#inboxxx

You hadn’t planned to be alone.

Not like this.

Not with your belly round and aching, your fingers too swollen for the ring he slipped on with shaking hands that spring. Not in this creaking old house with lace curtains and porch swings and enough room for a family that hadn’t come.

The Mississippi heat hadn’t let up in weeks. It clung to your neck like grief, heavy and humid, the cicadas too loud to ignore and the crickets too quiet to trust. You moved slower now, out of necessity, not grace. The floorboards groaned beneath your bare feet as you made your way from the bed to the kitchen as if the house missed a second set of steps too.

You still caught yourself reaching for him at night.

Still caught yourself dreaming of the way he used to hold your waist like it anchored him. The way he kissed the back of your neck in the kitchen when you were stirring something sweet. How he'd whisper that you were going to be the best mother Mississippi ever saw.

He loved you.

He loved you.

Didn’t he?

But the day you sat him down, palms damp, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread, and told him you’re gonna be a father, everything shifted. Not all at once. Not with shouting or slamming doors.

Just silence.

First, he started staying late at the shop.

Then the notes stopped showing up with the groceries.

Then you woke up and he was gone.

No suitcase. No goodbye.

Just the weight of knowing his absence wasn’t an accident.

You’d told yourself it was a mistake. That maybe he was hurt. Maybe something happened. But the bank hadn’t seen him. The rail station hadn’t, either. He left. Left you.

Left this.

The whispers in town followed you like gnats. Women with their husbands at church, nodding politely, eyes drifting down to your stomach before flicking back up with something like pity, or judgment, you couldn’t quite bear to name. No one said it outright, but you heard it anyway.

Poor girl.

What a shame.

You still sat in the same pew. Still sang the hymns, even when your throat ached. Still held your chin high. But it was getting harder. Harder to feel beautiful. Harder to feel strong.

Harder to believe there’d be anything left of you once this child came into the world.

You’d made peace with that, sort of. With being a mother, even if you couldn’t be a wife.

Until the night he showed up.

It was late. So late, the world felt folded in on itself. The moderate rain only exemplified the quiet. The porch light had burned out weeks ago, and the only glow came from the oil lamp you kept near the window. The town had gone quiet save for the occasional bullfrog croaking out near the creek, and you’d just settled into your rocking chair, fingers pressing gentle circles into the small of your back, trying to coax the ache away.

Then the knock.

Soft. Barely a sound at all.

You startled.

Knocks didn’t come this time of night. Not unless someone was dead or dying. You wrapped your robe tighter and eased yourself upright, hand on the edge of your belly, heart already ticking faster.

You stood slowly, one hand on your lower back, the other braced against the wall as you moved toward the door. You didn’t bother to make yourself look presentable. Just adjusted your chest, padded barefoot to the front of the house, and peered through the fogged glass of the window beside the frame.

There was a man on your steps.

Not your husband.

A stranger.

Tall. Lean. Barely cloaked in a threadbare coat. He stood crooked against the porch railing, eyes tilted toward the sky like the rain was speaking to him. His hair was damp and clung to his forehead. His hands were empty.

You should’ve locked the door.

Should’ve turned off the light and walked back to bed.

But something in the way he looked up when you touched the knob, like he’d sensed it, like he’d been waiting, froze you in place.

You opened the door.

He didn’t move.

“Sorry to trouble ya, miss,” he said, voice rough, worn down like old gravel.

You didn’t answer.

He cleared his throat. Rain had slicked down the collar of his coat and soaked through the fabric at his shoulders.

“I ain’t askin’ for much,” he added. “Just a night. I won’t touch nothin’. I just-” He hesitated. “It’s cold.”

You looked him over.

The way he stood didn’t scream threat. Didn’t scream drunk or high or desperate. But it didn’t scream safe either. He looked pale. Tired. Gaunt in the cheeks, but not unwell. Just… small, somehow, despite his size.

You shifted. Felt the baby stir gently beneath your ribs.

He noticed.

His eyes dropped to your belly. His whole face changed. Not pity. Not disgust. Just something sharp and unfamiliar, like recognition.

“I’ll sleep on the porch,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize... I wouldn’t’ve knocked if I’d known. Honest.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then. Maybe it was the ache in your ribs. The absence of someone who should’ve been there to keep you company through all this. Maybe it was how needy he sounded. How soft his voice got when he said honest.

Or maybe it was the look he gave you when you gave him permission to step inside.

He didn’t smile.

Just nodded. Like you’d saved him from something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice almost hoarse now. “Thank ya kindly.”

You still didn’t ask his name.

You didn’t ask where he came from.

You just shut the door behind him, gestured toward the blanket chest by the hearth, and said, “There’s a quilt in there. Floor’s all I’ve got.”

He nodded again. Didn’t complain.

You watched from the corner of your eye as he lowered himself down, slow and careful, folding the blanket once before curling beneath it. No pillow, no cushion. Just wood and wool and whatever weight he’d carried in with him.

And when you eased yourself back into your rocker, listening to the soft tick of rain on the windowpanes, the baby shifted again, sharper this time. Like it knew something had changed.

You didn’t sleep well.

But when you woke the next morning, he was still there.

And that was the last night you ever spent alone.

It started with the dishes.

Not all at once. Just one plate, then another. A rhythm, like he'd done it a hundred times before. You’d woken from your afternoon nap to find the washtub full and your best rag already soaked, the scent of lye soap and something copper-tinged filling the air.

He hadn’t even looked up at first. Just kept scrubbing slow circles into a plate with that strange, methodical care of his. You’d stared at him for a full minute, waiting for him to stop, to say something, maybe even look guilty. But he didn’t. He just nodded toward the table, where he’d made a small spread of breakfast, only for you.

“Thought ya might be hungry,” he said.

That was all.

You didn’t ask him why he’d done it.

You didn’t need to.

He’d been quiet like that all week. Hovering without hovering, close but never quite imposing. You noticed the way he watched you when you moved around the house, hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t trust himself not to help too quickly. He'd fixed the door latch before you'd even thought to mention it, patched the hole in the roof where the rain got in, even dusted your kitchen shelves with one of your old slips of cloth tied around his wrist like a makeshift cuff.

You hadn’t asked for any of that either.

But maybe that was what made it bearable. Strange, yes, but not frightening. Not threatening. He wasn’t a loud man. Wasn’t messy, either. He stepped light, didn’t slam doors, always kept his boots by the back steps and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked.

You caught him at it often enough. When you were washing greens, when you were folding linens. His gaze always softened around the edges, like he was watching something breakable and didn’t trust the room to keep it safe.

At first, you’d looked away.

Now you didn’t.

You weren’t sure what changed. Only that something about the way he moved, how slow and deliberate it all was, made your chest ache in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’d forgotten what it meant to be seen without being expected to perform.

He watched you differently than your husband had. That man, gone now, though not without taking a piece of your heart with him, had looked at you with something close to love. Maybe it had been love. You still didn’t know. But there had always been a shadow in it. A hesitation. Like he was trying to hold on to who you were before. Before the baby. Before the curve of your belly started showing in every dress. Before you started humming lullabies under your breath.

He didn’t do that.

He just brought you warm water for your feet in the evening and kept the fire going when the wind picked up through the walls. He hung herbs on the porch rail to dry, even though you hadn’t taught him how. Got it wrong the first time. Rosemary bundled with sassafras, but corrected himself without complaint. He had sharp eyes. Paid attention. Knew your schedule by heart now. When you took your walks. When you liked your tea. When the baby liked to kick.

And Lord, the way he fussed over that baby.

He listened for the kicks like they were gospel. Dropped to one knee anytime you winced or shifted, one hand already hovering like he could ease the weight of your belly just by being near. He’d murmur soft nothings to it sometimes, voice low and warm as molasses. Called the baby sweetheart, sugarplum, his little dove, like it already belonged to him, like he'd been waiting for it longer than even you had.

When the baby turned in the night and made your whole spine ache, he was already there with warm cloths and gentler hands. He never made a show of it. Never asked for thanks. Just laid his hand where it hurt most and waited until your breath evened out again. Sometimes you’d wake to find him asleep beside your chair, his head resting lightly against your thigh, still half-dressed from whatever he’d been doing before he heard you stir.

He carried buckets of water in the mornings without you asking, swept the porch, patched the leaks. Cleaned the chicken coop even though he hated the smell. Anything to spare you the strain. Anything to make things easier.

And he never touched your belly without permission. Not once. Always waited for a nod, for some small sign that it was alright. Then he’d press the flat of his palm against your skin like it was sacred.

He didn’t ask for much in return.

Just to be close.

Just to stay.

It was strange, all of it.

You’d said that to yourself more than once, lying awake with your belly high and heavy under the quilt, the fire crackling low in the stove and his footsteps creaking through the kitchen. It wasn’t fear that kept you up. It wasn’t discomfort either, not exactly. It was something quieter. Thicker. A feeling like you’d wandered into someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

You’d never expected company. Not after what happened. Not after the man you married, the one you’d whispered vows with in a sun-warmed church, turned pale and silent when you told him about the child growing inside you. You weren’t stupid. You’d known it would be hard. But you hadn’t expected the look he gave you, like you’d broken something between you. And then he left. Just like that. Like the baby had made you unrecognizable.

But he didn’t seem to flinch.

He hadn’t run, hadn’t stared at your stomach like it was a problem that needed solving. Hadn’t looked past you like he was trying to remember who you used to be before the swell of your belly changed the silhouette of your body.

He just stayed.

And that was strange.

So was the way he moved through the house now, your house, though it hadn’t felt like yours in a while, with a sense of purpose that made no sense. You never asked him to scrub the floorboards or polish the handles or oil the hinges, but he did. Quietly. Methodically. Like he wanted to earn the space he took up.

Strangest of all, though, was how he spoke to your belly.

He didn’t talk to you about the baby. Not directly. But he murmured to your stomach like it was a person already. Asked questions. Told it things. Ran his hand, cool and callused, gently over the curve of you like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

“Evenin’, little one,” he’d say, crouching to place a soft kiss right above your navel after bringing you tea. “Ya givin’ your mama trouble again?”

And when the baby kicked, he lit up like a man who’d just heard the voice of God.

The first time it happened with him, just a nudge, a little flutter against your ribs, you’d gasped and pressed your palm to the spot. He'd rushed across the room with a towel in one hand and a pail in the other, dropping them both like they were meaningless and was at your side in an instant.

“Was that ‘em?” he whispered. “Did they move?”

You nodded. And he reached for your hand so gently it made your throat ache. Placed it over his own, right where your skin had jumped. You watched his eyes flicker red in the dim candlelight as he waited. Then brighter. Brighter still when the baby kicked again.

You didn’t mention the glow. Not then.

You’d noticed it before. Brief, flickering, like something hiding behind glass. His eyes weren’t blue the way other white men in town had them. They weren’t even just blue. They had depth. Layers. Like river water after a storm, with light trapped somewhere deep inside. The red only came when the light hit just right, and was brightened when he was emotional. Happy. Or upset.

Or something else.

His teeth, too, were strange. White, yes, but sharper at the corners. His canines lingered a little too long. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, they always showed just a little too much. He never seemed to eat, not really. Said he had odd hours. That his stomach didn’t take kindly to most food.

But he cooked for you. Always. Carefully. Like the act of preparing your plate meant more to him than eating his own.

All of it was strange.

But you didn’t stop him.

Because when he sat beside you and ran a hand over your belly, there was nothing selfish in it. Nothing claiming or hungry. Just awe. Just devotion.

That was the word that kept coming to mind lately. Devotion.

He followed your pace. Matched your rhythm. Learned your moods before you even knew them yourself. If you sighed, he brought a shawl. If you shifted, he offered his arm. If you cried, when the tears came without warning, in the middle of cooking or brushing your hair or just trying to read, he said nothing. Just held you. Let you soak his shoulder and said your name like it was a promise.

Sometimes you caught him watching you.

Not in a lurid way. Not even in the way your husband used to, back when things were good between you. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The way your breath hitched when you laughed. The way your ankles swelled at night. The way your fingers danced over the pages of your herbal guides even when you were too tired to really read.

You didn’t ask why he stayed.

You told yourself it was pity. Gratitude. Maybe a sense of guilt.

But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only tether he had left to something real, made you wonder.

And more than once, you found yourself leaning into him just a little longer than needed. Letting your hand rest on his when he passed you a cup. Letting the silence stretch between you when the fire burned low.

It was slow.

It was strange.

But it was real.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

It had been almost a month.

Four weeks of him sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. Of you waking up to the scent of ash and chicory. Finding the kitchen swept, the kettle hot, your shoes waiting near the door like you had a man who knew where you liked to go. Four weeks of strange cohabitation, of watching each other without asking too many questions, of wordless routines built out of necessity and slow, quiet trust.

And yet, still no names.

You knew the cadence of his footsteps. The shape of his shadow in the yard. How he always tucked his hands behind his back when he thought too hard about something. You knew the way he’d squint at the firewood pile before choosing a piece. And he knew you. When your hips started to ache. When your breathing changed. When the weight of everything, not just the baby, but the world, got too heavy and you needed silence more than you needed talk.

Still, he had never asked for your name.

And you had never asked for his.

It should’ve been strange. Should’ve felt unfinished. But it didn’t. Not really. Because whatever he was, he had never felt like a stranger. Just something old. Something waiting.

