#reader pov

“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”

Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”

Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”

Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.

-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink. What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.

Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”

“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”

“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”

Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”

Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”

Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”

Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.

You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.

“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”

Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”

Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.

You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”

“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”

You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”

Roy’s practically glowing. “See? She’s got initiative.”

Jason groans. “You’re unbelievable.”

You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”

Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”

Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”

“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”

Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”

A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.

When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.

You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”

The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.

As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”

Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.

He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”

Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.

Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.

The door chime jingles.

He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”

You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.

“—late,” he finishes flatly.

“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”

Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.

Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”

“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.

Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”

Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.

You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.

He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”

“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.

In neat cursive, you start filling columns— Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs— all in rose-colored ink.

Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”

“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”

Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.

Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.

Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”

“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.

Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.

Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”

“For ambience,” you say.

“It’s a garage.”

“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”

Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”

Roy perks up. “Beer?”

“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”

Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”

“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”

Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”

Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.

“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”

“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.

“That’s because it’s ugly.”

Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.

After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.

An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.

You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.

He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.

Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.

Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.

A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.

Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”

The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.

“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”

You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”

The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.

Roy mutters, “Here we go.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom. “I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”

You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart— SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.

“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.

The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.

Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.

Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.

“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”

You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.

Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.

The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.

Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.

Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”

Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing. The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”

Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.

And then the jocks show up.

The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.

You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”

One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”

You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”

They laugh—exactly the response you wanted. You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”

Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.

As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”

You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.” They swagger out, laughing. The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.

Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.

“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.

You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”

He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”

“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.

You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”

Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”

You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.

Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”

Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.

Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”

Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”

Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”

“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”

Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”

You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”

Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”

Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.

You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”

He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.

“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”

That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.

Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.

“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”

You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.

He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”

“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”

Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.

Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.

Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”

Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”

“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”

Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.

You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.

Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.

“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”

Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”

Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”

Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.

Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.

“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.

He blinks once. “Yeah.”

“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”

He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”

You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”

Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.

The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The day feels longer than it should. It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”

When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.

Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”

Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”

You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”

Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”

Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.

When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”

Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”

“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”

Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”

Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”

You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”

You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.

The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”

Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”

Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”

“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.

“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”

Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”

“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”

They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.

The bathroom door creaks open.

You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.

Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”

Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.

You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”

Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”

Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”

You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.

You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.

You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.

Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”

Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”

Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”

He’s not convinced.

You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.

Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.

When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.

He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”

You blink, confused. “Venturi?”

“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”

You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”

You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.

“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.

You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”

Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”

You tilt your head. “You?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”

You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.

“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”

He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”

You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”

He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.

Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”

You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”

Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.

He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”

You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.

Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.

But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time. He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.

He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.

You’re not alone.

Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.

Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.

He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance. Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.

And then you move first.

You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.

He blinks. “What?”

Pssst.

The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.

Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”

He’s half-blind, reaching for you.

Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.

He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.

“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”

The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.

Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.

You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”

Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.

Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”

Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”

Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”

The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.

A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.

You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”

Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

You arch a brow. “On the bike?”

“On the bike.”

You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”

He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.

The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.

He’s in trouble. He knows it

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.

You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”

Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”

That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.

“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”

He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.

“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”

You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.

Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.

Series Info: Title: Starlight Princess POV: Second-person (You x Poe Dameron) Genre: Action, Romance, Drama, Force lore, Canon Divergence Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader Warnings: Canon-typical violence, emotional trauma, pregnancy, slow-burn, Force visions

Chapters by Act:

Act I: Burning Stars and Broken Light

(The Force Awakens)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp.5 Chp.6 Chp.7

Act II: Echoes of Rebellion

(The Last Jedi)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7

Act III: Seeds of a New Dawn

Chp. 1 Chp.2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7

Act IV: The Rise of the Starlight Princess

(The Rise of Skywalker)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7 Chp. 8 Chp. 9 Chp. 10 Chp. 11 Chp. 12

Epilogue

♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡

RESERVATION RUN-IN

— Nina, 24, new Ferrari junior marketing coordinator, still figuring out the cafeteria coffee machine, and definitely not ready for what she saw at dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebratory night.

Nina had survived her first week at Ferrari. Five whirlwind days of press releases, brand decks, and learning how to properly pronounce Scuderia. Her small onboarding cohort decided to treat themselves to dinner at a little tucked-away restaurant in Modena. A place so charming it made pasta feel sacred.

They had just started on their second round of drinks when Marco, the guy from media partnerships, nearly choked on his Aperol.

“Holy shit. Don’t look now. Or actually, look. Just not all at once.”

Too late.

Every head turned toward the restaurant entrance, where a man in soft navy trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was stepping in with casual ease. Tousled brown curls, sun-kissed skin, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Leclerc.

But it wasn’t the sighting itself that stunned them. It was the fact that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was tucked into his side, hand interlaced with his. Her long, sundress swayed slightly as they walked. She looked relaxed. Happy. Gorgeous.

Charles pulled out her chair for her, kissed her cheek before sitting down. Then, like it was habit, reached halfway across the table with an open palm. She placed hers on top without hesitation. Their wedding bands sparkled subtly in the candlelight.

“Is that his wife?” someone whispered.

“He’s married?!”

“I thought she was a model.”

“She looks…normal. Like us.”

But she didn’t look ordinary. Not to Charles. Not by the way he watched her talk, leaning in like every word was the only one worth hearing. Not by the way he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it was muscle memory.

Nina tried to focus on her gnocchi. Failed.

At one point, Y/N laughed, head tilted back, nose scrunched, full-body kind of joy. Charles mirrored it instantly, a low laugh that sounded nothing like the polite one he used in press conferences. This one was real. Unfiltered. Like he hadn’t laughed that way in weeks.

Their food arrived. They shared everything. He offered her a bite, raised an eyebrow when she took too much, then immediately forked over another taste. She stole his drink. He didn’t mind.

When she got up to use the restroom, a waiter tried to clear her plate.

Charles stopped him with a soft, “Non ancora. She’s coming back.”

A few minutes later, Nina herself bumped into Y/N by the sink.

“Oh! Sorry,” Y/N said immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. You okay?”

Nina nodded, starstruck. “Yeah. You just…you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m still getting used to wearing heels again.”

She complimented Nina’s dress before ducking into a stall. Completely normal. Completely kind.

Back at the table, the mood between Charles and Y/N had shifted. Softer. Closer.

Her fingers trailed along the stem of her wine glass. His hand rested low on the back of her chair. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his eyes darken instantly.

A beat later, he flagged down the server, dropped a stack of bills with zero ceremony, and stood to help her into her coat.

Their exit was quiet, but Nina caught it all—the way Charles held her hand like it was something sacred. The way he looked at her like no one else in the room mattered. The way her laugh floated back toward them as they disappeared through the door.

The table sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then Marco muttered, “Forget TikTok edits. That was the real thing.”

And Nina, with stars in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face, finally took a sip of her now-warm wine and whispered, “I think I just witnessed a rom-com in real life.”

THE RAINY TRAIN RIDE TO MONACO

— Henri, 72, retired art teacher, hobbyist painter, and lifelong romantic with a sketchbook full of strangers.

The train rocked gently as rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm. Henri sat by the window, sketchpad in hand, capturing the silhouettes of the passengers around him.

He wasn’t looking for anything special. Just shapes. Light and shadow. Faces in thought.

But then he saw them.

A young couple seated across the aisle. The man in a navy sweater and loafers, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman tucked into his side. She had her knees drawn up, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed, their fingers lazily intertwined.

Henri watched them for a long while.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t scroll on phones. They just... were.

So he sketched. Quietly. Carefully. The tilt of her head, the curve of his hand on her hip, the ease in their closeness. Love looked different in every face he drew, but this one, it felt familiar.

When the conductor called out Monaco as the next stop, the man gently nudged the woman awake with a kiss to her temple. She stirred, blinking herself back into the world, then smiled up at him with a look that could warm marble.

Henri stood and approached them slowly, sketchbook in hand.

“Excuse me,” he said in accented English.

They looked up, surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued, turning the book around to reveal the drawing. “You two... you reminded me of me and my wife. Many, many years ago. On this same train.”

Y/N blinked at the portrait. “Oh. Oh wow… this is beautiful.”

Charles smiled, touched. “Merci. That’s incredibly kind.”

Henri smiled back. “Hold on to each other. Make time to listen more than you speak. Kiss even when you’re tired. And never, ever stop choosing each other, even on the hard days.”

He handed them the sketch, carefully torn from the spiral binding. “You look like you’re just beginning something worth everything.”

They thanked him quietly as he returned to his seat.

When the train stopped, Charles tucked the drawing carefully into his bag. As they stepped onto the platform, the rain still gentle, Y/N looped her arm through his.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Charles nodded, a little quiet. “It was. I think I want to grow old like that.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

He gave her a look so full of affection it made her chest ache. “Only with you.”

They walked on, the smell of rain in the air, hearts warm beneath their coats, a paper memory folded between them.

