An exercise in poor judgment
A small Shu piece written with my oc Francesca in mind, though you're welcome to read it however you'd like.
It hits her while she's sitting on the kitchen counter.
One leg crossed over the other, cigarette burning slowly between her fingers as she watches Shu wait for the coffee to finish brewing.
He's barely moving.
One shoulder rests against the counter, his eyes half-lidded, looking as though staying awake is an inconvenience he'd rather not deal with. Every so often he reaches for the kettle, pours another splash of water into it without looking, then settles back into stillness.
He looks like he belongs there.
Which, somehow, he does now.
His records are mixed into hers. One of his jackets is hanging over the back of her couch. There’s a glass in her sink that only he uses because he says the others feel wrong, whatever that means.
That’s what scares her most.
Not the sharp glimpse of fangs when he yawns half-asleep. Not the moments where his grip tightens instinctively hard enough to remind her he could break bone if he wanted to.
No.
It’s this unbearable domesticity.
Shu opens one of her cabinets without asking, reaching for the mug he always uses. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed messily to his elbows. He looks exhausted. Comfortable.
At home.
A cold feeling suddenly settles beneath her ribs.
How stupid, she thinks.
How unbelievably, catastrophically stupid.
To let someone capable of killing her learn the layout of her apartment by memory. To let him know which floorboard creaks near her bedroom. Which lamp she never remembers to turn off. Which side of the bed she sleeps on.
To let him touch every fragile part of her life until his presence exists inside it naturally.
Her apartment. Her routines. Her body. Her heart.
What a terrible idea.
The coffee finishes dripping. Shu pours two mugs without asking whether she wants one, setting the second beside her before taking the first sip from his own
“You’re staring.”
She lets out a quiet laugh through her nose, but it sounds thinner than usual.
“I was just thinking,” she murmurs.
“That’s a first.”
She frowns immediately.
"Rude," she replies, indignant.
A quiet hum is all she gets in acknowledgment before he takes another sip of coffee.
Her gaze drifts over him slowly.
The pale throat. The tired eyes. The hands wrapped loosely around the warm ceramic. Like he isn’t something ancient enough to outlive her effortlessly.
She lets him deeper inside her life anyway.
Shu steps toward her, stopping between her knees with familiarity. One hand finds her waist automatically.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he mutters.
She looks down at him for a long moment.
How stupid, she thinks again.
To let someone who could so easily destroy her become the place she feels safest.
Her fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his sleeve.
It’s embarrassing, really.
If I had only one heartbeat left, it would belong to him.