That morning, the sky had opened up with thunder and mean gray light. A storm sat heavy over the treeline, wet wind slicing through the cracks in the wood. You stood barefoot at the back door, mug in hand, and watched the trees sway like dancers out of rhythm. He was already outside, boots deep in the mud, securing the herbs he’d hung on the rail.

You saw it before he did. The string snapping, the whole bundle of thyme and yarrow whipping into the wind. He reached for it too late. You nearly called out.

But then he moved.

Fast.

Not just quick, but wrong. Not human. A blur of striped clothing and sharp motion. His feet barely touched the porch before he was in the yard again, herbs in hand.

He caught them. All of them.

And when he turned back toward the door, he looked surprised to see you watching.

His smile faltered.

But he walked toward you anyway, hands full of dripping stems and his coat soaked through to the elbows.

You opened the door.

“Got ‘em,” he said, like that explained anything.

You stepped back to let him in.

He didn’t speak again until he’d shaken the rain off his shoulders and laid the herbs gently on a dry cloth near the stove. You were still watching him. Something you’d been doing more lately. Not because he made you nervous. Not exactly.

But because you didn’t understand how someone could be so careful with the smallest things and yet move like that. Unnatural. Unsettling. And beautiful, somehow. Like a storybook thing.

He noticed your eyes. Of course he did.

“What is it?” he asked, quiet.

You didn’t lie.

“Just thinkin’ how strange this is,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “You. Me. This.”

He didn’t answer.

“You sleep in my home. You touch my things. You know how I take my tea. And I don’t even know your name.”

That made him blink.

He stood there in the center of the room, rain still clinging to his lashes, one hand trailing over the spine of a chair.

“I suppose ya don’t,” he said after a beat, almost sheepish.

You raised a brow. “What is it, then?”

He looked at you a moment longer, then stepped forward and said it in a voice like wet moss and river stones:

“Remmick.”

You let it sit between you for a second. The shape of it. Strange and clean. Like something unspoken finally made solid.

Then you nodded.

“Alright.”

He tipped his head, that small, half-hopeful smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“Ya got one for me?”

You didn’t smile back.

But you said it, soft. Like you were reminding yourself it belonged to you still.

And maybe to him now, too.

You watched the way he turned it over in his mouth after you gave it to him. Like a word he’d chew through all winter, rolling it on his tongue like a secret, like a prayer.

He said it again.

Once.

Like a promise.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache in your lower back sharper now. You pressed your hand gently to the curve of your belly. He noticed. He always noticed.

Without needing to be told, he crouched in front of you and helped guide you to the rocking chair near the stove. His hands were still cold from the rain, but his touch was steady. He adjusted the cushion. Draped a shawl over your knees. Then sat beside you on the floor, arms draped loosely over his knees like always.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The rain softened. The fire popped.

He reached toward your ankle, thumb brushing where your skin met the top of your sock. Not asking for anything. Just anchoring.

“I’m glad ya let me stay,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you reached down and covered his hand with yours.

Because somehow, so were you.

The pain started low and slow, like a tug at the deepest part of you. You were in the kitchen, barefoot and brushing dust from the windowsill, when it hit hard enough to make your breath catch. You gripped the edge of the counter, then looked down.

Water.

A slow trickle at first, then more, pooling between your feet.

You didn’t panic. Not really. You’d read enough, listened to enough, prepared enough. Still, your heart kicked up in your chest like it was trying to warn you of something big coming down the road.

And it was.

“Remmick,” you called, steady but loud enough to shake the rafters.

He was there in an instant. Not from the garden or the porch like he usually was this time of day, but already in the hallway, already moving toward you with that eerie stillness he had when he was trying not to look like he was floating.

His eyes snapped to the floor, then to your face. "It’s time?"

You nodded once, slow.

Then the contraction hit, sharp enough to knock the air from your lungs.

He caught you before your knees buckled.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. His hand was at your back, the other already slipping under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed less than the apron still tied around your waist. “I've got you.”

You didn’t ask how he moved so quick. You didn’t ask how he got the basin already filled, or how the towels had been laid out on the bed before you even stepped inside the room. You barely remembered the lamp being lit.

But it was.

Everything was ready.

Remmick had prepared.

He moved with a purpose that didn’t belong to a man who had never done this before. There was no fumbling. No panic. He worked like someone who had learned the rhythms of birth from midwives long buried, had seen a thousand labors begin and end under candlelight and wood smoke.

He guided you through it all. Let you curse and sob and grip his arms so tight you left bruises.

"Good girl,” he whispered, again and again. “You’re doin’ so good. Keep breathin’, baby. Just like that.”

You didn’t have the energy to wonder how he knew what to do. You couldn’t ask. Not with the pain hitting like waves, not with the pressure bearing down. But somewhere in the middle of the storm, when your vision blurred and your body ached in ways you didn’t know it could, his voice was still there.

Low. Calm. Constant.

“Push now. There ya go. You’re safe. I got you.”

His hands were slick with water and blood, but steady as stone. He never looked away. Not once.

And when the final push came, sharp, terrible, blinding, he caught the baby in his hands like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

There was a moment after. A long one.

Where everything stopped.

And then, the cry.

Thin, high, beautiful.

You fell back against the pillows, sobbing harder than you thought you would. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just the release of it all.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. Just held the baby in both hands, his face unreadable.

And then he looked at you.

“It’s a girl,” he whispered, voice cracked and full of something you couldn’t name. “She’s perfect.”

You let out a breath that rattled your whole body.

He brought her to you, wrapped in a cloth so soft it must’ve been hidden in the dresser for weeks. And there she was.

Dark skin. Curling hair already damp against her forehead. Tiny hands twitching with life.

And Remmick, pale, bloodstained, glowing faintly in the dim lamplight, looked down at her like she was something holy.

She was.

To you both.

His fingers shook as he touched her cheek. Shook like he wasn’t sure he deserved to, like the smallest movement might shatter the moment into pieces he couldn’t gather again. His knuckles were bloodstained, and his hand was far too large, too scarred, too rough to be so gentle, but it was. He moved like a man touching glass.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take care of ya.”

There was no promise in his voice, no boast, no plea.

Just fact.

You looked at him then. Really looked. Not through the fog of pain or the veil of exhaustion. Not with the wary glances you’d grown used to offering him in the first weeks. But truly. Fully.

His eyes were still wet. Still glowing. Not bright, not loud, but pulsing softly. Faint and sure, like something not ready to die.

His shirt clung to him in wrinkled, clumsy lines, soaked with sweat and streaked with all the effort he'd poured into your labor. The collar was limp and stained with blood, yours and hers. His sleeves had been rolled back at some point, but they'd slipped again, damp fabric bunched at the crook of his arms.

There was blood under his nails. Streaked across his jaw. A smear dried along the side of his throat like he'd wiped his face without thinking.

And his teeth, those strange, terrible things, peeked through when he spoke. Elongated. Cuspate. Pressed just barely over the curve of his lip like he hadn't remembered to pull them back yet. Like maybe, in this moment, he didn’t care to hide anything at all.

But they didn’t scare you.

They never really had.

This strange man. This mystery with calloused hands and a voice like river stones. This creature who could build fires from the dampest wood and wash clothes better than you ever had patience to.

This father to your child.

You nodded. Slow. Steady.

“I know.”

The way his shoulders dropped then, just slightly, made your chest ache. As if he'd been holding the weight of that doubt for weeks. Maybe longer.

He held the baby again, arms curling around her like she was the most delicate thing he’d ever seen. Like she might disappear if he looked away too long. She made a soft, squeaking sound in her sleep, and Remmick’s whole body tensed around her as though the world might threaten her simply for breathing.

“She’s yours,” he whispered, voice crumbling at the edges. “And now she’s mine.”

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t want to.

There was no logic that could define this thing between you. No words that could make it neat. But you weren’t looking for neat anymore. You weren’t looking for anything.

Except this.

This house. This moment. These people.

There was no sense to be made of it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But the three of you, somehow, you fit.

Remmick settled beside you on the bed. Not with the hesitant edge he used to carry, not like he was afraid you might change your mind and ask him to leave. But with something close to reverence. He moved slowly, gently, as if even sitting beside you might unmake the calm if done wrong.

One arm stayed curled protectively around the baby. The other slipped behind your back and pulled you close, cradling you like he didn’t know where else to put his warmth. You let your head fall against his shoulder, heavy with everything you’d just endured. Your body still ached, hollowed out and raw, but it wasn’t empty.

It was full in every way that mattered.

The fire popped in the next room, slow and lazy now, just embers and ash. Wind rattled the windowpane above your heads. The familiar kind of wind that came in every winter, dry and loud and aching through the trees.

But everything else was still.

The hush of the house held you like a lullaby.

Remmick kissed the top of your head, his lips barely brushing your damp hair.

The kiss wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even expectant. It was steady. It was sacred. Like sealing something between you.

“My girls,” he said, voice breaking just a little at the end. “My girls.”

His hand cupped the back of your neck. His chin rested against the top of your head. The baby shifted against his chest, small and soft and unaware that her world had just been born with her.

You closed your eyes.

Let the weight of him, the heat of her, the ache in your body, all of it,anchor you.

And for the first time since that long, lonely night on the porch when the world had changed forever, you didn’t feel afraid. Or alone.

You were home.

You never minded walking alone at night.

Had done it for years, really. Long before you met him. Something about the quiet made it easier to think, to breathe. The world got small when the sun went down. Just you, the dirt road, the cypress trees, and the warm Mississippi air pressing soft against your skin. Fireflies blinked like slow, patient stars at your feet. The cicadas hummed steady in the trees. And the moon was always so full, so close, you felt like you could reach up and pocket it if you wanted.

Folks told you it was foolish, of course. A woman of your complexion wandering out this late. But you weren’t reckless. You stayed on familiar paths, kept your wits about you. And for a long time, nothing ever gave you reason to be afraid.

Until him.

At first, you didn’t even see him.

The first few nights it was only a feeling. Something heavy hanging just behind your shoulder, close enough to stir the air but not close enough to touch. You’d pause. Look back. Find nothing. But the weight stayed, like a second shadow.

Then the sound started. The faintest crunch of boots against the loose gravel. The careful snap of a branch bending underfoot. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Deliberate.

You’d stop walking, heart thumping loud enough to hear in your ears.

Stillness.

Nothing but cicadas again.

It happened enough that your nerves should’ve snapped. But they didn’t. And maybe that was the strangest part. How the fear stayed distant, never quite blooming fully in your chest. Like whatever was following you didn’t mean you harm. Like it was waiting.

And then, one night, the silence broke.

“Evenin’.”

You nearly stumbled at the voice. Low, smooth, not more than a few feet behind you. You turned fast, breath caught sharp in your throat, and there he was.

Standing just under the curve of an old cypress, one hand hooked casually into his pocket, like he’d been there the whole time.

Pale, though not sickly, warm undertones kissed by the moonlight. Broad shoulders beneath a pressed white shirt, collar open at the throat, sleeves cuffed up just enough to bare strong forearms. His dark suspenders cut clean lines down his chest, and a simple gold chain glinted faintly at his neck. Hair dark, swept back loosely, like it couldn’t decide whether to fall or stay neat. And his eyes, those eyes. A blue so deep you swore they held pieces of the night inside them, pulsing faint beneath the moon’s glow.

He smiled, small and careful, like he didn’t want to scare you.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya, miss.”

You stared at him for a moment too long. Waiting for some signal. A reason to run. But none came.

He raised both hands slightly, as if to offer peace. “I been walkin’ out this way too. Thought I might introduce myself, since we seem to share the habit.”

And somehow, you let him.

His name was Remmick.

And after that night, he started joining you. Not every evening, not at first. But enough. Enough that the strange thing at your back became a quiet presence at your side.

He spoke little those first few weeks. Let you lead the conversation. Let you talk about your days, your small life, the world you carved out for yourself here. He listened with a kind of focus that made you self-conscious at first. Like every word out of your mouth was precious, worth tucking away somewhere safe.

Little by little, you learned how to read him. How his silences were full of thought, how his eyes softened when you smiled. How, even when he stood still, his chest rose and fell just a little slower than it ought to.

And how he never joined you before sundown.

He never offered much about himself. You didn’t press. Not then.

Until one night, cooler than usual, the sky pulled tight with stars, you invited him in. You don’t even remember why. Just that it felt right. The house was warm. The tea was sweet. And his eyes, God, those eyes, looked like they hadn’t seen home in years.

From that night forward, Remmick stayed close.

And now? He was part of your life.

The walks never stopped. But lately, they’d grown slower.

You noticed it first in your legs. The quiet heaviness that settled like wet cloth clinging to your bones. Then in your breath, how it seemed to catch quicker, how the cool night air filled your lungs less fully than it used to.

Still, you pushed forward. Like always.

The fireflies danced around your ankles, little pulses of amber blinking against the dark. You’d always loved them. They seemed softer here, in the night’s embrace. Like old friends keeping you company. You tried to focus on them instead. On the music of the frogs croaking near the creek, the whisper of wind through the tall cypress.

But you couldn’t ignore the ache that pressed into your chest, tight and hot beneath your ribs.

You pressed your hand there, fingers spreading instinctively as if you could ease it somehow, as if your own touch might convince your heart to behave.

Beside you, his voice came low, careful. “Ya alright?”

