#independent reader

"Babe?" he calls, voice still rough with sleep as he checks the bathroom, the kitchen. The coffee pot is on, but you're nowhere in sight.

He spots it then, swirling white outside the window.

The world beyond the glass is a blur of snow, fat flakes whipping sideways in a full on snowstorm. And there, halfway down the driveway, is you.

You, in your thick coat, shovel in hand, out in the middle of the snowstorm.

Shoveling.

John freezes at the window for exactly three seconds, processing

"You've got to be kidding me."

He yanks on a hoodie, pulls on his boots without socks, and storms toward the door, muttering under his breath, "She better not have a death wish, because I swear..."

The wind hits him the second he opens the door, icy and vicious, snatching his breath. Snow flies into his face, sticking in his hair and beard. He squints against it and stomps out onto the porch.

"HEY!" he booms over the howl of the wind.

You shovel another heavy line of snow and toss it aside, pretending not to hear him.

He isn't fooled.

"Don't you dare ignore me," he warns, trudging down the steps. Snow is already past his ankles. "What are you doing?"

You finally look up, cheeks flushed from exertion and cold, snowflakes clinging to your lashes. "What's it look like?" you yell back. "I'm shoveling!"

His eyes narrow, that little vein in his forehead starting to show. "You're out here in the middle of a damn snowstorm..."

"It's not a storm," you argue. "It's just… aggressively snowing."

"...shoveling the driveway," he continues as if you didn't speak, "by yourself, at..." he checks his watch "...eight in the morning?"

You shrug, digging the shovel into another drift. "The snow doesn't care what time it is."

John steps off the porch, squinting like the snow personally insulted him. "Where's your hat?"

"In the house."

"Where it does what? Supervise?"

You roll your eyes. "I'm almost done, relax."

He walks closer, boots crunching over the half-cleared driveway. Up close, you can see the way his jaw ticks, the lines between his brows deepening as he takes you in, no hat, no scarf, jacket unzipped, hair dusted in white.

"How long have you been out here?" he asks.

You look away. "Not that long."

"That's not an answer."

You puff out another cloud of breath. "I woke up at six."

"Six?!" His voice goes up a full octave. "You've been out here for two hours?"

"On and off," you protest. "I went inside for coffee."

"Oh, great," he says. "You hydrated with caffeine and came right back out to freeze to death. That's much better."

You grit your teeth, shoveling another path just to prove a point. "I'm not freezing to death. I'm fine. I've done this a hundred times."

"Yeah, before you lived with a six-foot-something human snowplow," he snaps, jabbing a thumb at his chest. "You were supposed to wake me up."

"I didn't want to bother you," you shoot back.

He stares at you like you've spoken another language. "Bother me? By letting me shovel my own damn driveway?"

You grip the handle a little tighter. "I always do it myself. It's not a big deal."

"It is when you're out here half dressed, in a storm, for two hours," he says. His brows pinch together, his voice dropping into that low, irritated concern he gets when you do something he interprets as a direct attack on his blood pressure. "You're gonna get sick."

You snort. "That's not how that works, John."

"I don't care if it's scientifically accurate," he mutters. "You're coming inside."

You shove another pile out of the way. "I told you, I'm almost done..."

"Yeah?" He takes another step closer, looming now, arms crossed over his chest. "Define 'almost.'"

You gesture vaguely down the driveway. "I just have… that part. And then the sidewalk. And maybe the steps."

He follows your hand and sees the untouched half of the driveway, the snow still coming down, already starting to fill in what you've cleared. His eye twitches.

"We're gonna lose this battle," he says flatly. "The snow is winning. Get inside."

"John..."

"Nope." He shakes his head, decisive. "We're not arguing. You're cold."

"I'm not cold," you lie immediately, even as your teeth threaten to chatter.

He gives you a slow, disbelieving once-over. "Your nose is literally the color of a stop sign."

You lift your free hand, covering your nose self consciously. "It's fine."

John sighs, the long, put-upon sound of a man who knows he's about to do something dramatic. "I tried the reasonable approach," he mutters. "I really did."

You narrow your eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he says, closing the space between you in three strides, "you brought this on yourself."

"John, don't..."

You don't even get to finish the sentence before he plucks the shovel straight out of your hands like you're a toddler holding a plastic toy, jams it point-first into the snowbank beside you, and then, before your brain can catch up, he bends, grips the back of your thighs, and hauls you over his shoulder.