MEDIA DAY MADNESS

— Gianna, 31, freelance makeup artist, first Ferrari gig, not mentally prepared to witness Charles Leclerc in husband mode.

The media room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras, lights, clipboards, producers pacing like the fate of the universe rested on the exact timing of a five-second promo shot. Gianna was on her third espresso and her second emergency beauty blender, and it was only 9:12 a.m.

She wasn’t new to chaos. She’d done shoots for footballers, actors, even a royal once. But this, Formula 1 pre-season media day, was its own monster.

Her assignment: keep Charles Leclerc looking like he hadn’t just stepped off a red-eye from Monaco.

He was scheduled for his final touch-up after a round of interviews, but when the call sheet hit a ten-minute delay, Gianna found herself camped near the back hallway, grateful for the silence.

That’s when she heard laughter.

Not the stiff PR kind. The kind that made you want to smile even if you didn’t know the joke.

She glanced up just in time to see him.

Charles. Not in front of a camera. Not in fireproofs. Just… Charles. Hoodie pulled over his curls. One hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other linked tightly with a woman walking beside him.

She was half-laughing, half-whispering something into his shoulder, and he was clearly trying (and failing) not to laugh back. It was the kind of laugh that made him bite his lip. Crinkle his eyes. Lean in like her words were gravity.

Y/N.

Gianna had heard her name floating around all morning. She wasn’t crew, but everyone knew she was coming.

The wife.

She didn’t expect her to be so… casual. In jeans and white sneakers, with her hair loosely tied and the kind of face that made natural look like magic.

They disappeared around the corner for a moment. When they reemerged, they were each holding a croissant, whispering like kids playing hooky.

Charles was smiling at her like there weren’t fifty cameras waiting. Like he didn’t have the weight of an entire nation on his back. Like nothing else existed.

When they passed by, Gianna tried not to stare.

Charles nodded politely. Y/N caught her gaze and smiled warmly.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, motioning toward the pastries. “We were on a very serious mission.”

“Vital carbs,” Charles added solemnly.

Gianna laughed. “Well, you look a lot more relaxed than everyone else here.”

Charles shrugged. “That’s her fault.”

He looked at Y/N like he meant it. Like that ten-minute delay had been a gift.

Back in the makeup chair minutes later, Gianna set to work while Charles scrolled through his phone.

“Can you hold still for just a sec?” she asked.

He nodded, put the phone down.

Gianna caught a glimpse of the screen as he locked it.

It was a photo.

Of Y/N. Wearing his hoodie. Holding the coffee she clearly didn’t want to share. Smiling at the camera like he was the only person who’d ever made her laugh that hard.

She didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

“You really love her.”

Charles blinked, surprised, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Gianna stepped back, brush in hand, heart weirdly full.

She’d done hundreds of faces. Watched hundreds of men step into their public personas. But in that quiet ten-minute window, she’d seen something else entirely.

Not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver.

Just Charles. Someone’s husband. Someone who looked at his wife like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

Gianna made a mental note to text her sister:

You wouldn’t believe who I saw today. But more than that… you wouldn’t believe how he looked at her.

RAIN DELAY AT SILVERSTONE

— Freya, 22, student photographer, soaked to the bone, and emotionally unprepared for the Leclercs in the rain.

The sky had opened up over Silverstone in biblical proportions.

Freya was soaked, her camera strap sticking to her neck, her waterproof jacket failing miserably, and her feet dangerously close to pruning in her boots. The race had been delayed indefinitely, the grandstands were buzzing with energy and impatience, and umbrellas popped up like mushrooms across the paddock.

She was huddled under the eave of the Ferrari hospitality tent, trying to dry her lens, when she spotted them.

Charles Leclerc and his wife, walking hand in hand through the paddock like the rain had been invited.

No umbrella. No sprinting for cover. Just strolling.

Y/N was wearing an oversized Ferrari rain jacket—clearly his, if the way it swallowed her was anything to go by—and she kept tugging the hood back so she could look up at the sky.

Charles said something, and she laughed. Head thrown back, cheeks flushed, soaking wet and absolutely glowing.

Freya raised her camera instinctively. Not to shoot, not professionally. Just to remember.

Charles glanced up, spotted her, and offered a small smile. Not the PR smile. Not the podium smile.

Just… soft.

Y/N nudged him and whispered something.

He grinned. Turned toward her. Tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her.

Slow. Steady. Rain clinging to their lashes. The kind of kiss that looked like a thank you. Like a promise.

Freya’s heart thudded.

Later, she spotted them again near the garages. Y/N stood on the edge of the pit lane, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water pool across the tarmac.

Charles came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“I always liked the rain,” he said quietly.

She leaned back. “Why?”

“Because it slows everything down. Even racing.”

She turned in his arms, pressed her forehead to his. “You hate slowing down.”

“Except for you,” he said.

Freya snapped the photo before she could second guess it.

Back home, she kept the shot for herself—framed it even. Because no one else needed to see it.

Not the fans. Not the sponsors. Not the media.

It wasn’t for them.

It was for the kind of love that didn’t need a checkered flag. Just a rain delay and the right person to walk slow with.

THE PLAYGROUND SURPRISE

— Clara, 27, nanny with a mild caffeine addiction and a wild 3-year-old charge, not expecting to make a new mom friend.

“Hi! Is this seat taken?”

Clara looked up from her iced coffee, blinking in the midday Monaco sun. A woman about her age was standing beside the park bench, a toddler on her hip and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Nope, you’re good!” Clara scooted over, wiping condensation from the bench.

“Thank you. I’m Y/N, and this little troublemaker is Colette.”

The toddler flashed a big grin, curls bouncing as she waved. “Hi!”

“I’m Clara. That chaos gremlin over there on the slide is Matteo. I nanny for his family.”

Y/N smiled wide, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. “God bless you. Seriously.”

“Right back at you,” Clara replied, amused.

As their kids played, they fell into easy conversation. Clara found herself surprised by how down-to-earth Y/N was. She swore like a sailor, offered Clara half her granola bar without asking, and immediately launched into a rant about the judgmental moms at the other park by the marina.

“Swear to God, if one more woman side-eyes Colette’s snacks or asks me if I’ve considered yoga for ‘postpartum toning,’ I’m going to fake my own death,” Y/N muttered.

Clara barked out a laugh. “Okay, where were you two months ago when I was trying to survive toddler teething alone?”

“Probably crying over a lost pacifier under the fridge,” Y/N replied without hesitation.

It was easy. Uncomplicated. Until Clara noticed the tote bag.

“Wait—is that the limited edition Gucci monogram tote?” she asked, eyes wide.

Y/N looked down, rolled her eyes fondly. “Unfortunately. My husband got it for me on ‘International Stay-at-Home Parent Day,’ which is fake, by the way. He just knows I yell if he buys me expensive stuff for no reason.”

Clara laughed but clocked the massive ring on Y/N’s finger next. It was gorgeous. Eye-watering.

Before she could say anything, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She picked it up without looking. “Hi, baby. Yeah. The park near the bakery. She’s on the slide in the pink overalls.”

Y/N hung up and looked at Clara. “My husband’s coming by. He has meetings later and wanted to see Colette before bedtime.”

“That’s really sweet,” Clara said, thinking of her own boss—who couldn’t be bothered to FaceTime.

Y/N just smiled, a bit dreamy. “Yeah. He’s really good to us.”

A few minutes later, Clara heard the soft rumble of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. She turned just in time to see a sleek Ferrari park like it belonged there.

Out stepped Charles Leclerc.

Clara froze.

Hair tousled, sunglasses on, casual hoodie and joggers like it wasn’t Monaco’s golden boy striding toward them. The man her employers followed like religion. The one with posters in every other shop window.

He didn’t glance at the bench. His eyes were on Colette.

“Hi, mon ange,” he called out. Colette squealed and sprinted toward him, launching into his arms. Charles lifted her with ease, doting and soft.

Y/N stood to greet him with a kiss. He tucked her into his side immediately, one hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to rub her back like it was second nature.

“Oh—Charles, this is Clara. We’ve been bonding over snack packs and judgmental moms.”

Clara tried not to choke. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Charles gave her a kind smile and nodded. “You’ve got the good bench spot. Shade always disappears by 4.”

They chatted a few minutes more. Colette returned to the jungle gym, this time with Charles trailing behind like her personal security.

Clara turned to Y/N, eyebrows high. “So… you’re married to Charles Leclerc?”

Y/N snorted. “I know. Doesn’t fit the vibe, right?”

“Honestly, you’re way cooler than I expected a Formula 1 wife to be.”

Y/N winked. “Don’t tell the other ones. They still think I know what a diffuser does.”

Clara would end up texting her sister that night: Met the love of Charles Leclerc’s life today. Spoiler alert: it’s not F1. It’s her.