Remmick’s eyes were already on you. Always on you.

You nodded, too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just... winded, I guess.” You tried to lace the words with something light, tried to smile like you hadn’t just felt your own heartbeat stumble. “It’s been happenin’ more these days.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his gaze flickered.

Not surprise. No. He wasn’t surprised.

Something older moved in him. Something deeper, heavier. Like he’d been carrying this knowledge longer than you’d dared admit even to yourself.

He said nothing of what you both already knew.

Instead, he simply adjusted his pace again, falling half a step behind you, hand brushing your elbow in that soft, familiar way. Steadying without crowding. Comforting without pressing.

“Ya sure y’don’t wanna rest a while?”

You shook your head, biting down on the tightness in your throat.

“I’m fine, Remmick.” You smiled, though your breath came thinner than it should. “The air feels good tonight.”

He didn’t argue. He never did, not out loud.

But you felt it, how his eyes never truly left you. How they flicked between the dark path ahead and your unsteady steps, cataloguing each stagger of your breath, every time your hand drifted to your ribs.

His jaw flexed once. Twice.

And though he said nothing, you could feel it. The quiet storm building inside him.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just your breath.

Not anymore.

The sharp pinches in your chest had been happening more often. Small flashes of pain that stole your breath for a moment, like invisible threads pulling tight beneath your skin. Your legs felt heavier in the mornings, your arms weaker by the end of the day. And when you were alone, when the world hushed itself and the stillness crept in, you could feel it clearest of all: your heart, stumbling through its rhythm. Like a bird with one wing broken, fluttering unevenly.

You hadn’t told him all of it.

You didn’t know how.

But Remmick?

Remmick knew anyway.

He could hear it. He could always hear it.

You caught him listening sometimes, when he thought you didn’t notice.

At night, when you were drifting to sleep, you’d feel his arm tighten around your waist, his head dipping just slightly, just enough for his ear to rest near your chest. Not in search of comfort. Not for closeness. But to listen.

To your heart.

To the quiet betrayals happening beneath your skin.

You could feel his breath hitch when it faltered. You could feel the way his thumb would start to trace soft, anxious circles on your stomach whenever it skipped.

He never said anything.

But it terrified him.

And somehow, that terrified you more.

Because if he was scared, a creature who had walked this earth longer than you could comprehend, who feared nothing and no one, what chance did you have?

The fireflies blinked around your feet again, little golden lights rising and falling like tiny prayers. The trees whispered overhead.

And Remmick stayed close.

Always close.

As if his nearness alone might steady you. Might hold you together.

But some things couldn’t be held.

Not forever.

And you both knew it.

Even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The morning started quiet.

Soft wind curling in through the open windows, carrying the faint smell of honeysuckle and damp earth. Sunlight poured in gentle stripes across the wooden floorboards, warm and golden, like the house itself was still waking up alongside you.

You hummed a little under your breath as you moved through the sitting room, fingertips trailing lightly across the old lace curtains as you straightened them. Dust motes spun in the light like tiny dancers, catching on the fabric of your dress as you bent to tuck a stray corner of the rug back into place.

It felt good to move. To do something.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Remmick, of course, didn’t agree. He never did.

He was only a few paces behind you now, arms folded across his chest, leaning lazy against the doorway. But you could feel his stare, heavy as a hand at your back. Watching every little thing. Waiting.

“Sugar, I told ya, I can get that,” he drawled softly. “Ain’t no sense in you strainin’ yourself none.”

You waved him off with a small smile. “I’m not strainin’. Just tidyin’.”

His brow twitched, jaw shifting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the place to press.

You weren’t fooling him.

You never really did.

Still, you moved carefully to the small table near the window, adjusting the vase there, fingers brushing over the wildflowers you’d gathered days before. They were already starting to droop a bit, their colors dulling under the weight of time.

That was the thing about delicate things.

They didn’t always last long.

Remmick stepped forward as you fussed with the tablecloth edge, voice gentle but firm. “Darlin’, truly. Let me.”

“I got it.”

You heard the faint exhale through his nose. A sound halfway between patience and worry. “You always got it. But that don’t mean you should.” His tone thickened a touch, slipping into that old softness when he got like this.

You didn’t answer. You just kept smoothing the fabric, pretending your fingers weren’t trembling slightly where they rested.

And for a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it.

But then,

It hit.

Sudden.

Fast.

Like your lungs forgot what they were made to do.

You felt it first as a tightness, sharp and squeezing, high in your chest, and then the air simply wouldn’t come. Your head went light. The room spun soft at the edges, colors bleeding like watercolors left too long in the rain.

Your knees buckled before your mind even caught up.

But you never hit the floor.

Because Remmick was there.

Quicker than any man ought to move. Like he’d known, heard, the shift inside you before it even fully arrived. His arms caught around your middle, pulling you up against him in one swift, desperate motion. The vase tipped from the table and shattered somewhere behind you, but neither of you looked.

“Easy, easy now, I got ya, I got ya,” his voice broke, fruitlessly attempting to mask its own panic as he lowered you gently to the floor, cradling you upright against his chest.

You gasped, mouth open, searching for breath that wouldn’t come. The pressure in your ribs pulsed like a fist tightening around your heart.

“Oh, Christ almighty- breathe for me, sweetheart, please, come on now,” His hand moved to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking fast and shaky against your cheek. “Stay with me, hear? Just stay with me.”

Your vision narrowed, tunneling to the sharp blue of his eyes. Wide. Wild. His pupils blown so wide the color barely held. There was fear there, deep and raw, more than you’d ever seen from him before.

He was scared.

Truly scared.

And Lord, if that didn’t scare you more.

“I c-can’t-” you managed to wheeze, voice thin and breaking.

“Yes ya can. Yes ya can, baby. You’re right here with me. That’s it. That’s it, c’mon.” His arm tightened around you, steadying your weight as his free hand moved, pressing flat and careful against your sternum, like he could calm the storm inside you if he just touched it right. “Slow now, easy. Don’t fight it, breathe with me, darlin’.”

He rocked you gently as he spoke, his voice low and rhythmic, trying to guide your body back to itself. You felt the faint tremble in his limbs. He was shaking.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Eyes on me, sugar, okay?”

You did.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

The panic gnawed at your chest, but his voice, barely managing to keep itself together, laced with something old and desperate, cut through enough to ground you.

“That’s my girl. That’s it, there ya go.” His breathing exaggerated, slow and deep, trying to pull you into his rhythm. “In through the nose now, c’mon. Just like we do. Easy.”

Your chest hitched.

Then, finally, air.

Ragged and shallow at first, but air nonetheless. Enough to make the black at the edges of your vision pull back slightly.

“There it is, there she is,” Remmick exhaled, his whole body seeming to sag with the weight of it. “Good girl. Good girl, that’s it.”

You clutched weakly at his shirtfront, fingers curling into the fabric as your breathing steadied inch by inch. Tears pricked your eyes, partly from the panic, partly from the sheer relief of it.

“I-I don’t know what-”

“Shh. Don’t you worry ‘bout none of that now.” His hand never left your face, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

But you could hear the strain behind his words.

Could see it in the way his throat worked, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was fighting something back.

For the first time since you’d known him, Remmick looked like a man barely holding on.

“Remmick…” you whispered, voice still hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

His face broke then, like the word wounded him. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry for, sweetheart. Don’t you dare.” His voice cracked again as he blinked back tears of his own. “You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know you didn’t.” He swallowed hard, pulling you tighter against him. “That’s why I’m here. I got you. Always got you.”

The house had gone so quiet you could hear both your heartbeats.

Yours, still uneven.

His, pounding fast as a hammer.

The evening light bled soft through the windows, painting the little house in long streaks of gold. Cicadas buzzed outside, low and steady, a hum that sat heavy beneath the quiet between you.

You hadn’t moved far from the spot where he caught you earlier.

Even now, hours later, you sat curled against him on the small settee, your head resting on his chest, his arms locked tight around you like he was still scared you might slip through his fingers.

You didn’t have the strength to pull away.

Truth was, you didn’t want to.

The air between you had held nothing but silence for what felt like forever. But you’d known this was coming. Could feel it building behind his ribcage with every breath.

And finally, when the last threads of daylight slipped below the trees, he spoke.

“Y’know there’s another way.”

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

His voice was low. Steady on the surface, but trembling beneath, like something brittle pressed thin. The words caught now and then, like his throat couldn’t quite carry the weight of them.

“Y’don’t have to suffer like this, darlin’.” His hand rubbed slow along your arm. “I can stop it. You know I can.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight together. “Remmick…”

“I mean it.” His grip tightened, almost instinctively. “I can keep ya safe. Keep ya here. No more of this. This sickness eatin’ at ya, takin’ little pieces more each day.” His chest hitched beneath your cheek. “Ya wouldn’t have to feel like that no more.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. They shone too bright in the dim room, already wet at the corners, like just saying it out loud had cracked something open inside him.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered.

His face broke a little right there, like the words wounded him sharper than any knife could’ve.

“Y’don’t know what you’re sayin’.” His voice shook, barely more than breath. “Y’don’t- sweetheart, y’don’t see what I see. Y’don’t feel it.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft but firm. “I’ve thought about it. Long before now. And I know it sounds easy. Temptin’, even. But it ain’t livin’. Not for me.”

His breath hitched again, faster now. “Y’don’t know what it’s like. What it’s like for me, watchin’ ya like this. Every time ya stumble, every time your breath catches, I hear it. I hear your heart struggle. I hear what’s comin’ before ya even feel it.” His hand cupped your face suddenly, his thumb trembling where it brushed your cheek. “And one day I won’t hear it quick enough. One day I’ll be too slow.”

“Remmick-”

“Please.” The word broke out of him, so earnestly it made your throat ache. “Don’t make me watch ya go.”

Tears slipped free down his face now, unchecked. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as his hands clutched you tighter like the world itself was trying to pull you away from him.

“I can fix it. I can. Just say it. Say y’want me to, and it’s done.” His voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and desperate. “I’ll be gentle with ya. Ya won’t even feel a thing. You’ll be safe. Forever.”

You reached up, pressing your hands over his where they held your face, trying to steady him.

“No,” you whispered. “Remmick, no.”

His whole body shuddered beneath you like the word shattered him all over again.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single word, the sob behind it splitting straight up his throat. “Why won’t ya let me keep ya?”

“Because it’s not meant for me,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.” He choked on the words, burying his face into the crook of your neck now, clutching at you like something drowning. “I can’t lose you. I can’t, darlin’. Please, please, don’t ask me to stand by and watch ya fade. Don’t ask me to bury ya. Not again.”

His shoulders heaved with the weight of it, his sobs spilling out ragged and broken into your skin.

You held him.

Ran your fingers through his hair as his body trembled against you.

“I know you’re scared,” you whispered. “Lord knows I’m scared too. But I need you to love me enough to let me go when the time comes.”

“I-” he gasped, breath catching again. “I don’t know how to live without ya.”

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the salt of his tears soak into your dress. “You won’t have to. Not yet.”

He clung to you tighter still, as though each passing second might be stolen if he loosened his grip.

The house stayed quiet.

Only the sound of his breathing and your heartbeat filled the room, steady for now.

And so you held him, as the night stretched long and heavy, wrapped together in the slow ache of what neither of you could stop coming.

You wished it had killed you quickly.

That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

Something swift, something merciful. Something that hit like a bolt of lightning in the middle of a sentence, gone before the thought even finished forming. You’d prayed for that, in quiet, exhausted moments. You’d begged for it, even. A sharp end, a quick fade. No drawn-out aching. No time for goodbyes.

But instead, it dragged you slow toward the end. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. Like the sickness wanted to savor its work.

Some mornings it started behind your eyes, a dull pressure you couldn’t blink away. Other days, it sat like lead in your spine, turning each small movement into something heavy and hollow. There were hours when you felt like a husk of yourself. Nothing inside but heat, and pain, and the weight of what was slipping through your fingers.

The mornings blurred together. Then the afternoons. Then the nights.

Meals became sips of broth. Then just water. Then even that burned going down. The world outside the bedroom slipped further and further out of reach. The sound of the creek, the light breeze from the back porch, the smell of wet grass after rain, gone now, like dreams too faint to hold onto. Each day stole more than the last. More air. More strength. More pieces of yourself.

Until all you had left was this bed.

And him.

Remmick never left your side. Not for a second. Not once.

He was always there, his silhouette hunched near the headboard, one hand gripping yours like a lifeline, the other on your torso, like he needed to feel the steady rise and fall of your chest to remind himself you were still breathing.

You’d lost count of how many nights he sat upright beside you, shoulders stiff and unmoving as stone, his frame outlined in the faint, flickering light of the oil lamp he kept burning low on the dresser. His clothes grew rumpled. His hair stayed uncombed. Days passed, and still he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Like his body had surrendered to the same rhythm as yours. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He cradled your hand in both of his like it was the last piece of you he could hold on to. Like if he held tight enough, if he laced your fingers between his and pressed the back of your hand to his chest, he might somehow keep your soul from slipping loose.

He barely spoke anymore.

No more half-jokes about your stubbornness. No more soft stories about the land or the creek or the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. That steady hum of his voice, the one that once wrapped around you so tenderly and completely was gone now, tucked deep beneath the weight of his silence.

Just watched. Listened. Waited.