You yelp, the world tipping upside down with a rush of blood to your head.

"John!" you squeal, muffled by his back. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance, sweetheart," he grunts, adjusting you like you weigh nothing. One arm hooks around the back of your knees, the other bracing your waist. "You had your shot. Now it's my turn."

You smack at his back with your gloved hands. "I am an independent adult!"

"Uh-huh." He starts marching toward the house, boots crunching over the snow. "An independent adult with no hat, no scarf, and a death wish."

The wind hits your exposed legs and you hiss. "It's not a death wish, it's called being productive!"

"It's called frostbite waiting to happen!"

"You're being dramatic," you grumble, though your voice wobbles a little because you are upside down and also very aware that the neighborhood can probably see this.

He snorts. "Says the woman shoveling like she's fighting the final boss of winter."

You squirm, trying to twist and see where you're going, but all you get is a view of the half cleared driveway and your shovel, abandoned and sticking out of the snow like a sad little flag of surrender.

"John, seriously," you protest. "I'm going to fall."

"I've got you," he says, and he says it so easily, so confidently, that something in your chest squeezes. "I'm not dropping you. Relax."

Your fingers curl in the back of his shirt at the solid warmth of him under your gloves. His shoulder digs into your stomach, but he keeps a hand splayed steady against your back, protective even while he's lecturing you.

"You do realize," you mutter, "this is completely unnecessary."

"You being out there alone for two hours is unnecessary," he shoots back. "This is a proportionate response."

"You kidnapped me from my own driveway."

"Correction, I rescued you from your terrible decision making."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you are stubborn." He huffs a breath, the sound vibrating through his back. "We're a fun pair."

He tromps up the steps, shouldering the front door open. Warmth spills out, along with the faint smell of coffee you'd left on the counter. He steps inside and uses his heel to kick the door shut behind him.

The sudden change in temperature makes you shiver. You hadn't realized how cold you really were until now.

"See?" he says, like he can feel it. "Freezing. I knew it."

"I am not freezing," you argue weakly, even as your body goes from numb to pins and needles in seconds.

"You're arguing while upside down," he says. "That's how I know you're lying."

"You started this!"

He chuckles, finally slowing. "Sit tight. We're almost there."

"Where is 'there' exactly?" you demand.

"Couch. Blankets. Possibly a lecture," he says. "We'll see how cooperative you are."

He bends and, with surprising gentleness, lowers you until your feet find the floor. Your knees wobble, the room tilting for a second after hanging upside down. You grab his forearms to steady yourself, fingers clutching at warm muscle, and he catches you around the waist automatically.

You're suddenly very close. His cheeks are pink from the cold, a few snowflakes melting in his hair. His eyes sweep over your face, checking you, like he's cataloguing each little detail, the red tip of your nose, the flushed skin, the way your hands are shaking slightly where they rest on him.

"Hey," he says softly, the irritation blunted now by concern. "You okay?"

You swallow. "Yeah. Just… dizzy."

"That's what happens when you play shovel warrior for two hours," he says, but it comes out quieter, his thumb brushing absentmindedly along your side where his hand rests. "Come on."

He steers you toward the living room, one arm secure around your shoulders. You let him guide you, mostly because your legs are still protesting and partially because his body heat feels really, really good.

"Sit," he orders, nudging you down onto the couch.

You drop onto the cushions with a sigh, the couch swallowing you. John snags the throw blanket from the back and shakes it out, the fabric fluttering over you in a warm cloud before he tucks it around your shoulders like he's wrapping a burrito.

You wiggle your hands free. "I can do that myself, you know."

"Yeah," he says, stepping back to look you over with his hands on his hips. "I know you can. That's half the problem."

You blink. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He lets out another long breath, the last of his irritation settling into something more like exasperated affection. "It means you're so used to doing everything yourself, you don't even think to ask me."

You pull the blanket tighter around you, suddenly a little defensive. "I didn't want to wake you up. You were actually sleeping for once. I can handle snow."

"I know you can handle it," he says. "You can handle just about anything. Doesn't mean you have to."

You look away, picking at the edge of the blanket. "I'm not… used to asking people for help."

"Yeah." His voice softens, like he gets it. Like he's seen it a hundred times already. "I've noticed."