THE STADIUM GLANCE

— Lina, 25, team hospitality staffer at Ferrari, trying to keep her head down… until she catches sight of the man who once changed her life.

Lina didn’t mind her job. She liked the behind-the-scenes chaos, the espresso machines, the rush of getting everything just right. What she didn’t like was how invisible it sometimes made her feel.

Except once.

One night after a long debrief, she’d been hiding in a tucked-away hallway outside the paddock garage, trying to stop herself from crying after her student loan payment failed to go through again.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice—calm, accented, quiet.

She looked up to find Charles Leclerc.

She was horrified. Embarrassed. Tried to brush it off.

But he stayed.

Asked again.

She broke. Told him everything in a flood of panicked breath: about school, money, her brother she helped support.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out his phone, typed for a moment, and told her to check her email.

There was a Ferrari scholarship grant in her name. Paid. Approved.

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

He never mentioned it again.

Lina never told a soul. She didn’t want to cheapen it by turning it into gossip.

----

Months later, Lina was at a Monaco football match with her cousin, box seats, courtesy of a friend of a friend. She wasn’t expecting much.

Until she saw the Ferrari suite next door.

Just two people inside.

Charles.

And a woman.

Y/N.

She’d never seen him like that.

Not on a podium. Not in the garage. Not in full sponsor-mode.

Just… soft.

Y/N was visibly pregnant, cradling her bump in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Charles had his arm slung over the back of her chair, pressed so close it looked like he’d never moved.

They laughed at something together. Y/N nudged him with her shoulder and leaned back against his chest. Charles responded by wrapping both arms around her middle and dropping his head onto her shoulder.

For a full five minutes, he didn’t move.

Just rubbed small circles over the fabric stretched across her belly. Pressed a kiss to her temple. Let her feed him bites of cotton candy like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Lina watched, heart caught in her throat.

At one point, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Y/N mid-laugh. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and locked the screen like it was something private. Sacred.

Lina had to blink back tears.

Toward the end of the match, Y/N looked sleepy. Charles helped her put on his jacket, held her hand while she stood, and tucked a hand under her belly with almost reverence as they exited the suite.

They never saw her watching.

But Lina never forgot.

She still has that grant email in her inbox. Still opens it on hard days. Not for the money.

But for what it meant:

he wandered through the orchard, his footsteps soft on the grass until he came across a tree with a swing hanging low. settling onto it, he swayed gently back and forth, eyes fixed on the house beyond. even under the first quarter moon, draped in a thick fog that swallowed the light, the manor stood imposing and alive. its sturdy bricks, darkened by time, held three solid floors—and maybe a fourth, if the attic windows weren’t just for show. a greenhouse clung to one side, its lantern flickering weakly before fading as its occupant departed. the house breathed with life, full of warmth and laughter—a family woven together in quiet happiness.

remmick admired the house for a moment longer before three children burst out from the shadows, their laughter bright and wild in the cool night air. they moved with a speed that was almost too swift, their footsteps light and sure—a clear sign the family within wasn’t entirely human. before he could slip away, they spotted him, their eyes gleaming with mischief as they clumsily but determinedly surrounded him, cutting off his escape.

the three children came bounding up to remmick, their footsteps light and quick like whispers on the grass. their eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and mischief as they closed the distance, circling him with unrestrained energy.

“hey, mister,” the smallest one piped up, tilting her head with a cheeky grin, “what’s your name?”

remmick’s lips curled into a crooked smile, “they call me remmick,” he said smoothly, his voice low and teasing, “and who might you speedy three be?”

the tallest girl crossed her arms, a playful challenge glinting in her eyes, “we be the fastest runners in the orchard. bet you can’t catch us.”

he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise, “oh? a challenge already? careful, or i might just take you up on it.”

the third child, a boy with wild curls, leaned in, sniffing subtly, “you ain’t from ‘round here, is you? you smell… funny.”

remmick winked, the corner of his mouth twitching, “funny how? like cinnamon and danger?”

“not funny haha… funny weird,” the girl replied with a coy raise of her brow.

“weird?” remmick leaned closer, his gaze sharp but amused, “i prefer intriguing but tell me—what secrets do you little orchard ghosts hide?”

the smallest child exchanged a glance with her siblings before smirking, “maybe we’ll tell you… if you’re nice.”

“now that’s tempting,” remmick murmured, voice softening, “i’m a great listener. maybe i’ll stick around and find out.”

the tallest girl’s expression hardened slightly, “just don’t try anything weird, ‘kay? our family don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

remmick’s grin deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “noted. but maybe i’m exactly the kind of stranger you need.”

suddenly, the main door burst open and a taller figure rushed down the steps with urgent strides. you moved with the same quickness as the children, closing the distance in moments. three names were called—mara, sloane and orion—with urgency. your eyes scanned the trio before locking onto remmick. he could hear the steady rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart, and feel the way your muscles subtly shifted—tense but beginning to relax, ready for whatever came next.

“alright, you three,” you announced, keeping your voice light but firm, “auntie talia’s doin’ bed checks. if i get reprimanded for yous being out again, i swear i ain’t taking the fall this time.”

that did the trick. their faces dropped into guilt, and they scrambled to leave, muttering apologies under their breath. then, in a cheerful, too-casual chorus, they turned back and called out:

“bye, remmick!”

remmick felt the chill in your blood like a sudden drop in the air. his eyes studied your serious expression, the worry unmistakable. your form matched your face—arms crossed tightly over your chest, legs set shoulder-width apart. you weren’t completely defensive, but far from careless, radiating a tense calm that kept him on edge. actually, he thought it made you quite attractive. clearly, you were one with undying loyalty.

“you got business here?” you asked, voice low and steady, eyes narrowing as you sized him up. every instinct in you prickled, like a storm gathering just beyond the tree line. he shook his head slowly, offering a casual shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“not at all,” he said smoothly, “just passin’ through. new to the area, saw a swing, ain’t realize it was in your front yard. my apologies, miss…?” he trailed off, waiting for your name—but the hesitation in his voice felt deliberate, like he was testing the waters, sizing you up.

you ignored the bait, cutting straight to the point, “you part of anything? any groups, clans…” your tone carried weight—a challenge wrapped in calm steel.

remmick caught it immediately. he shook his head, voice tightening with a flicker of offense, “miss.”

he took a step back, hands rising in a peaceful gesture, “hand on my heart, cross it and hope to die—i mean no physical, spiritual, or mental harm. especially the discriminatory kind. no way.”

you sized him up, eyes sharp and steady, “why’re you really here?” you asked, voice low.

remmick’s smile flickered, like a candle in the wind. fierce, beautiful, and not easily fooled. he swallowed the pull in his chest, “like i said, just passing through,” he reminded, “but i guess fate’s got a funny way of introducing itself.”

you crossed your arms, skeptical, “passing through or looking for something?”

he ilaughed softly, a hint of something darker beneath the sound, “maybe a little of both. people say this place has a history—roots that go deep. i’m curious.”

your gaze didn’t soften, “curiosity can get you hurt.”

remmick nodded slowly, the weight of his own thoughts settling. curiosity’s dangerous—especially when it’s about her, “maybe. but sometimes, the risk is worth it.”

you took a step closer, voice low and steady, “just remember, some risks don’t come with second chances.”

he met your gaze, the smile slipping into something more serious, “i’m learning.”

remmick’s gaze flickered down to the obsidian pendant resting against your chest. his breath hitched as a darker thought slipped in — the curve of your neck, the way your collarbone peeked beneath your shirt. what would it feel like to trace that line, to see if you’d shiver?

he cleared his throat, trying to steady himself, “learning’s a dangerous game too, but sometimes the stakes make it worth the trouble,” he said, voice low and a little rough, hiding the pull in his chest.

you narrowed your eyes, unamused, “i’m not in the habit of handing out chances.”

he smirked, stepping just a fraction closer, letting the tension thicken, “maybe i ain’t askin’ for chances. maybe i’m offerin’ you somethin’ else. somethin’ worth the risk.”

you were enough to give him a pulse back, the phantom feeling of it quickening raced inside him. she’s fire and ice, and god help me if i’m stupid enough to get burned.

you held your ground, eyes never leaving his, “you should go, remmick. while i’m still in a generous mood.”

he chuckled softly, the sound curling at the edges, “guess that’s my cue, then.”

he took a slow step back, hands raised in mock surrender, “you got bite… i like that.”

“don’t get used to it,” you reply coolly, but there was the faintest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

his gaze lingered for just a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else—or maybe commit your face to memory—before turning toward the orchard, the fog swallowing his figure with every step.