The house was dim, curtains drawn to keep the light soft on your skin. He’d done that himself. He said the sun hurt your eyes. Said the light made your cheeks too flushed. But mostly, he did it so he could sit with you in a room that didn’t ask for anything else. So the world outside wouldn’t press in.

The only sound was the steady rasp of your breathing, thin and fragile as a thread pulled too taut.

You could feel it.

The end wasn’t far.

It sat just beyond the horizon of your chest. Looming, certain. Like a tide finally rolling in to claim what it had been circling all along. You felt it in the cold weight at the base of your spine, in the dull flutter of your heart as it labored harder for less. It wasn’t fear you felt, exactly. Just… clarity. Like the world had stilled enough to let you see it for what it really was.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes sticking to the heat beneath them. You searched for him even though you already knew where he was.

Right there.

Always right there.

He looked up the moment your gaze found him, like he’d been waiting for that small flicker of movement all day.

His hands tightened around yours the second he saw your eyes open. Not hard, just firm enough to steady himself. Like if he didn’t hold on, he might fall apart entirely.

His face was pale, drawn thin from the weight of too many sleepless days. The angles of his cheekbones had sharpened. His jaw looked tense enough to crack. The skin beneath his eyes had hollowed into deep shadows, bruised with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a lack of rest, but from a soul stretched too far for too long.

Grief was already carving its place inside him. You saw it in every angle of his face. Every shallow breath he took like he was afraid it might be his last with you.

And still, he held your hand.

Still, he stayed.

Still, he looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered. Because to him, nothing else ever would.

“Hey, darlin’.” His voice broke as he whispered it, low and rough.

You turned your head with effort, the motion slow and small like everything else these days. Still, you managed a soft smile just for him. It didn’t stretch far, didn’t brighten the way it once had, but it was real.

“Hey,” you breathed.

Remmick leaned in closer, close enough for his shadow to fall across your face. His fingers found your hair and ever so gently played with your curls, like he was afraid even that might be too much. His hands never used to shake. Now they trembled like he couldn’t hold anything steady, not even this moment.

“Y’still with me?” he asked, voice tight with held-in breath.

You gave the faintest nod. “I’m still here.”

He let out a shuddering breath and gripped your hand tighter in his. His thumb rubbed across your knuckles, over and over again, like maybe he could ground himself there. Keep you anchored with the rhythm of it.

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t think I can sit here and just… watch ya fade away.”

You brushed your thumb along the back of his hand, your touch weak but steady. “You don’t have to watch. Just stay beside me. That’s all I want.”

Remmick blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came anyway, slipping past his lashes in silence. He shook his head, his whole body trembling like something inside him was unraveling.

Because it was.

“I could stop it,” he whispered. “Y’know I could. I’ve been beggin’ you for weeks now, but... sweetheart, please. Please just let me. One word, and ya won’t have to go.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, breath hitching between words.

“I can fix it,” he said, broken and full of hope so fragile it barely stood upright. “I swear to God, I can fix it. Ya’d never feel like this again. Ya’d stay. We’d have time. Real time. Just say yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a long, tired breath, letting his voice wrap around you like a favorite song. You wanted so badly to take the ache from him. To make it all better.

But your heart had already made its peace.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice soft as you could manage. “I know. I know you could. And I know you’d give up everythin’ to do it.”

He clutched your hand tighter against his chest, like he could keep your warmth there a little longer. His tears spilled freely now, streaking down his cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath you both.

“Then why?” he asked, voice cracking around the edges. “Why won’t ya let me? I can’t lose ya, sugar. I don’t know who I am without ya no more.”

You opened your eyes, and the sadness in his face nearly broke you in two.

“Because it wouldn’t be me anymore,” you whispered. “Not really. Not the way I am now. And I want you to remember me like this. Just me. Alive. Human. Yours.”

He shook his head again, wild with grief. “I don’t care what ya’d be. I’d still love ya. I’d love ya through all of it. I’d follow ya into hell if I had to.”

You smiled through the tears. “I know you would.”

Your breath hitched softly, chest fluttering like a bird trying to lift its wings one last time. He was already leaning close, so you reached up with what little strength you had and brushed your fingertips along his jaw. He caught your hand halfway and pressed it to his cheek like it meant everything.

“I love you, Remmick,” you whispered, so warm and sure it made his eyes squeeze shut.

He folded into the words like they gave him somewhere safe to fall.

“I love you more,” he sobbed, voice so thick he could barely speak. “More than life. More than anythin’. You hear me? You were always my breath, my light, my- my whole damn world.”

You smiled again, the edges weak but sweet. “Will you kiss me?”

His answer didn’t come in words, only in motion.

He bent toward you, lips trembling as he pressed them to yours. The kiss was soft. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The shape of every goodbye wrapped in one final touch. You could taste the salt of his grief, feel the way he poured every last bit of love into you.

When he pulled back, you leaned your forehead to his, your breaths mingling.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes shut tight.

“I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And you smiled for him.

One last time.

Your eyes drifted closed.

Your chest rose, slow and shallow.

Then stilled.

The room fell silent.

The quiet stretched long.

Longer than time.

Longer than grief.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Not for him.

And then,

You gasped.

Eyes flying open. Chest heaving. Sharp and full and wrong.

The world slammed back into you like a storm door flung wide. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. You choked on the first breath like it hurt, because it did. It burned. Your lungs screamed with it, your body flooded with sensation you’d already let go of. Air. Heat. Sound. Blood in your veins that thudded too hard and too fast.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Hovering above you, eyes wide and wet and terrified. His mouth trembled as it formed your name, soundless at first, then barely whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter something sacred.

Your body was still wrapped in his arms.

Still warm.

Still here.

He was staring at you like you weren’t real. Like you might vanish if he blinked. His whole frame shook against yours, every muscle tensed to breaking. Until it wasn’t.

Until something in him gave way all at once, and he collapsed forward.

You caught him out of instinct, what little strength you had now cradling him back. But it was strange, how heavy he felt. How fast his body sank against yours.

And then you saw it.

His mouth.

Red.

Not the dry red of old blood. Not the glossy red of smudged lipstick or split skin.

Fresh red. Your red.

His fangs, half-bared and still slick, glinted faintly in the low light. His lips stained deep like wine on white linen. No attempt to clean them. No shame.

Only relief.

A smile had begun to form on his face, shaky and unsure, like a man standing at the altar of a god he’d never believed in until now.

You knew what he’d done.

Before you could feel anything about it, not anger, not sorrow, not horror, he sank deeper into your chest, arms going slack but clinging all the same. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to faint or hold on forever.

He’d spent everything.

Poured it all into you.

And now,

Remmick was trembling, wracked again and again with guttural sobs. Breathing, but just barely.

You lay there, dazed and aching, one hand caught in the back of his shirt, the other pressed gently to his damp hair.

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was something else.

Heavy.

Stained with love and betrayal and devotion and grief, all tangled so tightly together they might as well have been the same thing.

And you...

You’d always known there was something off about him.

Not wrong, exactly. Just… other.

It wasn’t just the way he’d limped through your threshold that first day, smoking at the skin like meat on a spit. Or how he never cast a reflection in the window behind the stove, even though the lamp always burned bright. You’d chalked it up to trauma at first. Sickness. Strange blood and painful burns.

But now, a week on, with the worst of the wounds healed and the swelling down to faint scars, there were things you couldn’t unsee.

He didn’t breathe when he slept.

Or if he did, it was shallow and irregular, more a mimic of habit than need. He'd go so still that you'd catch yourself leaning close to check his chest, just to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still resting in the quilt you’d laid out for him, curled at the edge of the hearth like a dog that didn’t believe it had earned the bed yet.

And he never left the house during the day. Not once. Whatever needed doing, he found a way to do it inside. Tinkering with the old radio, rearranging the pantry by scent alone, folding your laundry into neat, obsessive little squares though you never asked. He swept the floors more often than they needed it, flipped through your recipe book like it was scripture. Quiet, always. Careful, always. And secretly, it was your favorite time. The hush of morning light creeping through the curtains, the gentle rustle of him moving from place to place, like he couldn’t bear to sit still unless you asked him to.

But some nights, never on a pattern, never with warning, he’d vanish. You’d wake to cold sheets and the door left just barely ajar, hinges greased silent, latch clicked shut behind him. He always returned before sunrise, soaked in swamp water and silence. His boots left damp prints on the porch, and you’d hear him at the basin, cloth slapping water, breath low and quick like he was trying not to wake you. Sometimes he’d hum, something ancient and broken, as if to stitch himself back together before you saw him again.

And then there were the teeth.

He didn’t hide them anymore. Not the way he did the first night, lips tight and showing just enough to leave space for reasonable doubt. Now he let them rest where they were. Jagged and perfect, sharper than they had any right to be, glinting white in the oil lamp’s glow. You’d see them when he smiled, when he got too pleased with himself over something simple, like organizing your jars alphabetically or stacking your firewood into perfectly symmetrical towers. That grin would slip out before he could tuck it back. Not sheepish. Just… exposed.

And his eyes, God, his eyes.

They were still that endless, brilliant blue. But sometimes, when the light caught them just right, they glinted red. Not bright. Not obvious. Just a shimmer beneath the surface, like an ember curled deep in a log, waiting to be stoked. They never glowed, but you saw the way they shimmered in the dark. Watching you. Always watching.

He didn't try to hide it anymore. Not fully.

And you weren’t scared.

You told yourself that a lot lately. You weren’t scared. Curious, maybe. Studious. Alert in the way you were when you spotted a new plant blooming near the edge of the yard. Not afraid, just aware. You’d lived with strange things before. Nature never asked permission to be unknowable. Neither, it seemed, did Remmick.

He’d taken to helping you make tea.

He said he liked the smell. Said it reminded him of places he didn’t quite remember. The way he said it made your skin prickle. Like the memory was too old, or too far, or not quite his anymore.

You watched him now, standing at your counter, sorting dried chamomile and rose hips into little cloth sachets. He moved slowly, precisely. His hands were always gentle, careful not to bruise the petals. But the way his claws, because that’s what they were, now, no denying it, clicked faintly against the mason jars told you he was fighting to keep them sheathed.

They weren’t long. Not monstrous. But they were sharp, curved, and wickedly clean. Manicured like talons.

You didn’t ask about them.

You didn’t ask why his hands trembled when he held the lavender. Or why he never touched the garlic strung above the door. Or why he flinched, just barely, when you kissed his temple the night before.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched. Waited.

He hadn’t told you what he was.

But your body already knew.

And the strangest part? He looked peaceful like this.

Not natural. But calm. Almost happy.

You’d caught him humming again. Not always. Just at night, when he thought you were asleep. Soft, tuneless melodies, like lullabies spoken in a language you didn’t recognize. You could feel them in your bones more than your ears. They made your garden bloom early. They made the wind hush.

Remmick glanced over his shoulder now, catching you watching him from your seat near the hearth. His face split into a shy smile, fangs peeking through.

“Ain’t mean to wake ya,” he said.

“You didn’t,” you replied.

He nodded, eyes dropping, fingers twitching over the herbs. “Just… couldn’t rest. Thought I’d help.”

You rose, walking slowly toward him, bare feet padding against the warm wooden floor.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. But you saw it anyway. The way his breath hitched. The way his fingers went still.

You stood beside him.

Close.

Close enough to see the red shimmer in his eyes under the lamplight.

Close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, wide and searching.

Close enough to know.

You reached for a bundle of chamomile, brushing his hand as you did.

It wasn’t cold.

Not anymore.

Still, his eyes flicked to yours.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Bracing for what you’d say next.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Tomorrow, he’d slip up again. He’d reveal something.

And you’d be ready.

Your gut was always right.

It didn’t matter what others called it. Instinct, a gift, women’s intuition. You’d never been wrong when your stomach twisted. Not once. It wasn’t loud or flashy. Just a slow tug behind your navel, a soft unease like a sour note in a favorite song. Sometimes it whispered hours before the storm clouds rolled in. Other times, it waited until the quiet part of the day, when the air felt too still, and the cicadas had gone silent.

Today had started off just like the others.

You rose early, the way you always did. Dawn was still stretching itself over the trees when your feet touched the floor, and Remmick was already awake.

He didn’t say much when he greeted you. He rarely did. Just looked at you in that quiet, reverential way of his and passed you your robe without a word.

Together, you stepped out into the garden.

He followed your lead, of course. Always did.

Remmick didn’t crouch or dig or weed unless you asked him to. But he hovered just close enough to watch, close enough to learn. His eyes never left your hands. Not when you teased a beetle off your basil, not when you pinched the browning leaves off your peppermint, not when you leaned in close to whisper to your echinacea like it was an old friend that needed gentle coaxing.

And the thing was, he never laughed.

Never made a joke about it. Never offered some flippant remark about talking to plants or casting spells or needing company bad enough to speak to the dirt. No, he watched like you were a priestess at work. Like the words you offered your roots and petals meant something holy. He never repeated them back, never tried to mimic your tone. But sometimes, you’d find him murmuring to the lemon balm when he thought you weren’t listening.

By midday, the sun had grown fat in the sky.

Remmick had long excused himself, as he always did when the heat crested too high. You didn't press him. You never did. He slipped into the house, eyes soft, smile lingering, and left you to your tending.

Later, when you came in smelling of rosemary and sun, the house was cleaner than you'd left it.