You shrug one shoulder. "I don't want to be a burden."

John's quiet for a beat. When you finally meet his eyes again, there's no annoyance there, just something steady and warm.

"Hey," he says, and you hate how much you like the way he says that, like it's a subtle way of saying hey, look at me. "You're my girlfriend. You're not a burden. You're… my responsibility."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, I'm your responsibility now?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Yeah. In the sense that I am absolutely responsible for making sure you don't do dumb things like reenacting a polar expedition at dawn."

You snort. "It was hardly a polar expedition."

"You were one frostbite away from starring in a cautionary tale," he insists. Then his expression turns more sincere. "Let me help, okay? That's what I'm here for."

You shift under his gaze, suddenly feeling a little raw in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. "I'm trying," you admit quietly. "It's just… new."

He nods, like he understands that more than you said. "We'll take it slow. Step one, when it's aggressively snowing..." he gives you a pointed look "you wake me up. Deal?"

You chew your lip, considering. "And what if I wake you up and you're grumpy?"

"I'm already grumpy," he deadpans. "Might as well put it to good use."

You snort, the sound turning into a reluctant laugh. "Fine. Deal."

He grins, the tension finally easing from his shoulders. "Good. Now, I'm gonna make you some hot chocolate so your insides remember what warmth feels like."

"I can make my own..."

His eyes narrow.

You catch yourself. "I… can sit here and… let you make it."

"There you go," he says, satisfied. "Character development."

You roll your eyes but sink back into the cushions anyway, blanket cocooned around you. As he turns toward the kitchen, you hear him muttering under his breath about you being "a menace" and "too stubborn for your own good," but his tone is fond.

You close your eyes for a second, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The house is quiet except for the low rumble of John in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clink of mugs. The contrast to the howling wind outside makes the living room feel extra cozy.

A moment later he's back, juggling two steaming mugs. He sets one on the coffee table and hands you the other, careful to angle the handle toward you.

"Careful," he warns. "It's hot."

You take it, your gloved fingers fumbling. He clicks his tongue and gently tugs the gloves off one hand, then the other, stuffing them into his pocket.

"Hands," he says. "You can't warm up with snow gloves on."

"You're very bossy today," you murmur, curling your bare fingers around the mug. The warmth sinks in immediately, making you sigh.

"I'm bossy every day," he points out, dropping down onto the couch next to you. The seat dips, your shoulder brushing his. "You just usually argue harder."

"I'm conserving energy," you say. "I was out there battling nature."

He gives you a side eye. "I know. I watched you for a full minute before I came out. You looked like you were about to declare war on the driveway."

You puff a laugh, taking a careful sip. It's rich and warm and way too sweet, and you know he added extra marshmallows just because he knows you like it that way.

"You know," you say after a moment, staring into your mug, "you could've just… taken the shovel and helped."

"I was going to," he says. "Then you said you weren't done yet in that tone."

"What tone?" you ask, offended.

He mimics you in a high, dramatic voice. "'I'm not finished yet.'"

You gape. "That is not what I sound like."

"That is exactly what you sound like when you're about to push yourself too far," he counters. "And I knew if I just took the shovel, you'd try to wrestle it back."

You open your mouth, then close it. "…Okay, yeah, maybe."

"So," he says, smug, "over the shoulder was the safest option for both of us."

You stare at him. "Safest?"

"Yeah. That way you couldn't slip on the ice, and I got to be the hero," he says, grin widening. "Win-win."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "You just wanted an excuse to show off."

"I don't need an excuse to show off," he replies instantly. "But I do appreciate one when it presents itself."

You elbow his side, earning a soft oof. "You're insufferable."

"You love me."

You make a face, but your heart does a little flip anyway. "…Unfortunately."

He chuckles, draping an arm along the back of the couch behind you. After a second, you lean into him, letting your shoulder press against his chest. He immediately takes advantage, tugging you closer until you're tucked against his side, blanket spread over both of you now.

"You know," he says quietly, lips brushing your hair, "you don't have to prove anything to me."

"I wasn't," you argue automatically, even as the words land a little too true.

He hums, not calling you out, just… there. Solid. Warm. Gentle in a way that constantly surprises you, considering how tough he can be with the rest of the world.

"I like that you're independent," he adds. "I love that you can handle yourself. Just… let me handle some things too, yeah?"