“see you around,” he called over his shoulder, voice low and amused.

you didn’t respond.

remmick slipped back into the orchard, weaving between the trees as the fog clung thick around him. his thoughts kept circling you—someone fierce, with a fire that didn’t back down or bend. the more he thought about it, the harder it became to focus. could he gain control over that wild spirit? maybe. or maybe he’d let you keep that edge—it only made the pull stronger, the tension more intoxicating. it was a dangerous kind of fascination, one that stirred something dark and undeniably electric inside him.

would you bare your teeth the closer he got to your core? would that fire in your chest flare into fury, daring him to come closer, to test the edges of your control—or would something in you shift? would you soften, just slightly, enough for him to find a way in, to press up against all that tension you held like armor?

he couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you. about the way your gaze didn’t flinch, the way your voice had weight and warning. it thrilled him. not in a sweet, romantic way, but in a way that lit something reckless beneath his skin. he wanted to see if that heat in you burned just as bright up close. would you stay fierce, push back, make him work for every breath between you—or would you yield, slowly, inch by guarded inch?

he didn’t want obedience. he wanted resistance, the kind that made every moment feel earned. he imagined it—your defiance, your fire, your control barely slipping. would you let him see that part of you? or would he have to tear it from your clenched hands, dig into the marrow of you just to taste the truth?

either way, he wasn’t looking for softness. not really. but the idea of watching you flicker between fight and surrender—that stayed with him, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

remmick’s thoughts drifted to the obsidian strung around your neck, the way it caught the moonlight like it was forged from the night itself. any creature worth their salt knew what that meant. grounding. restraint. a tether between the beast and the bones it lived inside.

he’d been around—across continents, through cities older than most bloodlines—and never once had he seen someone wear obsidian casually. that stone wasn’t for decoration. it was for control. survival.

you wore it like a warning, like a lock on a door too dangerous to open. and that, more than anything, intrigued him. because if you needed that kind of restraint... he couldn’t help but wonder what happened when you didn’t use it.

his boots sank softly into the orchard floor as he moved, every step muffled by moss and fallen leaves. the air was thicker tonight—heavier, laced with that same scent he couldn’t stop noticing, the one that clung to you like smoke to skin.

remmick paused at the edge of a clearing, gaze lifting to the house beyond the trees. windows glowed like distant lanterns, warm and pulsing. life radiated from inside—laughter, footsteps, the occasional bark of a dog or scrape of a chair.

but his eyes weren’t on the house. they were on the pendant in his mind, the image of it nestled against your collarbone. obsidian. it made him curious. no—hungry.

a family like yours didn’t welcome strangers easily. and yet, somehow, he’d slipped past the first gate. just barely.

he smiled to himself, slow and knowing.

“let’s see how deep the roots go,” he murmured.

then, with a hand brushed against the trunk of an old fig tree, he melted back into the orchard’s shadows. watching. waiting.

back at the house, the wind shifted.

you stood in the upstairs hallway, staring out a narrow window that overlooked the orchard. the fog hadn’t cleared. if anything, it pressed tighter against the land, swallowing the trees until they looked like silhouettes drawn in ash. something in your chest tugged—a slow, sour pull that wouldn’t ease.

your pendant was warm against your skin. not hot, but pulsing. responding.

you didn’t like that.

behind you, the floor creaked softly. it was one of your sisters, barefoot and half-asleep, rubbing her eyes. she mumbled something about needing water, but you hardly heard her. your focus stayed out there, on the dark line where the trees met the field.

he was still close. you couldn’t see him, but you felt it.

downstairs, the front door was locked, bolted in three places. but that meant very little. doors didn’t stop what came through the orchard, not for long

you turned from the window, catching your reflection in the glass—tense, tired, eyes sharper than you meant them to be. this wasn’t over. not even close.

and tomorrow night, the moon would be fuller.

remmick slipped through the orchard under the cloak of night, the fog wrapping around him like a shroud. the moon hung low, its silver light filtered through the dense mist, casting eerie shadows that danced between the gnarled branches. the house loomed ahead, silent and stoic, its dark windows like watchful eyes.

he paused near the swing, fingers brushing the worn rope. the silence pressed in on him, heavier than before. no laughter, no footsteps—just the soft rustle of leaves.

his mind churned, thoughts tangled between fascination and frustration. you with the obsidian pendant—the fierce fire behind your eyes—haunted him more than he cared to admit. you were a puzzle wrapped in danger, and every step closer only deepened his intrigue.

he wasn’t here for greetings or excuses. no, he was here to stake his claim, to test the boundaries of this quiet world. and maybe, just maybe, to see if you’d let him in.

remmick’s eyes caught a splash of color at the base of a nearby tree—speckles of water hemlocks, their petals a silky white against the dark earth. the flowers were put together and tame, standing out naturally, just like the woman who lived here. without thinking, he bent down and carefully gathered a small bouquet, fingers brushing the soft petals. a quiet gesture, but one full of meaning—bold, but simple, impossible to ignore.

remmick stepped closer to the house, the fog curling around his boots as he approached the front door. he raised his hand and knocked—firm, deliberate, no hesitation. no welcome mat lay beneath the door, a quiet sign of caution. smart, he thought, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. this wasn’t a place that invited strangers in easily. good. just the way he liked it.

remmick heard soft shuffling on the other side of the door—several voices, one mature and steady, the others light and childish. the heavy, weathered door creaked open slowly, the knock trembling with the motion. a warm glow spilled out, illuminating remmick’s face as your silhouette stepped into view. behind you, the three children from yesterday peeked around your legs, their curious eyes wide. all of you were draped in nightgowns, the softness of the fabric catching the light, a striking contrast to the tension lingering in the air.

“mister remmick!” the trio called out, their voices bright as they stepped forward eagerly. you quickly raised a hand, blocking their way, your eyes narrowing sharply at him. remmick didn’t flinch—if anything, a crooked, tender smile played across his lips, unshaken by your warning.

you glance down at the trio, your voice firm but gentle, “yous go on up to bed. i’ll be up there soon myself.” mara, sloane, and orion let out a collective sigh but begin their slow, reluctant climb upstairs. you shift, blocking the doorway with your body, leaning against the frame as your eyes lock onto remmick’s, “why’re you back? i wasn’t exactly friendly.”

remmick shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips, “i brought you flowers.”

he extends the bouquet toward you, but you instinctively recoil. his smile falters for a brief moment, “you don’t like them?” you swallow, keeping your voice steady, “funnily enough, i do—er, they are pretty… but i’m allergic.”

remmick’s smile softens, a hint of genuine regret in his voice, “would’ve picked you something else if i’d known.” you wave a dismissive hand, cool but casual, “don’t worry about it, probably wouldn’t have accepted them anyway.”

he scratches the back of his neck, his stance shifting uneasily as his eyes flicker behind him, scanning the shadows like he’s looking for something—or someone. tough crowd, he thinks quietly, the challenge only making him more intrigued.

you cross your arms, eyeing him, “what’s the point of coming back?”

remmick shrugs, voice smooth like a slow drawl, “i figured it’s polite to check in. plus, places like this... well, they tend to keep their groundin’ spirits close.”

you frown, unsure if he’s joking or not, “grounding spirits?”

he nods, almost like it’s obvious, “yeah. keeps things steady when the world gets shaky. you can feel it here—that pull, that hum beneath everythin’.”

you shift your weight, suddenly aware of how close he stands, “you know a lot about this place?”

he smiles, a little too knowing, “i pick up things. better safe than sorry.”

you huff, humourless, “ain’t nothing safe here at night, i can assure you.”

remmick smirks, eyes flickering over your pendant, “that’s a striking necklace—where’d you get it?”

you shift, wary under his gaze, “family. been with us for generations.”

he nods slowly, voice low, almost knowing, “some things are better left undisturbed, huh?”

you meet his eyes, a flicker of suspicion rising, “maybe. depends on who’s asking.”

remmick nods slowly, stepping back with a lazy sway as his gaze drifts over the manor, taking it all in, “be careful with that. they break real easy.”

you give a short nod, voice flat with boredom, “right.”

then his eyes snap back to yours, glowing faintly. a flash of gold turned red, “i’m serious.”

you catch your breath, dismissing the warning. stepping firmly inside, you cut through the air, “you need to leave. now.”

“thought we were havin’ a good one on one,” remmick says, his frown mocking, almost playful.

you shake your head, voice sharp, “i know what you are. you don’t belong here.”

remmick raises a brow and chuckles darkly, “well, guess i blew my cover—peachy keen, huh?” he runs a hand down his face, smirking, “but you ain’t exactly ordinary yourself. this beautiful family o’ yours? yous somethin’ else. more than human… or maybe less.”

