweatpants visibly damp - darkened from how badly he wants you.

With his mouth still on your ear, warm, wet, and unrelenting, you impulsively bring your hand down and palm him over his sweatpants, fingers pressing into the shape of him. He lets out a sharp, choked moan that borders on a whimper.

Encouraged, you knead him slowly, feeling the way he twitches in your grasp. His breath stutters, and his head drops to your shoulder, lips grazing your skin as he pants.

You tug lightly at the waistband of his sweats. Caleb lifts his hips slightly, helping you, and with one motion, you pull them down.

His leaking length springs free, already flushed and leaking.

You're used to the sight of him now, but it still makes your breath catch.

You wrap your hand around the base, slicking him with the precum that beads at the tip, gliding your fingers up and down in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

The way he moans, and how his hips buck ever so slightly into your hand - how he’s so responsive to you - it makes something twist warmly inside your chest.

You find yourself wanting to do more.

Your knees hit the floor.

And, as if in a trance, you shift forward, settling between his spread thighs. Your hand wraps around the base, tentative but curiously.

A shaky exhale bursts out from above.

You look up to see him looking down at you, face flushed with surprise, and, beneath that, pure excitement at what you’re about to do.

It’s contagious.

He runs a hand through your hair, slow and gentle.

And, as if that’s a sign, tilt his length toward your mouth, heart hammering, and lean in.

Your tongue flicks out in one slow stroke across the tip, catching the slick liquid beading there. It tastes salty.

“Ah-“

His body jolts, head tipping back as his fingers tighten around your hair.

You do it again, licking him like a treat you don’t know how to eat yet. You circle the tip with your tongue, then press into it and grind slowly.

It draws a long, breathy moan from deep in his chest.

“Stop teasing, pips… I’m gonna lose it,” he pants, his voice thick and strained with restraint.

You hesitate for only a second before parting your lips and leaning in.

He’s thick - so much so that your jaw stretches uncomfortably as you take him halfway in. You pause there, unsure, your breath catching around him.

Above you, Caleb lets out a low chuckle, warm and steady. His tone softens.

“Move your head. Up and down.”

You follow his guidance, sliding back to the tip before pushing forward again, adjusting to the rhythm.

“No teeth,” he murmurs, gently.

You shift your lips, curling them more snugly around him, taking the correction without protest.

His hands slip beneath your arms.

Before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly and settles you into his lap, straddling him.

“Let’s try with fingers first,” he says with a quiet smile. “Yeah?”

He brings his index and middle finger up to your face. You know what he means. You open your mouth, eyes locked on his.

His gaze flickers hungrily and dangerously.

He slides his fingers in, and you begin to suck, slowly mimicking what you just did.

You coat his fingers in your saliva, curling your lips carefully, sliding back and forth.

“Curl your lips so that your teeth aren’t touching… yeah… just like that… and suck it back and forth…”

He pushes deeper, and you gag faintly, breath hitching.

“Angle your head like this-“ He tilts your chin slightly, then strokes the front of your neck with his other hand. “Open your throat.” Your breath stutters around his fingers as they slide in deeper. Drool slips past your lips, dripping down your chin.

“Good girl.”

He says, voice low, pulling back with a wet pop.

Then he guides you back down between his legs.

As he gently grips the loose end of your hair and holds it back, you swallow his length gladly.

A loud moan escapes his lips as his hips jerk forward instinctively. His tip hits the back of your throat and you gag, eyes watering. With deep breaths escaping your nose, you angle your head and open up like he just taught you, and begin sucking.

“Ah-”

His hand fists your hair roughly like it’s life support.

You start to move - bobbing slowly at first, then faster as he begins to pant above you.

“This, feels, too, good- I can’t-”

Caleb murmurs through each pant of air.

The neediness in his voice is contagious. You move with bigger enthusiasm, determined to make him feel good, and your throat spasms and groans with each deep bob of the head.

“Ah-”

Like a reward, a large, long moan emits from Caleb. You feel your jaw ache, tears prick at your eyes - but you hold on.

Through the frenzy of it, you try to wrap your tongue around the bottom.

As if it’s a trigger, Caleb roughly attempts to pull out to cum. But you, caught up in your own heat, roughly grab his length and hold it in your mouth - to which he whimpers in surprise - and hot, thick spurts flood your throat, coating you with each pulse, to which you swallow desperately to keep up.

You feel his thighs twitch violently as you take it all.

When he finally pulls back, the last of his load pools heavy on your tongue, its remnants dripping out and drooling down your chin messily.

You wipe the remnants with the back of your hand and look up.

You meet eyes with Caleb, panting, surprised, his eyes dark, languid, and completely undone.

You feel your body trembling from the desire coursing through your veins. It’s strange. Even though you’re the one who sucked him up, it’s like you were on the receiving end of it.

He brings you onto his lap with both arms and pulls you closely, noses touching.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He whispers to you while combing through your hair with his fingers.

“I wanted to.”

You say as you meet his eyes and suck on his remnants on the back of your hand, clean.

Caleb’s eyes flicker, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. With a small sound from the back of his throat, he rapidly leans in and starts kissing you tenderly.

You pant into the kiss as he presses a hand to the small of your back, your stomach meeting his with no space between.

His hands wander down to the zipper of your pants.

“Ah-”

Your hips twitch beneath the faintest graze of his knuckles.

He pulls back urgently and whispers hot breath into your ear.

“Let’s go for round two tonight. Yeah?”

You nod, just as his lips find yours again and swallows it whole, and feel his raw desire mix and merge with yours.

You thought Caleb was your anchor. Steady, selfless, always there to catch you without asking for anything in return.

But now, as you meet the full weight of his want, for the first time in your life - raw and undiluted - you feel yourself unraveling in ways you never thought possible.

Now, you’re starting to think he might not have been the hearth or the anchor after all.

He might have always been the storm. Silently brewing, and waiting. For you to give permission. And call it forth.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

Okay I'll be honest I didn't really proof read so I hope there are no typos or awkward parts. lol.

Plus, I feel like some part of it is kind of awkward? like there could've been more build up. Idk, pls tell me your thoughts :(

Hope you guys enjoyed this!!!

Will try to update at least once a week :D

Likes and comments are life <3