You play with the edge of the blanket, thinking. Letting someone else handle things, handle you, still feels weird. Vulnerable. But the way he'd marched out into the snow without even a coat, just because you weren't in bed where he left you, makes something tender unfurl in your chest.

"Okay," you say softly. "I'll… try. No promises."

He smiles against your hair. "I'll take 'try.' And next time you wanna shovel, you wake me up and we'll do it together. Or, wild idea, we wait until it stops snowing."

You sniff. "Where's the fun in that?"

"Fun?" He pulls back to look at you. "You and I have very different definitions of fun."

You tilt your head, lips quirking. "You didn't have fun carrying me inside?"

His eyes spark with mischief. "Oh, I had fun with that part, for sure."

You swat at him, laughing. He catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his lips, his gaze softening.

"Seriously, though," he says, a little quieter, a little more serious. "Next time… don't make me come out and fish you out of a snowdrift, okay?"

You feel your cheeks warm, and it has nothing to do with the hot chocolate. "Next time," you promise, "I'll wake you up. You can be my very grumpy snowplow."

He grins. "That's all I ask."

You take another sip of hot chocolate, then nestle back into his side, listening to the wind howl uselessly against the windows. Outside, the driveway is being swallowed by snow again, but you find you don't really care.

For once, it's not your job to fix it. Not alone, anyway.

You've got your own overprotective, infuriating, wonderful human snowplow for that.

Though in hindsight, the only reason you are currently here is because you picked up the on call shift from a coworker with a sick kid.  Let’s see I can’t just sit here and stare into the abyss until seven am so what can I do instead?… records have been organized and patient charts for tomorrow have been pulled, exam rooms have been cleaned, has anyone gone over inventory recently? You pause for a moment trying to go through dates in your head before ultimately deciding that's what you are going to do to pass the time.

The room where the medical supplies are kept sits towards the back of the clinic and out of sight from the main desk. Just to be on the safe side you bring the clinic phone along so that you don’t miss anyone in need of help.  The next half hour is spent hauling supplies from the back room into the exam rooms. You are forced to stop for a bit when a concerned man calls in with questions about their nephew possibly manifesting his quirk but you were able to provide him with the correct phone number for quirk services. There are enough cotton squares and bandages to get us through the week but I should have it added to the order… we also need more- The subtle click of a door opening sounded so loud in the empty quiet of the clinic and the pained groan that followed instantly had you on alert. Peeking around the edge of the door frame reveals nothing in the hallway for now. You nearly jump out of your skin when a crash shatters the quiet again.

“Where the fuck do they keep it? I don't need much…” From what little information you have gleaned from the current situation, someone in pain has snuck into a twenty four hour clinic… which probably means they are either a druggie looking for a fix or someone from underground.

“Oh I am soo going to regret doing this…” you whispered into the empty air but you are hoping that because there is none of the noise that is usually associated with addicts attempting to rob the place, the person currently in the exam room is someone who can be reasoned with.  As you make your way out of the supply room and into the hall, making sure that your steps are loud, you can hear more of the pained noises.

“Hello? My name is Keele, I’m a nurse for this clinic. Do you need help?”  Everything went dead quiet the moment you called out. Ok this is no different than dealing with a difficult patient, just be prepared to dodge if needed… The door to exam room two sat half closed and with a deep breath to steady your nerves, you knocked twice on the doorframe before pushing the door open.  You are immediately greeted with several crimson knives floating a half inch over all of your vital areas. Though by looking a little more closely at the one pointed towards your face, you realize the knives are actually feathers. Slowly raising your hands up in a show of surrender you tried to explain yourself once more.

“My name is Keele and I am a licensed nurse for this clinic. We are open for service twenty four hours a day which is why I’m here at this time.” You could hear the person behind you snort in disbelief.

“Are you the only one here right now?” he growled

“Yes, Doc is on call during the night shifts.” you allowed your eyes to roam what little you could see of the room taking note of the splatters of blood along the floor and cabinet. “We don't need to call him in depending on what you have going on over there…” Your attempt at turning your head to look at him is met with the feathers pressing closer to you, the sharp edges barely a breath away from your skin.

“Ok! Ok! I’ll stop trying to move. Tell me what you need and I’ll help you find it... unless its the hard stuff… I don't have access to the safe.”