The rug had been beaten and shaken. The wood near the back door had been re-nailed. Quietly, expertly. The kettle had been scrubbed until it shone, and your dish rack was full of hand-washed mugs. Your comb, the wide-toothed one, had been repaired, and placed carefully beside your brush, as if he knew it needed fixing and didn’t want you to see it in pieces.

He didn’t say a word about it.

You thanked him. He looked bashful. Tried to shrug it off.

That evening, he read for a while beside you. His head tilted, those sharp eyes scanning every page like they had something to prove. The glow of the oil lamp caught in his lashes, his jaw resting in one palm as he sat curled in the rocking chair across from yours. He didn't speak unless you did.

Then the hour turned late. The light faded.

And your stomach twisted.

He stood up like he always did. Slow, quiet. Said he was going for a walk. That he’d be back before the rooster stirred.

You’d heard it before. And just like every other time, you nodded.

But you didn’t sleep.

Not tonight.

You made tea, soft and floral, and sat in the quiet, letting the warmth from the mug seep into your hands. You didn’t read. Didn’t rock. You just listened.

The wind shifted sometime after two.

You felt it before you heard it.

The trees stopped swaying. The air went still. The kettle, empty and forgotten on the stove, creaked slightly as it cooled.

And then, you heard him.

Not at the door.

Outside.

Past the edge of the house.

Your ears sharpened, straining in the dark as bare branches scratched against the siding. There was a hush of steps moving low and slow along the rear of the house. Too careful for a man just coming home from a midnight stroll. You moved to the window with the light still off, lifting the corner of the curtain only enough to see.

There he was.

Remmick.

Not coming up the porch like a man who belonged.

No. He was skulking, body half-crouched, moving just beyond the reach of the moonlight as he crept toward the back edge of the yard. The swamp.

He was soaked.

Not rain. No rain had fallen.

This was thicker. Darker.

Even from the distance, you could see the smear of it.

Blood.

Not dried. Not old.

Fresh.

You watched as he reached the edge of the water, dropped to his knees, and plunged his hands into the shallows. He scrubbed. Hard. Rough. Like it offended him. Like it burned to wear. His shirt stuck to his back in deep red patches. His arms, even under the dim light, glistened with it.

Still, not his.

Not a wound on him.

His face was twisted in concentration, in something close to shame. Or rage. You couldn’t tell which. And then, like always, he slipped into the water. Up to his elbows, then his shoulders. Rinsed himself in silence.

You didn’t call out.

Didn’t step onto the porch.

Just watched.

When he finished, he stood slow, wrung the water from his shirt with both fists, and turned back toward the house.

And for the first time, you let him catch you watching.

He had already barreled himself through the back door before you could even turn around.

The creak of the hinge hadn’t finished groaning before he was inside, water still dripping from his sleeves, boot soles darkening the kitchen floor plank by plank. The air came in with him. Wet and wild and thick with swamp breath, smelling of bark and iron and something you weren’t quite ready to name.

And yet.

He stood tall.

Not frantic, not pitiful. Not the mess he looked like from the window. He didn’t stumble or stammer, didn’t make excuses or throw himself to your feet.

He just... paused.

Straightened his spine, wet hair falling back from his face, and fixed his eyes on you like a man walking into judgment.

And maybe he was.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

He waited for you to look at him fully. Your back was still turned, hand resting on the doorframe between kitchen and parlor. He didn’t dare call your name. Just stood in the silence like he’d been preparing for this moment since the first time he appeared, no, threw himself on your humble little porch.

When you finally turned, his whole body seemed to brace.

Not in fear. In readiness.

Like he’d accept whatever came next. Even if it was banishment.

But you didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Your gaze traveled slow. From his soaked boots, caked faintly in the dried silt of the creekbed, up to the hem of his shirt, still clinging damp and dark to his torso, streaked faintly in places with something not-quite mud.

Then to his hands.

They were clean now, scrubbed raw. Red at the knuckles, scraped slightly where bark or stone had resisted him. And still he kept them at his sides, fingers relaxed, not clenched. No trembling.

His composure was deliberate.

He wanted you to see it.

And then, his eyes.

You’d always known his eyes weren’t right. Not fully.

Blue, yes. Deeper than any human blue ought to be. Not clear like the sky or shallow like lakewater. His were darker. Silted and strange. There was a depth in them, a heaviness behind the hue, like they were holding onto something old. None of this was new to you.

But tonight, they gleamed.

A red had bloomed there. No longer just a thread, but a slow-spreading stain beneath the iris, curling and pulsing like something alive. It throbbed with rhythm, like a heartbeat made visible, overtaking the soft blue with something hotter, hungrier. It wasn’t rimmed around the edge. It moved, filling the center outward, pushing into the color like ink dropped in water, stubborn and seeping. It didn’t look human. It didn’t try to. But it didn’t frighten you either.

You’d never seen eyes try so hard to stay soft.

He saw your gaze catch on it.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t hide.

Instead, he smiled.

Soft. A little strained. But real.

“Was hopin’ you were sleepin’.”

His voice still had that low, careful lull to it. Familiar. Full of the same patience he used when helping you dry rosemary or stirring your teas so they wouldn’t scorch. But underneath, it frayed. Just slightly. Like he was trying not to fray with it.

You didn’t smile back.

You stepped aside and let him pass.

Remmick took it as the invitation it was.

He walked past you without brushing your arm, though his body ached to. You could see it in the way his shoulder nearly tilted toward you, then pulled itself back like a tide fighting gravity. He stopped just shy of the kitchen, not daring to sit.

You followed.

The silence dragged.

He stood near the hearth where no fire had been lit, hands clasped lightly in front of him like he was visiting someone’s grandmother’s house, unsure where to step.

You took your time.

Watched the beads of water sliding from his shirt’s hem, down the inside of his thighs, pooling gently at his boots.

“Ain’t mean to track it in,” he said, glancing down at the muddied trail behind him.

You raised a brow.

“You’ll clean it.”

That made his throat twitch, like he wanted to apologize but knew better than to say sorry again. Knew it wouldn’t fix a thing.

So he did something else instead.

A pivot. Gentle. Strategic.

“Ya look real pretty in this light.”

His voice had dropped, syrup-smooth, the way it always did when he was trying to charm his way into something you hadn’t decided to give. But there was nothing slick behind it. No real expectation.

Just... admiration.

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t look away.

“You clean?”

The question cut straight through whatever careful rhythm he’d been trying to establish.

Remmick blinked.

His head tilted, a soft nod following.

“Best I could manage. Swamp’s cold tonight.”

“Still smell it.”

He dropped his gaze then. Just briefly.

“I scrubbed.”

“I know.”

He took a slow breath.

“I’d tell ya it ain’t what it looks like,” he said. “But that’d be a lie.”

You didn’t answer. Just crossed your arms.

He continued.

“I tried to be quiet. Didn’t think you’d catch me.”

“You always think that.”

He nodded.

“Foolish of me.”

Another pause.

The clock ticked in the corner. Somewhere far off, an owl called once and was answered.

Then you said, “You got blood on the rosemary.”

That finally cracked him. Just a little.

His mouth parted. A breath caught halfway between guilt and laughter.

“I’ll clean it in the mornin’,” he promised. “Before ya even wake.”

“Damn right, you will.”

He smiled again. Smaller this time. Relieved.

Still, he didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t plead.

Just stood there, soaked through, with a red glint in his eyes and the faint scent of iron clinging to his collar.

And waited.

You didn’t dance around it.

You’d never been one for hemming and hawing, not when the truth sat that close to the surface. And tonight, with the house still holding its breath and the floorboards still damp with the print of his boots, the truth felt loud enough to touch.

“What are you?”

The question wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t spit from the tongue or dragged through suspicion.

It was plain.

Quiet.

Like you already knew the answer, but the word had slipped just out of reach.

Remmick didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard you.

He just looked at you, really looked, and for a long, long second, you saw every year behind his eyes trying to decide whether or not to run.

But he didn’t.

He sighed.

And when he did, it wasn’t the sharp exhale of a man trying to find his way out of a lie. It was deep, tired, and slow. The kind of breath you take when a door that’s been closed for too long finally swings open.

“I don’t know what you’d call it now,” he said. “Folks’ve had a lotta names. Over the years.”

You said nothing.

Just tilted your head slightly. Waiting.

He wet his lips. Slowly. Out of habit, not hunger. Like he had to remember how to speak the word, how to say it in front of someone who mattered.

“Vampire,” he said at last. “If that’s still the word folk use. Feels funny in the mouth, but that’s the one most settle on.”

There it was.

Hung there in the space between you. All sharp and simple. No lightning strike, no howl of wind through the windowpanes. Just the word.

And the man still standing where he’d always been.

Your shoulders didn’t twitch. Your hands didn’t clutch the table. You didn’t take a single step back.

You just looked at him.

“That what you are?” you asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not just pretendin’? Not just wearin’ someone else’s coat?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, his voice soft. “Ain’t pretendin’. I’ve been this for a long while.”

“How long?”

He swallowed.

The quiet ticked again. The walls felt a little closer.

“Little over a thousand, far as I can figure. Give or take.”

You blinked.

Your expression didn’t change. Not much.

But your breath slowed. Measured. As if your heart knew before your head did that the shape of the world was different now.

“A thousand years,” you repeated.

He nodded once.

“Gimme an exact.”

He gave a dry smile at that. Not smug. Not proud. Just... worn.

“Been hard to keep track. I was born before folk kept good calendars. Or at least before I cared to mark ‘em. But best guess puts me ‘round the 10th century,”

You absorbed that in silence.

He kept talking.

“Didn’t always look like this. Used to be more beast than man. Took a long time to... settle. To figure out what the hunger wanted. To learn how to pass.”

His voice didn’t shake.

But there was something behind it now. Not grief. Not guilt.

Something older.

Weariness.

“And now?”

He exhaled again. Shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Now I do what I can. Hide where I need to. Feed how I must.”

You didn’t ask what “how I must” meant. Not yet.

Instead, you stepped forward.

Slowly.

One foot in front of the other, your steps soft as you crossed the room until only the kitchen table separated you.

You didn’t reach for him. Not yet.

Your eyes flicked up to the red still faint in his irises.

“I knew you weren’t right,” you murmured.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “You never scared me.”

That made something twist in his expression. Not relief, exactly.

Something more like grief, bent toward gratitude.

“I shoulda told ya sooner.”

“You shoulda. But I reckon if you had, I wouldn’t’ve listened.”

He looked down at that.

And then, like your words finally gave him permission, he spoke.

“There are rules,” he said quietly. “Things that ain’t changed since I was first turned. Can’t cross thresholds without invitation. Sun burns me... as you know. Fire hurts. And the thirst never really ends. You just learn how to live beside it.”

You nodded.

Still, you didn’t look afraid. Just thoughtful.

“And the blood?” you asked. “Yours? Or someone else’s?”

His eyes flicked up quick.

He shook his head. “Not yours. Not ever. I wouldn’t-”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Remmick went still.

Then, slowly, he nodded again.

“I don’t take what ain’t freely given. Not anymore. Haven’t in a long time. And when I do... it’s animals. Mostly. Or people who trade it for coin, like a service. Or...” he hesitated, “... folk I trust.”

You studied him.

Your gaze raked down his frame. The water still glinting off his collarbone, the faint steam still curling off his sleeves in the warm air of the room.

“And tonight?”

He took another breath.

“Someone offered,” he said quietly. “City man. Got a house on the edge of the woods. Said he liked the teeth.”

That made you blink.

You let out a short exhale through your nose. Not quite a laugh. But close.

“And you just took off to go nibble on a stranger?”

He gave you a pained look.

“I didn’t want to wake ya.”

“You did anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, stepped around the table and sat yourself on his lap.

His posture tensed again, like he didn’t know what you were about to do.

But all you did was take his chin in your hand.

Turned his face toward the lamplight.

Looked again at the teeth. Always just slightly bared now, long and sharp like they’d never fully retract. Looked into those bloody-blue eyes. Looked at the man who had collapsed on your doorstep and gifted you a gold necklace and kissed your mouth like it was the last prayer he had left.

And instead of fear, you felt fascination.

You leaned in, slowly, until your breath brushed his cheek. Watched the way his lips parted as if he thought you might kiss him again. You didn’t. Not yet. Your hand moved instead, one palm against his jaw, thumb dragging lightly along the edge of one long canine.

He shivered.

You tilted your head, narrowed your eyes just slightly.

“They’re sharp,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

“I know,” he whispered, throat working. “I can cover ’em, if you’d like. Hide ’em again-”

You slipped your finger past his lips.

He froze.

Mouth open, barely breathing, as your fingertip traced the edge of his fang. It nicked you. Just barely. Just enough to break skin.

You felt it. That tiny sting.

And giggled.

Quiet and unexpected.

His eyes widened.

You pulled your hand back, sucked the drop of blood from your finger like it was stray droplet of nectar, and shook your head with something close to delight. “Damn things are sharp.”

He stared at you like you’d just blasphemed in a church.

“You ain’t scared?”

“Should I be?”

He didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the answer already.

Instead, you took his hand.

Turned it over, slow and reverent, palm to the low lamplight. Studied the curve of his nails. Longer than they should be, ridged like bone instead of keratin, glinting faintly like glass in the flame’s glow. They were claws. Elegant. Meant for something wild, something ravenous.