"i think we’re perfectly normal," you hiss, voice urgent and clipped. your arm shoots out, finger aimed dead at his chest, "now, if you don’t turn around in the next five seconds, i’ll scream loud enough to wake the dead. my brothers’ll be out here with rifles loaded full of silver, and that’s if my daddy doesn’t get to you first."

remmick lifts his hands, instinctive, and eases back down the stone steps. your gaze pins him in place even as he retreats. he knows you mean it—every word, every edge in your voice. but beneath the threat, he hears something else. the rush of your blood, not with fear, but with thrill. it’s eager, alive, and it unsettles him more than any weapon could.

the door shuts, and the light cuts out almost immediately, leaving the manor in total darkness. remmick stares at the door for a few seconds longer before turning away and heading back down into the orchard.

you’re out later than yesterday. remmick knows because he can smell you before he sees you. you wander the evening by yourself carrying two full paper bags. it’s the time where the sunlight dims, making way for not quite the moon but the darker sky that comes before just as the clock tower strikes four and remmick is more confident going out while it’s still predominantly daytime.

you sense him before he can fall into step with you—an instinct, like the shift in air pressure before a storm. you stop short, the weight of your bags swinging slightly as you whip around to face him. your jaw is tight, nostrils flared, every inch of you drawn sharp.

“you need to leave me alone.”

the words hit with force, but remmick doesn’t flinch. he barely pauses. his gaze drops to your arms, full to the point of imbalance—paper bags creasing under your fingers, a book clutched against your hip, a jacket slipping from the crook of your elbow.

he lifts an eyebrow, then says, calm as ever, “looks like you need help.”

his tone is maddeningly casual, like this is a normal conversation, like he hasn’t followed you three blocks without invitation. his eyes linger too long—not in a way that’s leering, but in a way that suggests he still doesn’t understand he’s not supposed to look at you like that. like you’re something soft, not someone already burning.

"i’ve managed this far,” you say with a shrug, arrogance tucked into the lift of your chin. the bags shift as you adjust your grip, rustling like they’re protesting too, “i’ll be fine. it’s just the orchard.”

your voice lands cool, dismissive, but your cheek betrays you—caught gently between your teeth, tongue pressing against it in a motion too practiced to notice. a nervous habit you’ve adapted to.

remmick moves before you can stop him—smooth, unbothered, like he’s done it a hundred times in his head. his hand slips between your elbow and the worn paperback balanced against your hip, sliding it out with an easy finesse. the cover bends slightly under his fingers, but he doesn’t fumble.

before the protest even rises in your throat, his other hand catches the edge of your jacket just as it slips from your arm, pinching the collar like it’s something delicate. like it matters to him, somehow.

he holds both items up in one hand, smug like he just pulled off a magic trick.

“you’re juggling them like you’re in a one-woman circus,” he says, cocking his head, “i figured i’d step in before you started tossin’ flaming knives.”

the smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it—just the corner, just enough for him to notice. and of course he notices.

“there it is,” he grins, voice a little softer now, “knew you had a smile somewhere under all that pride.”

you look away, cheeks warming, but don’t ask for the book back.

you carry on in silence, the only sounds the crunch of gravel beneath your feet and the occasional rustle of shifting bags. the sun dips low behind the trees, casting long, reaching shadows that stretch across the path like fingers trying to catch hold of something.

you notice how remmick keeps drifting—edging toward the shadows as they lengthen, then stepping back into the light, only to veer sideways again as if testing the boundary. it’s subtle at first, like he’s just restless, but then it happens again. and again.

the way he keeps dodging the shifting light, weaving in and out like the shadows are playing tag with him, starts to amuse you. there’s something oddly graceful about it, like he can’t help but move with the world around him.

you don’t say anything—just watch from the corner of your eye as he side-steps a narrow band of light, lips pursed like he's pretending it doesn’t matter.

he catches you staring once, eyebrows lifting, but he doesn’t explain himself. just smirks and keeps walking.

night finally settles by the time you both reach the patch of water hemlocks. in the dim light, they look almost spectral—tall, pale stalks rising from the damp earth like they’ve been summoned rather than grown.

the ground has replaced them. where remmick had pulled them from the root, there's no sign of disturbance—no broken stems, no torn soil. they’ve returned, impossibly upright, as if his hands had never touched them.

the air is colder here. wetter. thick with the hum of unseen things.

you veer off instinctively, avoiding the patch the way remmick avoided the sun. not rushed, not obvious—just a quiet, deliberate drift to the side, like your body knows better than to draw a straight line through something that remembers.

he follows you, quiet and steady, until you get to the swing.

it creaks gently in the wind—an old thing, strung up between two thick trees, swaying like it remembers someone long gone. you hesitate, eyes fixed on it, before turning to him.

“this is where we part,” you acknowledge, voice even,“thank you for holding my things for me.”

remmick doesn’t hand them back. instead, he frowns like you’ve skipped a step, like the script you’re reading from isn’t the one he memorized.

“i’d feel better if i walked you to your door,” he insists. there’s a grin on his lips, but it doesn’t soften the flash in his eyes—sharp and unnatural, catching the moonlight like it’s being reflected from something deeper beneath his skin.

this is his hour. his quiet, silver-lit kingdom.

you shake your head, a firm motion, grounded and unshaken, “i’m fine.”

he sighs, not in defeat but in that low, deliberate way people do when they’re choosing patience.

“you sure your family’d be alright with you coming home alone? i imagine they’re worried—out this late ‘n all.”

you nod, slow and sardonic, “they’d be angry if i let a man walk me to my door. a white man too? gosh, they’d be devastated.”

remmick chuckles at that, the sound low and amused, “ain’t no need to bring skin into it,” he murmurs, stepping forward, “i’ll leave.”

you barely register the movement—he’s already there, draping your coat around your shoulders with a strange gentleness, fingers grazing your collarbone for the briefest moment. then, smoothly, he slides your book into the coat’s too-small pocket.

“‘s a tight squeeze,” he notes, tapping the fabric lightly, “but it works.”

you blink, thrown. something in you reacts before your thoughts can catch up, and you step back. not far, but enough. your eyes stay locked on his, even as he starts to turn, the shape of him shrinking with each step away.

then, just before the dark takes him, he pauses.

his voice carries, smooth and unsettlingly warm.

“why don’t you relax every once in a while?”

a beat.

“y’know… let loose?”

the question lingers—heavier than the coat, heavier than the night. it lands somewhere in your chest, quiet and unwelcome.

obsidian pulses against your sternum—deep and slow, like a second heartbeat pounding beneath your skin. the pressure builds until it stings, sharp enough to catch your breath, sharp enough to burn straight up into your skull.

your vision wavers, focus slips. the world around you blurs at the edges.

his question still echoes, though you know he didn’t expect an answer. it wasn’t a request—it was a warning dressed as something lighter. and it lingers, clinging to you like fog.

you don’t stay to give it weight.

you turn, quick and ungraceful, the coat tugging against your shoulders as you rush toward the distant glow of your home—toward warmth, toward safety, toward anything that isn’t him.

behind you, remmick doesn’t follow.

he stands by the swing instead, the old ropes creaking like his presence alone adds extra weight. he watches you go, his silhouette unmoving, half-shadow, half-man.

and remmick hates to see you go.

he leans against the tree, hands resting in his pockets, but there’s tension in him now—quiet, tightening. he feels it between you two: something rising, slow and certain, like a tether being pulled from both ends. it tugs at him, coils around his thoughts, curls into the corners of his mind where reason and instinct starts to loosen.

he doesn’t wonder if you feel it too.

he knows you do.

he saw it in the flicker of your eyes when his fingers brushed your skin, in the hesitation in your step, the breath you held too long. but you resist it—of course you do. he can almost hear the echoes of your childhood, the lullabies laced with warnings.

your mama, smoothing your hair back with a soft hand, whispering stories that taught you to run from anything with teeth that smiled too easily.

your daddy, watching the dark like it had a name, warning you about men who lingered too long after sunset. men who watched. men who waited.

men who weren’t quite... men.

remmick exhales, low and amused, though there’s something sharp behind it. he understands. he doesn’t fault you for it.

but god, he loves to watch you leave.

remmick blinks, disoriented, the haze of sleep clinging to him like smoke. he exhales hard, jaw tight, chest rising with the effort of a breath that won’t settle—like he's been holding it for hours. maybe longer.

sunlight streams in, golden and merciless, striking the window directly. the thick velvet curtains hold it at bay, just barely, the edges glowing with a warning heat. if even a sliver found him, it would devour him whole—set him alight from the inside out, blistering skin and boiling marrow.

he’s sweating, though his kind doesn’t run warm. his skin, usually cold to the touch, is damp, sticky, clinging to the sheets of the bed he’s claimed—borrowed, stolen, it hardly matters.

his muscles twitch under the heat, beneath the weight of something he can’t name. he pants, trying his hardest to catch a breath that isn’t there, that will never come.

fever burns where it shouldn't.

with a low growl, he drags his claws back—retracts them carefully, deliberately—then runs a hand through his tangled hair, pushing it off his forehead. the gesture is more human than he wants to admit.

but even in sleep, you haunt him. not like a ghost—no, ghosts whisper. you sear.

you blaze through his mind, bright and consuming. insatiable. you leave no part of him untouched. not even in dreams.