“I need supplies for stitches and bandages…” His breathing is growing more ragged and you can now see even the feathers are starting to tremble with the strain of him trying to play tough. Whoever this is can barely hold it together, he isn't going to be able to take care of himself properly once I give him those items. Time to be the no nonsense nurse and hope it doesn't get me killed.

“Suture kit is in the second drawer and bandaging materials are in the cabinet above. Though frankly I don’t think it's going to be much help to you. Judging from the blood splashed around my exam room and your heavy breathing, you are about to collapse aren't you?” The snarl behind you is borderline animalistic.

“Are you brave or just stupid? Either way it's not going to stop me from killing you once I have what I need.”

“You won’t kill me” despite the situation, your voice is calm and firm. “Killing me serves no purpose other than satisfying whatever primal urge you are feeling right now. Here’s my offer, let me patch you up and get you on your way with antibiotics and pain relievers. In return I don't tell my boss that you attempted to rob us, threatened my life, and made a mess of the clinic. Then as a bonus for your wonderful personality, you may call on me anytime to patch you up when you find yourself on the wrong end of a smashed bottle again.” Mystery man snorts once, twice, before dissolving into full on laughter that ends abruptly with a rather pained ow .

“You know what Kid? I like you~ It’s a deal, just don’t try to fuck me over, it won’t end well for either of us.” When the feathers threatening your life flick away you heave a huge sigh of relief.

“How bad is the wound and where is it located?” Despite the stressful introduction you are all business at this point. Expertly pulling the needed supplies from their resting places and setting them up on the nearby rolling tray for use. You are pulling lidocaine into a separate syringe for use as you turn around from the counter to get a look at him. Oh Shit! Well thank god for learning how to control your facial responses. Nursing school was good for that at least.

Hawks Takami is bleeding in your exam room, sure the news has been on and on about the father-son pair hitting homes and businesses and robbing them blind. But you never expected to see the son in this dirty forgotten corner of the city. Though this close you can see how he gained the moniker of “Hawks”. Besides the bright gold of his eyes and the unique black markings surrounding them, there are hints of blonde feather down framing his face along the hairline and temples. His hair is short in length but despite the fact that it is clear this man has not had a shower recently has a distinct “fluffy” appearance. Pair that with the full crimson wing plumage, thick black talons, and scars across the bridge of his nose and along his cheekbone, he looks like something out of a nature documentary.

“You’re staring”

“I’m trying to figure out where you are bleeding from since you haven't been so kind as to show me. Despite me putting on my best nurse persona for you.” It's a half truth, but he doesn't need to know that.  Groaning in pain he manages to maneuver the edge of the bloody, worn Endeavour hoodie up towards his chin to expose the wound that has been slashed across the edge of his stomach and up his ribs.

“How the fuck are you still standing?! Get that thing off now!” As he fights with the piece of clothing you are adjusting the exam table into a position where he can lie down completely in order to give you full access to the wound. Despite stiffening at your touch, he allows you to support him as he lays down on his uninjured side and adjusts his wings to drape behind him. As you roll the latex gloves over your freshly washed hands, you kick a rolling stool in the general direction of the table and drag your tray along to follow.  

“You are extremely lucky, this could be so much worse than it is.” The wound itself doesn't go too deep, the part that clipped the edge of his abdomen did not break through into the body cavity. Nor did it make it down to the bone where it trails over his ribs.  

“What can I say? I’ve always.. gnk.. been a fortunate bastard. Shit! What the hell are .. gah.. you doing?!”

“Cleaning off all the grime. Give me a minute I’ll numb you with the lidocaine before I start stabbing you.”

“Ha what ever happened to your gentle hands nurse? I thought you were supposed to take my pain away.”

“Gentle went out the window the moment you threatened me and when I recognized who exactly is now laying on my exam table. Now I’m just a little irritated that it's going to take me forever to nail all my belongings down to the floorboards in my apartment because I invited a known thief to bother me whenever he pleases.” He stays mostly silent throughout the procedure aside from a couple of hisses as you inject the numbing agent. You have already placed a handful of stitches into his skin before the silence becomes too oppressive.

“Mind telling me how this happened?”

“How were you able to tell I was slashed by a broken bottle?” You level him with a flat look that has him shifting on the table in discomfort.