And you ran your thumb over them like they were precious stones.

“They look like they hurt,” you murmured.

“They don’t,” he said. “Not unless I want them to.”

You traced the edge of one, then threaded your fingers through his. Held his hand in yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He looked down at your hands. At the difference in them, warm and dark, soft and human, against his pale, calloused fingers. It looked impossible. Like everything should’ve stopped to watch it happen.

And still, you kissed him.

Just once.

Soft.

Pressed your lips to his, with the faint taste of your own blood still on your tongue.

His claws didn’t twitch. His fangs didn’t pierce.

He just kissed you back.

Slow and still, like his whole life had been building to that moment and he didn’t dare rush it.

When you pulled away, his eyes hadn’t moved from your face.

“You really ain’t scared,” he breathed.

“No,” you said, lips brushing his. “I think you’re beautiful.”

And for once, Remmick didn’t know what to say.

You held his gaze a while longer.

Then said, “All right.”

His brow creased. “All right?”

“I can work with that.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare.

Just stared at you with something ancient and awe-struck shining behind his lashes, like the world had cracked open just to let him feel something holy after a lifetime of sin.

You dropped your hand.

“Go dry off. You’re drippin’ on my floors.”

The crash woke you before the curse did.

THUD.

Then,

“Shit!”

The sound cracked through the stillness like a hammer to glass. You shot upright in bed, breath catching for a moment as your eyes struggled to adjust to the dark. The house held its breath right alongside you, everything gone perfectly still except for the quiet whispers of wind against the house and the dull hum of cicadas outside, sawing their endless song like nothing had happened at all.

But you knew better.

Of course you did.

You pressed a palm to your face, dragging it down slow, already sighing before your feet hit the floor. “Lord have mercy.”

This man.

It was always the same with him. Always.

“I’ll be out runnin’ a few errands,” he’d say, voice warm and sweet. Every time.

And every time you’d nod, pretending like you didn’t know exactly what that meant. You never asked. Didn’t need to. He made sure you didn’t have to.

He never brought it home.

Whatever mess he made out there in the dark stayed out there. Always returned just before dawn with nothing but a smudge of dirt at his collar and something soft in his hand for you. A little gift, a peace offering. Sometimes a trinket that caught the morning light just right, sometimes a necklace you swore was far too fine for anyone around here to afford, sometimes a bouquet of flowers he claimed he found by chance. Always accompanied by that same crooked smile that made you forgive him before he even asked.

But tonight?

Tonight, it seemed, grace failed him.

You pulled your robe around your shoulders, padding barefoot through the house, careful not to catch your toes on the edge of the carpet as you crossed to the front door. The boards creaked beneath you. Soft, old, familiar. The kind of house that remembered every step.

Another grunt floated in through the open window. Closer this time. Lower. A shuffle of limbs, a low, winded groan that had you squinting into the dark beyond the porch light.

Then came the creak of the porch swing.

You stopped beneath the doorway for a breath, listening, waiting, watching.

And finally, there he was, dragging himself around the corner into view. Like a man who didn’t quite know how to admit he needed help but couldn’t help crawling toward you anyway.

Remmick was flat on his back in the dirt.

The porch light glimmered faintly above, flickering once before settling again, casting him in thin, uneven stripes of amber. His shirt was ripped at the shoulder, collar pulled wide, fabric soaked through with sweat, or maybe water, you couldn’t quite tell from here. His hair was a wild mess, tangled and sticking to his temple like he’d been caught in a storm, though the air was clear.

One shoe had slid halfway down his foot, heel caught in the dirt. The other leg lay bent at an awkward angle, as if his body couldn’t quite agree where to land after the fall. He looked more thrown than dropped, like the world had spat him out.

And there he was, blinking up at you.

His gaze met yours like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Wide, sheepish, and entirely too aware of how foolish he looked. The flush in his face wasn't from embarrassment though. No, you knew that look, it was the adrenaline still burning off him in waves.

And yet, even sprawled out in the dirt like that, there was something about him. The faint pulse of red still flickering behind the familiar blue of his eyes, just enough to catch the light when he shifted. The hint of fang still peeking past the corner of his lip when his mouth parted, like it always did when he was too tired to fully pull himself together.

The gold chain at his throat. Your favorite one, the one that always seemed to gleam like it belonged to a man far cleaner than he ever was, glinted faintly. A soft flash beneath the ruined collar of his shirt. You caught yourself staring at it before you realized.

“…Hey, sugar,” he wheezed, voice thin but trying its best to sound casual.

You stared at him for a long, unimpressed beat. Your arms crossed without you meaning them to, feet planted firm on the cool wooden porch. The breeze tugged at your nightgown, making the thin cotton ripple gently at your calves. Fireflies drifted lazily at the edge of the treeline. Their glow blinked soft in the dark, careless, like this was just another quiet night.

“You good?” you asked, flat.

He gave a single, shallow nod. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Landed wrong.”

“You landed on the roof.”

He winced a little, shifting his weight as he tried to sit up straighter, one hand gripping at his ribs. “Little miscalculation.”

“You’ve been doin’ those jumps for how long now?”

“Don’t-” He held up one bloodied hand like a white flag, wincing as he flexed his wrist. His voice thinned into something sharp and frayed. “Don’t rub it in.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the scolding sit heavy behind your teeth, but kept it balanced. No use piling on while he still looked like the ground might swallow him if he moved too fast. Your eyes swept him again, quick and clinical. Shoulder likely dislocated, ribs bruised at best, knee scraped up, knuckles torn raw. His chest rose and fell too shallow for your liking. But he was breathing. Awake. Speaking.

And, miraculously, grinning.

You exhaled long. “Lord, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

His grin wobbled but stayed. “Not if I can help it.”

Another sigh pulled itself from your chest. You turned on your heel and stepped back inside, the screen door creaking as it swung open behind you. “Come on. Before you bleed out in my yard.”

Behind you, the porch groaned under his weight as he hauled himself upright, muttering curses beneath his breath while he staggered after you like a man determined to pretend everything was fine. The sound of his shoes scraping along the floorboards made you wince. Dirt and dead leaves trailed behind him across your clean kitchen floor, earning a disappointed huff.

You reached under the kitchen counter and pulled out the first aid kit. The one that now had a permanent home there ever since Remmick came barreling into your life. Needle. Thread. Antiseptic. Cloths. The glass jar of salve he swore didn’t sting as bad, even though it did.

Everything laid out like ritual. Like routine.

He eased himself onto the wooden stool near the window with a hiss, one hand braced against the edge of the table, the other still clutching at his side. You could see how tight his jaw was, how carefully he was trying to hide the pain behind that lopsided grin. Stubborn as could be.

“You are a fool,” you muttered under your breath as you uncapped the antiseptic.

“But I’m your fool.”

You shot him a sideways glance at that, unable to help the small twitch that pulled at the corner of your mouth. “That you are.”

The house was quiet as you worked. The kind of quiet only broken by the scrape of glass bottles against the table and his quiet, occasional sharp inhales when the alcohol hit an open wound. Outside, the cicadas droned steady, the night thick with heat and the pulsing rhythm of distant frogs.

You pressed the cloth to his shoulder, dabbing gently, and he hissed between his teeth again, his fingers flexing where they gripped the edge of your skirt under the table. Just to hold you. Just to remind himself you were there.

“Next time,” you said softly, threading the needle, “use the damn door.”

He let out a low, breathy laugh. “I was tryin’ to surprise ya.”

“You surprised me plenty.”

“Ain’t mean the roof part.”

“No,” you said, lips twitching again, “I figured that much.”

You stitched him up slow, careful. The needle moved steady through his skin, your hands familiar with the task in a way that made your chest ache sometimes if you thought too hard about it. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his thumb rubbed gentle circles into your knee as you worked, his eyes never once leaving your face.

It was always like this.

He’d leave, and you’d stay. He’d come back, and you’d fix him.

Again and again.

And somehow, some part of you loved him for it.

When the last stitch was tied and the bandage wrapped clean, you smoothed your hand along his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where a smear of dried blood still clung. His eyes softened under your touch, the red dimming almost completely beneath the blue. It made him look gentler. Almost tender.

He caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to your palm, voice barely above a whisper now. “Told ya I’d always make it home.”

And even after all this, after everything, your chest still clenched at that.

Because he did. Every time.

The fireflies were out again.

They drifted low across the tall grass like they had nowhere else to be, blinking in slow, rhythmless patterns. Like stars that had come down to earth, curious and aimless. The night held them close and cared for, letting them hang in the humid air with nothing but time on their wings.

You’d seen them before, of course. All your life. But some nights, like tonight, they moved differently. Slower. Softer. Like they knew they were being watched. Like they were dancing just for you.

The Delta always felt quieter at night.

It was a quiet no one really trusted. Folks whispered about it, said the dark down here wasn’t like the dark in other places. Said the trees listened. Said the water could keep a secret. You weren’t sure if you believed all that, but you knew one thing for certain: the stillness didn’t scare you.

Not the way it should’ve.

You’d made a habit of it, these late walks. When the air got too thick with thoughts, or the day clung too heavy to your skin, you’d slip outside and let your feet wander. Down past the back fields, across the brush-lined path, until the water showed its silver face and the frogs started to hum. Sometimes you’d bring a jar and catch a few fireflies, just to watch them flicker in your palm. Sometimes you’d sit and count how long you could go without hearing a single manmade sound.

It calmed you. Cleared your head. Gave you something to hold onto when the world felt too loud.

They told you not to.

Warned you, gently but often, that a girl out here at night wasn’t safe. That anything could happen. That there were things in the trees older than time and twice as hungry.

But the quiet had never hurt you.

And the moon, hanging full and watchful above the cypress branches, had never turned its face.

So you kept walking.

Your boots crunched gently in the grass, damp from where the dew was already beginning to gather. You brushed aside a low-hanging branch and stepped over the uneven bend in the path, the one you always forgot was there until it nearly caught your ankle. The creek whispered up ahead, a soft, steady hush, like someone trying to soothe a restless child.

And then,

A sound you didn’t expect.

Music.

You stopped.

Not bugs. Not frogs. Not the wind through the reeds.

Something else. Faint and careful. The pluck of strings, soft but clear. A banjo, you realized, but played low and slow, like whoever held it was afraid of being heard. It had no clear tune yet. Just gentle wandering notes, testing the air.

You tilted your head.

The fireflies blinked around you, catching in your eyelashes and drifting past your cheeks. One landed on the fabric of your shoulder, pulsing like a heartbeat.

You took a step toward the sound.

Then another.

The grass parted beneath your feet, damp and forgiving. The trees thinned out just enough to let the moon through in ribbons. You kept your breath even, your pace light. Didn’t want to scare off whatever strange magic had found its way here tonight.

And still, the music played. Threading through the dark like it belonged.

Like it’d been there all along.

And then you saw him.

Closer than you expected.

Much closer.

You’d followed the sound as if it were drifting from far across the creek, notes carrying on the wind like feathers. But when you stepped past the last veil of tall grass and turned just slightly toward the right, there he was.

Not even ten feet ahead.

Seated with his back to you on a split log bench, angled just enough for the moon to catch on the curve of his shoulder. The banjo lay loose in his lap, not cradled so much as resting there like it belonged. His fingers moved slow across the strings, too gentle to make real music now. Just small sounds. Ghost notes.

He was lean. Pale. His shirt sleeves rolled up past the elbows. Collar loose and open, the dip of his neck catching the moonlight in a sharp, wet gleam. Sweat, maybe. Or something older.

Your breath hitched.

You hadn’t meant to spy on anyone. Didn’t want to. But when you realized how close you were, when you caught the slope of his shoulders and saw the way he rocked just slightly with each flick of the strings, something in your chest went tight.

There was no business for a man, any man, but especially one like him to be out so late. It didn’t sit right. There was no law in the woods, and even if there was, it wasn’t made for you.

You shifted your weight back slowly, trying to step away before he saw you. No sound, no sudden movement. Just a soft, silent retreat.

And then, snap.

A branch underfoot.

Loud enough to crack the night in half.

The man turned so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

You froze.

His head whipped toward you like he’d been yanked by a thread, and suddenly you were caught in the full force of his gaze.

He wasn’t just pale.

His skin carried a strange, ageless warmth. Undertones like honey diluted with cream. Touched by moonlight but not drained by it. Like the sun hadn’t reached him in a long while, but hadn’t quite forgotten him either.

Sharp cheekbones. A strong jaw. A mouth that didn’t always know what to do with itself when it settled closed. Soft one moment, tense the next.

And his eyes. Lord.

Blue. Not light, not sky. Deeper than that. Like river water just before it turns black. Old. Tired.

Too large.

Too deep.

Too lonely.

With that faint, impossible pulse of red flickering behind the color, beating slow as a second heart. Like the fireflies floating between you.

And his teeth,

You wouldn’t have noticed, maybe, if the moon hadn’t hit just right. But it did. And there, under the gentle curve of his lips, two fangs caught the light. Not long. Not alien. Just... unmistakable.

He stood.

Not quickly. Not with menace.

But slow. Measured. Careful.

Hands half-raised like he meant to calm. To motion that he existed in peace.

You caught the glint of something at his throat. A simple gold chain, sitting warm against his chest, right in the hollow where his shirt gaped open.

Neither of you spoke.

Not at first.