remmick falls back onto the bed, the mattress groaning beneath him as he stares up at the ceiling—unseeing, unraveled. the room is quiet but his mind isn’t.

the dream clings to him, vivid and too real, like the echo of heat after lightning strikes. he can still feel it: your hands at the nape of his neck, soft and deliberate, fingers curling just enough to ground him, hold him in place without force.

your thumbs ghosted over his cheekbones—light, reverent, like you were memorizing the shape of him. like you didn’t know whether to worship or destroy.

it’s the contrast that undoes him.

you, always so sharp with your words, so ready to draw a line in the sand and shove him back behind it. and yet—yet—the version of you in his dream was anything but cold.

the way you leaned in, voice low and intimate, a question wrapped in a challenge, a lure:

“how do you want me?”

those four words slither through him now, slow and burning. enticing. cruel.

because they weren't yours. not really. but he wants them to be. god, how he wants them to be.

you don’t know it, but he yearns for you in ways he doesn’t have language for. it’s not just your face he memorizes, or the way your voice drops when you’re trying not to feel something. it’s everything underneath. everything you work so hard to bury.

you think you’re a mystery, and maybe you are—but to remmick, you’re a promise. not of love, not of safety, but of truth.

he sees it in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. that flicker, that fracture.

the way your calm is a performance, a costume stitched too tight.

he wants to see you shed it.

he wants the parts of you you think would drive someone away. the parts you’ve been taught to fear in yourself.

the monster behind the manners. the howl behind the hush.

you wear your control like armor, but he doesn’t want your composure. he wants what writhes beneath it.

he wants the blood-warm rage, the hunger you won’t name.

the darkness you flinch from, even when it’s your own reflection: let him see it, tear it open, dare him to run; he won’t.

he’s not afraid of the creature you’re hiding—he’s afraid you’ll never show it to him.

later on, remmick lingers by the swing. he wouldn’t say he’s waiting for you, exactly—but he knows you plan to sneak out tonight. don’t ask how. he just knows.

the stars are bold overhead, casting a silver spotlight on your rebellion like they’re in on it too. the night feels too loud to be secret, too still to be innocent.

and then—there you are.

you slip from the side door of the conservatory, all quiet grace and calculated risk and veiled by the mist supplied by the night. you move like you’ve done this before: down the worn stone steps, past the edge of the flower beds, and into the darker stretch of the orchard behind the manor.

remmick tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest.

you’re not dressed for mischief, not really, but there’s purpose in your stride.

he doesn’t call out. doesn’t announce himself.

instead, something in him shifts—and he follows.

the orchard is veiled in fog—soft, rolling, deliberate. it clings low to the ground, weaving between the tree trunks like it belongs there, like it has always belonged. moonlight filters through the canopy in fractured beams, catching on the mist and turning the world pale and blurred, as if he’s stepped into a dream someone else forgot to finish.

remmick moves quietly, his steps silent on the damp grass, eyes fixed on your distant figure. the fog swirls around your ankles as you walk, each motion leaving a trail in the silver haze. the trees bow slightly under the weight of dew, their silhouettes gnarled and noble in the half-light.

everything smells faintly of apples, moss, and old magic.

he breathes it in.

up above, the stars are clean and sharp, watching with impassive eyes. no clouds, no wind—just the hush of the orchard and the shape of you, drifting deeper into it like you’re following something only you can hear.

he feels it again, that pull—gentle but undeniable.

not just toward you, but toward this moment. this place. this stillness.

and though he’s meant to linger in shadows, he feels no threat here. only curiosity. only want.

he keeps his distance, for now.

watching, listening. waiting for whatever comes next.

you stop at a clearing, lowering and laying back in the grass. your curls fall unevenly in your face and flatten behind you. your eyes study the moon, its phase nearly at its fullest. your irises glint in time with the stars.

you stop in a clearing, the fog parting around you like a breath held too long. slowly, you lower yourself into the grass, careful at first, then surrendering completely as your limbs sink into the damp earth. your curls tumble across your face, stray strands catching in the corners of your mouth, while the rest fan out beneath you—dark against the silver-lit green.

above, the moon looms heavy and round, nearly full, its light cold but comforting. it casts a glow that doesn’t warm, only reveals—peeling back shadow from the edges of the trees, tracing soft white outlines on your skin. the stars are scattered behind it like shattered glass, sharp and far and endless.

you stare upward, unblinking.

the moon’s face looks worn tonight. older. like it understands.

it hangs there not as a witness, but as a companion—quiet, distant, and impossibly close. its slow cycle feels like your own lately: always almost whole, always missing something. the stars, meanwhile, blink in and out of view, like they’re trying to keep time with the ache that’s been dragging at your chest these past few weeks.

there’s a rhythm to the sky tonight, and somehow, your sadness fits into it—neatly, effortlessly. the melancholy in you doesn’t feel like a burden out here. it feels like it belongs. like the moon carries a little of it. like the stars shoulder the rest.

for once, you don’t try to push it away.

you just feel.

behind you, the grass rustles—subtle, but enough. your body reacts before your thoughts do. you sit up sharply, curls clinging to your cheek, and turn your head toward the sound.

he’s there. remmick.

your shadow—chosen or cursed, you're not sure anymore. he stands at the edge of the clearing, half cloaked in mist, half bathed in moonlight. unmoving.

his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering, unreadable. there’s no pretense in his stance, no apology in being caught. if anything, he looks like he wanted to be seen.

waited for it.

your expression falters.

you don’t speak, but your body betrays you. your pulse picks up, quick and stupid, rushing hot beneath your skin. you feel it in your throat, your fingertips, your temples.

and still, he just watches.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t flinch. just sees you like he always does. too well, too much.

you don’t have it in you to be mean right now and remmick senses it. senses the tension in your being, the pain in your soul. he wants to save you, take away your pain. his fangs ache inside his gums, threatening to give way. but he has control. it’s almost hypocritical how he encourages you to let loose, lose control when he keeps himself so composed around you.

he keeps his distance and for some reason it hurts you more. usually, you would’ve been glad that he hadn’t forced some unexpected affection on you but tonight is different.

“you shouldn’t be out at this hour,” remmick advises, voice low, almost teasing, “you’ve got no clue what roams around here.”

you roll your eyes and turn back around, pulling your knees to your chest, “i know you roam around here. can’t seem to leave me alone.”

he shrugs, easy and unbothered, “that much is true. still doesn’t explain why you’re out here.”

you glance up at the sky, voice softer now, “i’m stargazing. i come here sometimes when there’s… nowhere else to be.”

“you wanna tell me about it?” he asks, gently.

“about what?”

“c’mon.” his tone dips lower, not quite pitying, but knowing, “you and me both know you ain’t out here just to count stars, sweetheart.”

you don’t answer right away. the silence settles between you like a blanket—heavy, but not unkind.

“my ma wasn’t happy last night,” you begin quietly, eyes still on the stars, “kept me locked in the house all day, goin’ on and on about how i came home smellin’ like rot.”

you pause, the memory sharp in your chest.

“said it was the stench of death. somethin’ sick clingin’ to me. accused me of doin’ things i’m not supposed to. said vampires don’t mix with our kind—and there’s a reason for that.”

your voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close, “like i’ve done something wrong just by bein’ near you.”

the fog curls a little tighter around your ankles. the night doesn’t feel as quiet anymore.

“i guess she was right to assume,” you mutter, voice low and bitter, “but i don’t know why she assumed.”

you glance back at remmick, your gaze sharp despite the quiet in your tone.

“i ain’t messin’ with you. in fact, i don’t even know why you keep followin’ me around.”

you look away again, jaw tightening.

“would’ve told her the same damn thing, but…”

a humorless laugh slips out.

“i think she’d tear me apart if she knew i’ve been around a vampire this long. maybe even with her bare hands.”

the silence that follows feels like it holds its breath.

remmick shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, but he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t dare break the fragile space between you.

“i follow you ‘round ‘cause you don’t run,” he explains simply, almost like it’s obvious, “you glare, you grumble, but you don’t run. not really,” his voice softens, “and maybe i like that.”

you scoff, but it’s half-hearted, “so you’re just hangin’ around ‘cause i’m not scared of you?”

he tilts his head, eyes catching the moonlight. “you should be,” he suggests, not unkindly, “but no. that ain’t it.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, “then what is it?”

he considers you for a moment, the way you hug your knees and keep your mouth sharp so nothing else slips out.

“you’re a storm bottled up,” he says finally, “and i’m just… curious what you sound like when you crack open.”

you shake your head, looking away, but your voice is softer when you answer.

“you’re playin’ a dangerous game.”

“maybe,” he murmurs, “but so are you.”

your fingers curl into the damp grass as you stare ahead, unsure whether you’re more rattled by his words or the way they settle so easily in your chest—like they’ve always belonged there. like he’s always seen more than he should.