“When you have worked in this area for as long as I have you pick up on patterns. Try not to move too much, you’ll tear the stitches before I’m done.” You place a steadying hand across the curve of his hip to get him to settle before continuing to sew the wound up. “I can tell who has been in a bar fight, warning shots, and stupid quirk rivalry battles. Then there are those who I refer to as being Underground. You're not the first to cross my table with those connections but I do need to warn you there are undercover heroes and vigilantes that come here often. They have helped the clinic in the past so we look the other way. That offer is being extended to you as well so long as you keep your troubles far away from the clinic while you are in it, that is the only rule.”   You are finishing up the last few stitches when he speaks up again.

“Some guy at the bar I was relaxing at didn't like the fact I was talking to his woman and that she was enjoying it. Came charging over mad as hell, I was willing to take the blame for it and enjoy a bit of a fist fight, but instead he started hitting her right in front of me. I just reacted, threw the guy halfway across the bar, it was his friend that came in from the side and cut me up like this. The bouncer got involved at that point and kicked everyone out, pointed me towards this place to get help.” You’ve finished stitching him up and have already taped the bandages over the sutures to protect them.

“The bouncer who helped you was probably Hiro, he is a good guy. Try to keep your head down for a little bit or at least until the stitches can come out. Those drunks tend to keep grudges and will not hesitate to take you out for good.” Hawks gingerly maneuvers himself up into a sitting position as you take one final look at your work. Eyeing the dirty hoodie thrown onto the floor with contempt, that is not going anywhere near my sutures.

“Follow me, I need to get you some antibiotics and a clean shirt.”

“What's wrong with my hoodie?” he whines

“It's filthy and those sutures need to stay clean and dry. We keep spare clothes on hand so we should have something I can modify for you.” He follows you carefully back into the supply room completely soundless despite the massive wings on display.

“What is your shirt size usually?” you ask as you rummage through the selection of grey cotton shirts the clinic keeps on hand for these situations.

“Whatever I find that fits honestly.” He shrugs as you regard him in disbelief, taking a critical review of his body type and shape you pull out the size you think will work best.

“Give me a moment to find some scissors and I can cu-” RIP      

“No need~” he chirps as one of his feathers makes two neat cuts in the back of the shirt with practiced ease.

“The bandages need to stay on for at least two days, you can wash around the wound with mild soap and CLEAN water but do not get the sutures wet.” You pause to hand him the medications and a wound care pamphlet “as for the antibiotics, take two tablets tonight and then one once a day until gone. The stitches can be removed after ten days.” As he pulls on the new shirt you quickly step back into the exam room to pick up the sad hoodie from the floor and offer it back to Hawks in the hallway.  

“I hear cold water and hydrogen peroxide are helpful in getting bloodstains out of fabric.”

“It's not the first time this old thing has been soaked in it, I’ll figure something out.” The two of you pause by the back door, you are waiting to see if there is anything else he needs before diving back into the wilds of the city, he on the other hand seems reluctant to leave.

“I did say you could come bother me whenever you needed help…” He turns to you with an odd look in his eyes before seemingly coming to a decision on something. You watch as the hardened persona he projects slides back into place, he gives you a curt nod as thanks before disappearing into the night once more. You think you hear the rustle of wings but turn back into the heart of the clinic and lock the door behind you.

Seven am and Kanna finds you at the front desk getting things set up for the day. The scent of fresh brewed coffee floats from the break room but it fails to hide the scent of the heavy duty cleaner that they use to clean up body fluids.

“Have an interesting shift last night?” she asked as she placed the small paper bag with your favorite muffin inside next to you.

“Hiro sent over another victim of the bar scene, they needed stitches but nothing too crazy. Oh my god this is still warm~”

“Go enjoy your breakfast in the break room. I can get things started up here on my own. I’m pretty sure Dr. Maeda will send you home once they get here in the next fifteen minutes or so. Get a cat nap in so you can make it home safely.” With a mock salute in her direction you scurry off to enjoy the morning peace with a warm breakfast and fresh coffee.

Eight thirty am has you walking up the street to your apartment saying hello to the neighbors who are heading off to work as you are coming home. The hush that falls after the morning commuters have gone is a unique one that often has you standing just outside your door to enjoy it for a moment. You close your eyes to enjoy the warmth of the sun and violently startle when you are shoved into your front door and a loud bang resonates from beside your head. As your eyes snap open you all you can see is a wide, fanged grin and brilliant gold eyes.