The music was gone now. The banjo left where it sat on the log, strings still reverberating faintly. The wind had gone still. Even the cicadas hushed.

Just your breathing. Just his.

Just fireflies blinking all around you, slow and golden, their pulses barely out of sync with the red behind his eyes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Ain’t know anyone else walked this stretch,” he said, voice breathy and rough, like it had been a while since he used it. Southern, but not quite. Something twisted at the end of each word. Something careful that he was trying and failing to mask. “Apologies if I startled ya, miss.”

His gaze didn’t shift.

Didn’t dart away.

But he looked almost… nervous. Like you’d caught him with something private. Something delicate.

You should’ve turned.

Should’ve run.

But you didn’t.

You looked back at him, heart still thudding, breath still short, and said:

“You didn’t startle me.”

A pause.

“You play real nice.”

His mouth parted.

Just slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Thank ya kindly. That's very sweet of ya.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away from you for just a moment. Tried to stand a little straighter too, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding the banjo. Or being watched by another human being.

“I- uh- I'm Remmick,” he said softly. “I like the quiet.”

His voice sounded careful. Like every word had to be weighed before it left his mouth. You caught the way his fingers twitched, half-reaching for the banjo again like it might steady him.

You nodded, finding your own voice beneath the pulse in your throat. “Me too.”

You told him your name.

He repeated it, soft, almost reverent, like he was tasting it. Like he wanted to make sure he got it right, to hear how it sounded in his own mouth.

He seemed to breathe easier at that. But then his eyes darted back toward the creek, then down at the ground, like maybe he’d overstayed already. His voice lowered, small and unsure.

“If ya’d rather be alone, I can go. Wasn’t meanin’ to trouble anyone.”

The words were earnest, almost clumsy. Like he meant them, but didn’t want to mean them. Like leaving was the last thing he wanted.

You glanced down at the fireflies drifting lazy circles around your boots, blinking like they were eavesdropping on the conversation. The moon made the water shine with silver streaks behind him. His banjo sat quiet at his side, one thin string still vibrating softly from where his hand had left it.

You didn’t know why the words came so easily, but they did.

“You don’t have to leave.”

His head lifted a little too fast, as if he hadn't expected that answer.

“Y’sure?” he asked, voice catching just slightly.

You smiled, small. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

The muscles at the corner of his jaw relaxed. He looked down, then back at you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tentative. Not quite a smile. Something gentler.

“Alright,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fireflies blinked between you, soft and patient.

Then his hand slid over the banjo again, almost hesitant. “Don’t usually have much of an audience.”

You tipped your head, voice light. “That’s a shame. You sound like someone with stories to tell.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, the sound almost surprised. Ran a hand through his hair, tugging gently at the strands near the back of his neck.

“I got one or two,” he murmured. “Old ones.”

The quiet stretched again. Comfortable this time. The kind of quiet that felt like the Delta itself breathing around you.

Softly, you asked, “You know any songs with words?”

He hesitated. You saw it ripple across his face. The nervous flicker behind his eyes, the way his fingers hovered just above the strings.

After a moment: “...One or two.”

You didn’t push. Just stood there, letting the space between you settle.

Another firefly landed on the edge of the banjo’s frame, its glow reflecting faintly in his dark blue eyes. He watched it for a moment like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, finally, his voice broke the stillness again. Faint. Shy.

“I can play you one… if you’d like.”

You nodded, breath light. “I’d like that.”

His eyes met yours again. Misty, uncertain, but grateful. You could've sworn a ghost of a smile had appeared on his lips, before it quickly flew away.

His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment longer as he sat back down, like he had to coax himself forward.

And then, soft and low, he began.

“Oh, the summer time has come…”

The words slipped out like a secret. Barely above a whisper. Unsteady at first. You saw the nerves tighten his throat as he sang, as if even speaking the melody was some kind of quiet confession.

The fireflies blinked in rhythm, their lights pulsing soft as the notes floated into the air. You held your breath without meaning to. Something about his voice, so painfully gentle and kind, wrapped around you like warm cloth.

“And the trees are sweetly bloomin’…”

His gaze kept falling to you between the lines, unsure whether to meet your eyes or drop his own. And each time his eyes caught yours, he seemed to find a bit more footing. Like your presence steadied him, grounded him.

“The wild mountain thyme Grows around the bloomin’ heather…”

You wondered, suddenly, how long it had been since he sang for anyone. Or if he ever had at all. The intimacy of it left your chest tight. Not romantic, not quite. But full. Like standing in a room too small for all the quiet things neither of you could say.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The chorus came softer, steadier. His fingers strummed with more confidence now, like the melody was finally guiding him instead of the other way around.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

You watched his lips form each word, how his jaw tensed just slightly with the shape of every vowel. The moonlight caught faint on his chain. The gold glimmered like a second pulse beneath his throat.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

The breeze stirred between you, lifting the humid air off your skin. And still, he played. Like this space, this moment, belonged to both of you and no one else.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

His voice dipped even lower as the next verse began. His eyes didn’t stray this time. They stayed locked on yours, as though the rest of the world had slipped away.

“I will build my love a bower By yon cool crystal fountain…”

The words stirred something in your ribs. Quiet, curious. A fragile ache you didn’t dare name. He sang them like a promise not meant for you, but falling in your lap anyway.

“And round it I will pile All the wild flowers o’ the mountain…”

The fireflies blinked again, drifting closer between you both, like they too wanted to listen.

You didn’t dare look away.

Not when his voice, his fingers, his eyes had all softened into something so painfully vulnerable it made your breath catch.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go? And we’ll all go together…”

The melody carried through the night, through the hush of the trees and the slow lap of the water. Even the frogs seemed to quiet, as though giving him room to finish.

“To pull wild mountain thyme All around the bloomin’ heather…”

His hands slowed on the strings as the final chorus slipped from his mouth.

“Will ye go, Lassie, go?”

The last note lingered, floating light as a feather before dissolving into the warm night.

Neither of you moved.

The space between you was still there. The gap. But it no longer felt like distance.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. Nothing fit.

So you just smiled, small and warm.

His breath hitched like that smile was worth more than any words you could have given.

And around you, the fireflies kept on blinking.

The silence stretched for a long moment after his final note. The soft night held it gently, like neither of you dared break it too soon.

Then, without a word, you stepped forward.

The grass whispered beneath your feet. The fireflies parted for you like little floating lanterns, blinking gold as you crossed the space between you.

Remmick didn’t move. Only watched. Quiet, careful. As if the smallest shift might startle you back.

You lowered yourself onto the edge of the log beside him. Not close enough to touch, but closer. Much closer than before.

The distance between you narrowed to a small breath of air, shared under the wide Mississippi moon. His eyes flickered toward you once. And then back to the strings. Like even that one glance was almost too much.

He swallowed softly, throat working. You caught it out of the corner of your eye.

His voice, when it came again, was even gentler than before.

Another song.

No introduction. No hesitation. Just music.

And you listened.

Song after song, old ones you half-knew, others that sounded older than the land itself. His voice was steadier now. Richer, somehow. The nerves had melted away. He wasn’t singing to fill the air anymore. He was singing to you. Or maybe with you.

And when your lips finally, softly, quietly joined his on a chorus, neither of you spoke of it.

Your voices braided together like threads of silk.

For a while, you simply sang. As if the night had always been meant for this, for the two of you trading melodies under the low hum of cicadas and the blinking dance of the fireflies.

Hours passed unnoticed.

At some point, the moon shifted higher. The breeze cooled. But neither of you made any move to leave.

Remmick’s eyes, every time they lifted to meet yours, were full of something so profound, so reverent, it made your stomach tighten. Not desire. Not hunger. But something deeper. Something that looked like worship.

He never reached for you.

Never brushed your hand.

But you felt him there, anchoring himself to you with nothing but the weight of his gaze, the softness of his song.

Eventually, as the stars began to pull pale against the hint of coming dawn, his fingers stilled on the strings.

Neither of you said a word.

Instead, you both simply sat there as the fireflies blinked their slow farewell.

And for the first time that night, Remmick spoke again.

His voice was barely a whisper, but full of something that made your chest ache.

“Thank ya for stayin’.”

You smiled.

And in that quiet, you both simply stayed.

Three years had passed.

Three summers. Three winters. Three birthdays, each marked with a small cake and a quiet kiss on the forehead, candles flickering in the soft breath of dusk.

Three years of Remmick’s comforting omnipresence.

You hadn’t asked for him to stay that long. You hadn’t said the words. But you hadn’t needed to.

He stayed.

He stayed like the porch swing stayed. Like the old kettle on the stove. Like the sun that found its way through the lace curtains every morning, slow and warm and dependable. You woke with the shape of his presence already etched into the day—his boots left by the door, the scent of cedarwood and wildflowers, the rhythm of his humming from the backyard as he chopped firewood or stirred the oats or fed the hens.

The house didn’t feel big anymore.

Not empty.

Not abandoned.

Just lived in. Loved in.

And when you thought of your husband now—when some old church friend asked about him, or you caught sight of a man in town with shoulders like his—you found your mind jumping first to Remmick.

His hands. His voice. His quiet way of watching over the two of you like it was the only job he’d ever wanted

You didn’t forget the man who left you. Not entirely.

But when you reached for memories of a man in your kitchen, stirring soup, tucking a blanket around your shoulders, kissing the top of your head while you dried the baby’s hair with a towel, it wasn’t your husband who came to mind.

It was Remmick.

The ache had softened with time. The jagged part dulled to something manageable. But it was still strange, sometimes, to think how easily your life had reshaped itself around him. Not like clay molded under pressure—but like vines growing toward sunlight. Quiet. Natural. Irrevocable.

He didn’t replace what you lost.

He became what was missing.

And the baby—your baby—loved him with the certainty only children could have. Fierce and boundless and instinctive. She called him “Papa” now, no prompting, no correction. Just Papa. Like that’s who he’d always been.

Remmick hadn’t corrected her either.

Not once.

You’d seen the way his breath caught the first time she said it. The way his whole body stilled. Then softened. His face crumpled for a second like it was too much. Like it hurt to be loved like that.

But he hadn’t told her no.

He’d just scooped her up, kissed her cheek, and said, “Yeah, baby girl. I’m here.”

And he always was.

There wasn’t a scraped knee he hadn’t knelt beside. A nightmare he hadn’t banished with a murmur and a rocking chair. When her first fever hit, you found him sitting beside the bed, hand lightly pressed to her forehead like he could draw the sickness out by sheer force of will. He hadn’t left the room for two days. You had to coax him into sleep with your own hand on his back, your own head rested against his shoulder until he finally gave in.

Sometimes you’d catch them talking.

Deep in their own little world.

Her on his lap, chattering about fairies and frogs and what she wanted to be when she grew up. Him nodding along, eyes wide, responding like it was the most serious conversation of his life.

“D’ya think I could be a bird, Papa?” she’d asked once, and he hadn’t laughed.

He’d just said, “Sure, sugar. If y’ever turn into one, I’ll build you a nest.”

It didn’t matter what she asked. Remmick always found an answer that made her believe it was possible.

And she believed in him.

In the way he always knew when she needed a nap. The way he caught her when she tumbled down the porch steps, faster than you could blink. The way he crouched beside her now, in the long grass at the edge of the garden, his lean arms open wide as she toddled toward him on wobbly legs, shrieking with joy.

You stood on the back porch, hip leaned against the frame, mug warm in your hands.

Watched them.

The sun had dipped beneath the trees, but the sky still held the last sigh of daylight—long streaks of orange and violet curling over the rooftops, fading like bruises. The light wasn’t gone, just gentled, and everything it touched looked softer for it. The grass gleamed gold at the edges. The white sheets strung on the line were touched with lilac. And the porch, where you stood with your mug cooling in your hands, felt like a pocket of stillness the rest of the world had forgotten.

Down in the yard, Remmick crouched beneath the old oak, half in shadow, half bathed in amber. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, collar open, hair mussed from her hands. He looked as he always did at this hour—unshaven, glowing faintly with the last color of the sun, and so completely fixed on her that he seemed unaware of anything else.

Your daughter was a whirl of energy in front of him. Her little arms flung wide, knees smudged with grass and dust, curls bouncing with every step. She’d sweated through the back of her cotton dress, little ringlets damp at the nape of her neck, and still she ran.

“Catch me, Papa!” she yelled again, laughter already bubbling up behind the words.

And he did.

Of course he did.

He always would.

He caught her clean and high, like it was nothing, like she was light as air. He spun her until the hem of her dress flared like a bell and her feet kicked at the purple-streaked sky. Her laughter spilled into the yard, sharp and bright and holy.

You smiled without meaning to.

But it wasn’t the joy that cinched tight around your chest. Not really.

It was what came after.

The way she slowed. Settled. Reached up with both hands and cupped his face like she was holding something breakable.

“Show me,” she whispered.

You couldn’t hear the words, but you knew them by now. She asked nearly every evening. Quiet. Curious. Never afraid.

Remmick hesitated, as he always did.

Then he smiled.

Not the modest, half-there smile he gave normally. Not the polite one he wore in town.

This one was full. Unapologetic.

Canines and all.

He opened his mouth wider, like a magician revealing the final piece of a trick. His teeth shone white in the dying light, longer than human, sharper than any father’s had a right to be. And his eyes—sea blue most of the time—flared with something warmer, something unnameable. A faint red shimmer, soft at the edges, like the glint of sunlight on water.