“you don’t know nothin’ about me,” you mutter, though there’s no bite to it. not anymore. it sounds like a warning, but mostly to yourself.

remmick hums low in his throat, a quiet sound that vibrates in the night air.

“maybe not everything,” he admits, “but i know enough to tell yous carryin’ more than you let on.”

you glance at him, only briefly, and the way he’s looking at you makes your throat feel tight. steady, unflinching—like he’s not afraid of the things hiding behind your silence. like he wants to find them.

“it ain’t safe,” you say quietly, “bein’ around me.”

“funny,” he says, with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “i told you the same thing ‘bout me many times.”

that gets a flicker of a smile out of you, unwilling and soft. it fades just as quick, but it was there. remmick catches it—and says nothing.

instead, he steps closer, slow and careful, until he’s just at the edge of your space.

“you want me to go?” he asks, voice low, real.

the question hangs in the air, honest and unpressing.

you don’t answer right away. because part of you does. and part of you really, really doesn’t.

you rise suddenly, a sharpness in your movement that startles even the stillness around you. there’s purpose in your stride as you cut across the clearing, fast and tense, your eyes locked on the ground like if you look up, something might break.

“don’t come back,” you say, firm but not loud. the words fall heavy between you, “don’t look for me. i mean it.”

you don’t glance at remmick—not once. but he watches you. watches the way your jaw tightens, the way your hands ball into fists like you’re holding something in that’s on the verge of spilling.

then your pendant flares—an obsidian throb against your chest—and pain flashes across your face. you flinch, hand flying up to clutch at it, a soft hiss of breath escaping through your teeth.

remmick steps forward instinctively, concern cracking through his stillness, but you’re already backing away. already turning.

“i mean it,” you echo, voice thinner now. and then you’re gone—disappearing into the orchard, swallowed by the mist and shadow, leaving behind nothing but the scent of wildgrass and a tension that won’t let the night settle.

remmick stays rooted where you left him, jaw clenched, hands at his sides.

and for the first time in a while—he doesn’t follow.

the orchard closes around you like a secret, branches knitting tighter overhead as you push deeper into its belly. the fog thickens, wraps around your ankles, your wrists, your throat—like it wants to keep you here, like it knows something broke back there.

you don’t let yourself cry. not yet. not for him.

the pendant still burns against your chest, a steady throb that echoes the tremble in your pulse. it’s a warning, it always is. and tonight, you listened—too late, maybe, but still.

you told him to stay away, you meant it… didn’t you?

behind you, the clearing stays silent. remmick doesn’t follow. you don’t hear his footsteps, don’t feel the way the air shifts when he’s near. and somehow, that hurts worse than if he had. worse than if he’d argued.

because it means he heard you.

and worse—it means he believed you.

somewhere beyond the trees, your home glows dim through the fog, a quiet reminder of everything you're meant to be. everything you’re not allowed to want.

and still, part of you lingers in that clearing—beside him. part of you waits.

you slip through the orchard like muscle memory, like a shadow retracing its steps. the air is colder here, closer to the edge of the property. the fog grows denser, clinging to your skin like sweat, blurring the trees into vague silhouettes. your breath comes shallow, not from fear—but from restraint.

because all you want to do is turn around.

you told him not to follow. you told him to leave you be. and he did. you should be relieved. you should feel powerful. in control… but you don’t.

you feel hollow—like you left something behind in that clearing that isn’t coming back. like maybe it never truly belonged to you in the first place.

your fingers graze your pendant, now cool against your skin. the pain has passed, but it’s left a phantom ache in its wake. like it took something from you in return.

it happens all at once—quick, sharp, merciless.

your foot catches on a gnarled root and you stumble, catching yourself on the trunk of a twisted apple tree. it groans beneath your touch, heavy with fruit that no longer ripens.

that’s when it surges.

a violent, unnatural heat erupts from the obsidian, sinking straight through your skin like a blade dipped in fire. it spreads fast—an inferno trapped beneath your ribs, licking up your throat, curling around your spine.

you gasp—or try to.

but the sound snags halfway up your windpipe, like something unseen reached down and ripped your voice out before it could escape.

your mouth opens, a desperate cry locked in the cage of your lungs. it claws at your throat, dry and rasping, but nothing comes out—just a hoarse, broken rasp that dies in the fog.

your knees hit the earth with a dull thud.

your fingers claw at the pendant, trying to tear it away, to stop whatever this is—but it won’t budge. it pulses again, harder this time, and you convulse around it, shuddering as the pain tunnels through you like it’s searching for something.

you don’t understand.

you’ve worn this pendant since you were a child. it’s always been heavy, always been strange—but it’s never hurt.

now it feels alive.

angry and hungry.

your vision blurs at the edges, fog mixing with tears, and the world tilts sideways—but you don’t fall. you just kneel, trembling, silent, and swallowed by something you can’t name.

and for a flicker of a moment, you wonder if he’s still back there—if remmick is still watching, still waiting, just beyond the veil of fog.

but he’s not. you asked for this.

so you straighten, grit your teeth, and walk the rest of the way home in tied agony.

alone.

like you were taught to, like you were supposed to.

remmick lingers just beyond the edge of the orchard, where the trees begin to thin and the manor's silhouette bleeds into the mist. the light from your room glows faintly through the conservatory windows, filtered through fog and glass. soft, amber, human.

he shouldn't be here. not this close. not after what just happened.

but he can't tear himself away.

he's leaning against the gnarled trunk of a tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to anchor himself—trying to make sense of what he felt back there in the clearing where you’d left him.

it wasn't just pain, it was memory. your memory.

and something else, buried deeper. a pulse of ancient power that recoiled from him like it knew what he was. like it despised him for it.

his throat burns with a cry that would never come.

he shuts his eyes. for a moment, he can see you crumpled in the dirt, lips parted around a scream that never made it out. he could’ve helped you, but he didn’t. remmick’s stomach churns with bile as he imagines you over and over again. he regrets it none, but your pain was shared. the pain he watched you endure in an agony of solitude. but the worst part wasn't your silence—it was your eyes.

how lost they looked. how far from yourself you'd drifted.

and now you were back inside, hidden behind brick and stained glass, surrounded by people who would never understand what really lives beneath your skin. who would hate you more if they did.

remmick exhales, slow and ragged, you ain’t the only one carryin’ somethin’ monstrous.

he runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall to his side.

you told me not to follow, he thinks, dragging his fingertips along the bark of a young apple tree. it's soft and damp beneath the pads of his fingers—vulnerable. like skin that’s never been touched before. like you, pretending you don’t want to be seen.

but after tonight?

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like that’ll make his his pulse pound against the walls of his ribs once more. it doesn’t.

his boots crunch through the grass and fallen petals, the orchard dense and drowsy under the weight of the full moon. he walks the path like it belongs to him, like it was carved by his own hands—and in a way, it was.

how many nights has he wandered this route to the swing? nine, maybe ten nights of longing that he hasn’t experienced in so long.

how many times has he stood beneath your window, letting you reject him in silence, letting your silhouette keep him warm?

he presses his palm flat to the next tree, breathes in the cool rot of early fruit.

“you got no clue what you’re askin’ me to do. not really,” he grins at the glow emanating from your window.

leave you alone? pretend i ain’t see the way your body curved in that light, didn’t feel the heat radiating through that cracked-open window like a heartbeat?

nah, you wan’ed me to see. you left the curtain open, the lamp on. you gave me enough to starve on, and now i’m jus’ ‘posed to pretend i’m full?

remmick laughs under his breath, but it’s bitter, sharp.

you don’t get to ask for distance and drip affection in the same breath. not with him, not when he knows the way your mouth trembles when you lie.

he reaches the swing and lets it sway as he brushes past it, hand grazing the rope.

a small part of him wants to wait here again. the faithful ghost. the shadow you can always count on to never knock, never demand—just exist at the edges of your world.

but tonight? tonight the ache is louder than the patience.

and he’s done pretending crumbs are enough.

he tilts his head, eyes flicking toward the glint of your window through the trees. your silhouette moves, just for a moment. a turn of the shoulder. the stretch of your arm. just enough.

it’s always just enough.

“you told me not to follow,” he murmurs to the dark, voice low, private, like a prayer or a promise, “but sweetheart…”

his jaw tightens.