Your daughter didn’t flinch.

She never had.

She just leaned forward and tapped the tip of one fang, tilting her head like she was inspecting a seashell.

Then she giggled.

And kissed his cheek.

And Remmick—Remmick went still in that way he did when something mattered too much to speak on. Like his whole body braced to keep from shattering under the weight of it.

He closed his eyes.

Exhaled.

Then gathered her close.

Held her like she was the only thing tethering him to the world.

And maybe she was.

Her arms wrapped tight around his neck. Her little fingers curled into the back of his shirt. Her cheek pressed to his temple like she’d done it a hundred times before—which, of course, she had. Her skin, a deep brown kissed golden by the day, stood out against his pale hands. His thumbs rubbed circles on her back, and in the fading light, their contrast was clearer than ever.

Her soft black curls coiled close to her scalp. His hair hanging in faint waves. Her round cheeks and wide nose pressed against his sharp profile. They looked nothing alike. Not even close.

But no one watching them would’ve questioned that she was his.

And Remmick—he never saw the difference.

Because it didn’t exist to him at all.

Not when neighbors stared too long. Not when townsfolk stumbled over their words at the sight of him carrying her through the general store.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t explain.

Didn’t offer any correction when she shouted “Papa!” across the field with both arms raised.

She was simply his.

That was the start and end of it.

The world could gawk all it liked. Could whisper. Could blink hard at the white man with blue eyes and the little black girl who clung to him like gravity. Remmick didn’t care. He never had. Not about that.

He always chose her.

Every single day.

She’d never known anything else. Never had to unlearn fear or flinch from fangs. He’d been her safety from the moment he stepped into that house—quiet hands, steady voice, eyes that glowed but never glared.

She didn’t see a monster when she looked at him.

She saw warmth. And patience. And stories told by candlelight.

She saw Papa.

And that was all.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, cradling your mug like a second heartbeat, and watched as he set her down gently in the grass.

She ran to collect her toys, then circled back to show them to him, one by one. He listened intently, nodding, asking questions, holding each worn figure like it was made of glass. The red shimmer in his eyes hadn’t faded. It never did fully around her.

She was the only one who brought it out so easily, so softly.

The night began to deepen, the orange bleeding to navy, the violets dimming to shadow. Crickets stirred in the brush, and fireflies blinked alive along the fence posts.

Still, you didn’t move.

Just watched them.

Your two miracles.

One born from your body. One who stumbled to your doorstep and never left.

They didn’t match.

Not by the eye.

But they fit.

Perfectly.

And as your daughter threw herself back into Remmick’s arms with another squeal, and he caught her like he’d been born to do it, you let the last of the day fade away.

Right here, where your heart was fullest.

The hour was late. Not just late in the way clocks measured it, but in that shapeless, misty sort of late that made time feel slippery. The bookstore breathed around you, shelves and walls wrapped in deep shadow, the kind that folded itself politely out of the way so nothing would feel truly alone. No people passed outside. No wind stirred. Even the moths had given up circling the single lamp hanging on the other side of the tinted glass.

Remmick was here, of course.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine curved against a low shelf, thumbing absently through a forgotten paperback whose cover had long since faded. His coat was off, neatly folded over the back of your favorite armchair. His sleeves were rolled past the elbows, exposing pale forearms marked with the soft dents of old scars. Every few minutes, he glanced up. Not like he was expecting anything, just to check that you were still there.

That you hadn’t disappeared.

You were at the counter. Pretending to tidy something. A stack of journals, maybe, or that tin of bookmarks that no one ever bought but he always seemed to mess with. Your fingers moved in idle little patterns, but your mind wasn’t on the task.

It was on the box in your pocket.

Small. Softly wrapped. The kind of thing that would disappear in someone else’s hands, but felt almost too large here, in this strange, suspended pocket of midnight and quiet.

You hadn’t meant to give it to him tonight.

It hadn’t felt like the right time. Then again, you weren’t sure what the right time looked like. There were no birthdays tonight. No holidays. No calendar hanging by the register to count down days or circle occasions. There was only now. The dark, and the dust, and the low crackling of the candle you'd light when the chill tried to settle too deep into the floorboards.

But tonight had been soft. That rare kind of soft, the one that didn’t ask for anything but gave something anyway. You’d spent most of the evening in shared silence, passing dog-eared books back and forth, occasionally reading aloud when the words called for it. Remmick had listened like it meant something, like your voice could reshape the air around him if he let it. He hadn’t said much. He didn’t need to.

His presence was enough.

His quiet was never empty.

You watched him now as he flicked through another page, mouth twitching faintly at some line that landed just right. There was a smudge of ink on his finger, probably from that pen he kept tucked behind his ear. His hair had dried funny after his earlier shower, curling up at the ends like it had forgotten how to behave.

He looked good.

Not polished. Not composed. But full.

Alive in the way that only people who have been half-dead know how to be.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the box in your pocket again.

You weren’t sure what he’d do when he saw it. If he’d laugh. Or cry. Or try to give it back. He wasn’t used to gifts. He’d said that once. Quietly, like it wasn’t important, like it hadn’t gutted you on the spot.

He’d never had a proper gift before.

Not one that wasn’t transactional. Not one that wasn’t a favor owed or a mistake forgiven. Just… something someone saw and thought, this is his. Just because.

And yet you’d bought the cufflinks anyway.

Found them in a little antique shop two towns over, tucked away in a velvet-lined tray between cracked lockets and pins with missing stones. They weren’t flashy. Weren’t modern. Just a pair of old silver squares with the faintest etching at the edges.

You’d known they were his the second you saw them.

You weren’t sure why. Just that they were. Like they’d been waiting. Like he’d left them behind in some past life and they’d been clawing their way back to him ever since.

He shifted, drawing your attention back. His foot knocked against a stack of books, and he winced like he thought you might scold him.

You didn’t.

You just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the sharp angles that softened when he was tired. At the curl of his lashes, too long for someone who hated being seen. At the way he held the book like it was breakable, even though his own hands bore proof that he rarely was.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter what the right time was.

You just wanted him to know.

That he was thought of.

That he was wanted.

That something in this world had been chosen for him. Not because he earned it, not because he begged for it, but because someone looked at it and thought, yes, this belongs to you.

You closed the distance slowly.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

And the box in your pocket felt heavier with each step.

“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t already been in the same room with you for hours. His voice was soft, a little warm burst in the cold bookstore air, and when you looked at him fully, his whole face lit up. Like you were the one thing in the world he’d been waiting for all night, even though he’d never left your side. “Ya looked busy. Didn’t wanna bother ya.”

His thumb held his place in the book, but the rest of him leaned in your direction. Eager. Not in a loud, desperate way. Not like the first night, when he clung to your presence like it was the last lifeline he’d ever have. This was smaller. Gentler. The kind of eagerness that didn’t ask anything, only bloomed quiet and patient in your light.

You felt the box again, the corners pressing faintly into your palm where you'd slipped it free from your skirt. For a second, you hesitated. Not out of doubt, but because something about this felt so sacred, it needed to be right.

“You weren’t botherin’ me,” you said. Your voice was low, meant just for him. “I was just… thinkin’.”

He tilted his head, that little inquisitive tilt he always did when he sensed something beneath the surface. But he didn’t press. Not yet. He gave you the space, like always, but you could feel his attention. Sharp as a blade, soft as a breath.

You took the few remaining steps that brought you close, until you were standing in front of him. You didn’t sit down yet. You just watched him for a moment, memorizing the way he looked like this. Curled up and content, but always on the edge of some deeper ache.

“I have somethin’ for you.”

That got him. He blinked up at you, startled. His fingers fumbled slightly over the spine of the book, and he sat up straighter, gaze flicking between your face and your hands. “For me?” His voice cracked a little on the second word, like he didn’t quite believe it. “Why?”

You held out the small box. It wasn’t wrapped extravagantly, just enough to protect it, just enough to keep it a secret until now. He didn’t take it right away. He looked at it like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

“Because I saw it,” you said, your voice steady, “and I thought of you.”

That did it.

He reached out slowly, reverently, and took the box with both hands. His fingers hovered over the lid like he didn’t want to ruin whatever magic kept it sealed. For a second, he just stared. Then he glanced up at you again, like asking for permission. When you nodded, he opened it.

The cufflinks caught the faintest sliver of light from the lamp above. Silver. Old, quiet silver. The kind that never shouted for attention but demanded it anyway. Etched at the corners with delicate, almost-forgotten lines. Not a pattern, exactly. More like a memory.

Remmick went still.

Completely still.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“...What are they?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, though he already knew. He just needed to hear it. Needed to make it real.

“Cufflinks,” you answered softly. “For when you want to feel like yourself. Or someone you used to be. Or someone you might become.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on them, wide and dark and glassy. His hands trembled a little. Just enough that you saw it. Just enough that he knew you saw it, too.

“I’ve never had…” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Not like this. Not somethin’ just mine.”

You sat down next to him, close enough that your knees brushed. His shoulder leaned into yours automatically, seeking warmth, steadiness, anything to anchor himself in the moment.

“They’re yours,”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath that sounded like it’d been trapped in his chest for years.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely caught it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

He said it like a prayer.

Like the world was about to crack open under his feet and this was the only thing that might hold it together.

And he hadn’t even tried them on yet.

He kept staring at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Still cupped in his palms, the cufflinks looked small. Delicate, even. A stark contrast to the calloused stretch of his fingers. The silver caught the lamplight again, this time bending it into something gentler, something more secret. Like moonlight in a locked room.

“Do you wanna try them on?” you asked.

He startled, just a little, blinking up at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “Now?”

You nodded. “Unless you’d rather wait.”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. His thumb brushed one of the cufflinks again, like he was reassuring himself they were real. “No, I-I wanna.”

You smiled. He looked like a man asked to wear something sacred, too stunned to argue but too enthralled to rush. You let the silence linger, soft as silk, while he reached slowly for the buttons at his wrist.

He worked them loose with unhurried hands, his sleeves coming undone without fanfare. You could see how he rolled his cuffs neatly back each time. Habit more than style, probably. He always looked like he was halfway between rest and running, like he never knew which the night, or you, would ask of him.

“Here,” you said, holding your hand out gently. “Let me.”

He hesitated for a breath, then gave you his left wrist.

His skin was warm. A little clammy, a little shaky, but he didn’t pull away. He let you unroll the cuff and align the holes, his knuckles twitching every time your fingers brushed bone. You took one cufflink, turned it just so, and slid it through with ease. It clicked softly, the metal cool against his pulse.

He stared at you the whole time.

Not intensely. Not like he did when he first met you, all nerves and hunger and that shaky, desperate pull. This was quieter. Like he couldn’t believe you were here, doing this. Like you were something delicate he was afraid to breathe too hard on.

You moved to his other wrist. He offered it just as easily.

The second cufflink slid in just as smooth. When it clicked into place, his breath caught.

Not loud. Not sharp.

And then you looked up, and the light hit his face differently.

It wasn’t dramatic, not really. The lamp on the shelf behind you didn’t flicker. The air didn’t shift. But something in his expression sharpened, just for a heartbeat. His lips parted slightly, and the faintest glint of teeth showed. Not sharp enough to be a threat, but too pointed to be forgotten. His canines always gleamed, small and precise and not quite right.

And his eyes. His eyes, already so deep and unreadable, caught a color you hadn’t noticed before. In the heart of that ancient blue, there was red. Not bright. Not fire. Just a thread of it, like old embers buried under ash. Watching. Waiting.

He didn’t blink.

You didn’t look away.

You liked his canines. You liked the strange glow in his eyes. The way it made him look like he belonged to something older than night. You didn’t flinch. You never had. Even when part of you knew, knew he wasn’t just some poor soul from the road. Even when nothing about him quite added up, you’d let him in anyway.

You smoothed down his cuff with your thumb.

“They suit you,” you said.

He blinked like he’d forgotten how to.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked down at his wrists, then turned them gently in the low light, watching the silver catch. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More of a stunned, breathless awe. Like you’d handed him a second name.

“Do I look,” he said, hesitating, “like I belong to somethin’?”

You paused. Then leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You look like you finally believe you do.”

He let out a small, helpless sound. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Just something deep and quiet that lived in his chest and finally found a way out. He pressed his cheek into your temple, breathing you in like he didn’t need air, just this.

His arms came around you, hesitant at first. Still so careful, like you might vanish. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, solid and real and warm, and he sank into it like it was the first real place he’d ever been allowed to rest.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. You just stayed like that, curled together on the floor between bookshelves and forgotten time. The town beyond the window didn’t exist. The cold couldn’t reach you here.

Eventually, he whispered, “Nobody’s ever given me anythin’ like this.”

You drew slow patterns on his sleeve. “You deserve things like this.”

He kissed your head. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just once. Just thank you.

Then: “You’re not scared of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you said, eyes closed.

Even when you should be. Even when something old stirred just beneath his skin. Even when the shadows moved different around him than they did around anyone else.

“No,” you said again.

He was quiet after that. His breath slowed. His shoulders eased. You stayed tucked into him, cufflinks catching the glow of your little lamp. He held you like a promise, soft and otherworldly, and you let him.

This was your secret, after all.

Yours and Remmick’s.

And out in the world, maybe that wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe they'd hate it if they knew.