“…after tonight, i don’t think i can stay away.”

not when you keep acting like you don’t want him there, not when everything about you says otherwise. not when he’s already so far gone, he’d burn down the whole orchard just to see your face up close.

so every night for five nights, remmick stands in the treeline—still, watchful, half-swallowed by the orchard's hush. he tells himself it's patience. restraint. a courtesy. but it isn't. not really. it's calculation.

because he wants you.

not just the glimpse you allow him—your silhouette framed in golden lamplight, the flash of your thigh as you move past the curtains, the long slope of your back when you lean over something unseen. no. he wants more. all of you.

and he plans to have it.

you think you’ve shut him out. think those words—don’t come back, don’t find me—were enough to keep him at bay. and maybe they would’ve been, if you hadn’t left the curtain drawn. if you hadn’t left the light on. if your shadow hadn’t started moving slower, more deliberate, like maybe you knew exactly where he was standing in the dark.

it’s a game now.

one you’re playing too, even if you won’t admit it.

every movement you make behind that glass, he studies like scripture. he knows the way your arms cross when you’re lost in thought. the dip of your hip when you lean on one leg. the subtle shiver in your spine when you peel off a sweat-dampened blouse.

and he imagines.

god, how he imagines.

he knows you want to be good. knows you’re holding yourself back out of loyalty or fear or guilt. that your mother’s voice is louder in your head than your own. but he also knows the way your breath hitched the last time he touched your hand. the way your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

you don’t hate him, you’re terrified of what you feel for him… and that’s all the opening he needs.

he won’t storm your door. he won’t demand. remmick’s smarter than that. he knows how to wait, how to wear down your resolve with silence and presence, the promise of heat just beyond reach. every night he lets you feel him at the edge of your world—watching, wanting, waiting.

not forever.

just long enough for your walls to crack.

because eventually, you’ll open that window. maybe just to speak, maybe just to ask why he keeps coming back. but that’ll be the start. the door he needs. and once he’s in—truly in—he won’t leave with scraps.

he’ll have the real you—the one behind the curtain, the one with the sharp tongue and aching heart, the one who trembles when touched, who burns beneath the surface.

remmick doesn’t just want your body. no, he wants the monster you keep caged, the fire you deny yourself, the truth you’re afraid to say out loud…

he’s not watching to admire; he’s watching to learn, to predict the moment you’ll break.

and when you do—when your breath stutters and your hand reaches for that latch—he’ll be ready.

because he’s not here to leave empty-handed. he’s here to take what’s already his.

the morning of the sixth day comes slow, cruel.

sunlight seeps into your room through the curtains, warm and gold, but it does nothing to soothe the fire torching in your chest.

the obsidian pulses just beneath your skin—deep and anchored to your sternum like it’s burrowed there, latched on. what began as a dull, bruising throb the night before has bloomed into a full-bodied torment.

your breath hitches with every heartbeat. your hands shake uncontrollably. you lie curled in your bed, limbs twisted in the sheets, damp with sweat—drenched, really. your nightclothes cling to your body, soaked through, your skin fever-hot but your blood feels cold.

your teeth clench as another wave hits, searing down your spine and wrapping tight around your ribs. it’s like being wrung out from the inside—like something ancient is pulling, dragging, testing. your fingers dig into the mattress, fists twisted in fabric, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood just to stop from screaming.

but the worst part is the stillness of the house. how no one comes.

until she does.

the door creaks open, slow and deliberate, and your mother’s silhouette fills the doorway.

she doesn’t rush to you. she doesn’t speak, not at first. you gasp, chest heaving. your vision blurs.

“mama,” you whisper, voice like gravel. your throat is raw. it hurts just to speak.

she walks in like nothing’s wrong. composed, hair pinned, face unreadable as always. she stands at the foot of your bed and folds her hands.

“you crave the uncraveable,” she notes. flat. final. with defeat.

you blink through the blur, eyes wide. your lips tremble.

“make it stop,” you rasp, “please, mama, i—i can’t—”

“yes, you can.”

your mother watches you with that same stillness she always wears when things go wrong. like she's seen this before—like she's endured it.

she doesn’t flinch when you writhe beneath the sheets, doesn’t blink at the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes or the way your hands tremble like snapped branches.

her voice is calm when it finally comes.

low. clipped. deliberate.

“this pain,” she says, “it’s not punishment. it’s temptation.”

you choke on a breath, eyes wide and wet as you clutch at your ribs, as though you could claw the stone out yourself.

“you’re yearning for something,” she goes on, “something you cannot have… and the pendant knows it. it was made to protect you. from yourself but also to keep your bloodline pure. clean.”

you groan as another bolt of fire drives down your spine, curling your toes. your muscles seize.

“this is a test of will,” she tells you, voice like steel beneath velvet, “it burns because you’re still tempted. it stops when you stop wanting.”

you whimper. you want to scream, you want to tear the obsidian from your chest and throw it out into the orchard.

but more than anything—more than escape—you know who you’re thinking of and that’s the real sickness.

your mother leans forward slightly.

“you let go of what draws you in, and the stone will quiet.”

you can’t even lift your head, can barely breathe but her words stick.

they lodge themselves into your ribs, right beside the burning stone—it stops when you stop wanting.

you don’t know whether it’s anger or sadness or indifference in her voice. maybe it’s all of them. maybe it’s none.

“this is a test,” she continues, “a test of willpower. of loyalty. you endure this, and it’ll never touch you again.”

another pulse crashes through you, sharper than before. it’s like glass grinding through bone, like your own heartbeat is trying to rip you apart.

you curl inward, fetal, fists pressed to your mouth to muffle the moan that slips out—raw, guttural, ugly.

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” she repeats, firmer this time.

you sob into your palms, forehead pressed to the pillow. your body jolts again, like a live wire snapping inside your muscles.

she steps forward, kneels beside the bed, but she doesn’t touch you. her hands stay folded in her lap.

“breathe through it,” your mother advises, “do not fight it. and do not let it win.”

but it is winning. it’s claiming every inch of you, every cell.

and still, you clench your teeth. sweat drips down your temple. your nails cut half-moons into your palms.

because she’s still there. watching. expecting.

and if this is the fire that forges you—you’re going to survive it. or die trying.

that night, the moon hangs like an omen—round and watching, flooding the orchard with that sickly, silver glow. the conservatory is too still, your skin hot and prickling beneath your nightclothes, the air thick like something is about to snap.

you don’t plan to go anywhere. your mother’s words still echo like a curse in your chest: endure it. it’ll pass.

but it doesn’t. the ache remains. duller now, but coiled tight behind your ribs. like it’s waiting for something.

then comes the knock. sharp, deliberate, right against the conservatory door.

you freeze.

not him. not tonight.

he knocks again.

you’re storming down the stairs before you realize, hair loose, jaw clenched, barefoot against the cold marble. you fling the door open with a snarl already caught in your throat.

“what part of leave me alone didn’t you understand?”

remmick stands in the fog, arms crossed, that usual lazy look gone. there’s tension in his jaw too—something dangerous.

“you look like hell,” he notes, instead of hello.

you glare, “you don’t get to comment on that.”

“you been locked in this damn house for nearly a week. i thought—”

“you thought wrong. you always think you know what i need.”

he steps forward, “i know that thing around your neck is killing you slowly and ain’t nobody inside that house doin’ anythin’ but watchin’.”

your hand flies to the pendant like he’s physically touched it.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

“i do,” he bites, his voice rising, “i can smell the pain on you. you think your mother has all the answers? she’s feeding you fear, not healing. you’re hurtin’—”

“so what?” you shout angrily, baring your teeth like a hunted beast, “that don’t mean i want you to fix it. why do you even care? why do you keep showin’ up like i asked for this?”

he goes still. then, low and sharp: “‘cause i can’t stay away.”

you flinch like he’s struck you. your chest seizes and the pendant pulses.

“i never wanted you here!” you scream, stepping out onto the stone patio, “you ruin everything. i was fine before you—”

he grabs your wrist. not hard, just enough to stop you, “don’t you walk away from me like this, screamin’ at me like i ain’t mean shit to you,” he demands, his voice rough now, “you ain’t thinking straight—”

you yank your arm back, your face flushed with fury. your mind is overflowing with the pain of your pendant and your father’s warnings and the control your mother has over you with her judgement and the feelings you don’t want to have for remmick. it makes you sick and dizzy and you almost feel like you’re playing tug of war but in this case, you are the rope.

you slip on the slick stone step and you stumble forwards.

remmick reaches for you, but you’re already going down—knee smacks the step, elbow grates the edge. your chest hits the bottom step with a jolt, and the pendant—crack.

the sound is sickening.

the obsidian splits beneath you.

you don’t even have time to react before a heat erupts from the stone like it’s been holding in the sun. your back arches upwards, a scream caught in your throat—but it doesn’t come out. nothing does. your voice is swallowed, choked, crushed by invisible hands.

remmick’s voice reaches through the haze, distant and warped, yelling your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

you don’t respond… you can’t.

the moon slips through the clouds, casting silver light across the patio. it lands on your hunched form like a spotlight, exposing every tremble, every shallow breath. remmick stands still, watching you—concern etched deep into his face. there’s fear in his eyes now, not of you, but for you. because whatever this is, it isn’t normal. it isn’t right. and it’s getting worse.

remmick hears you grunt, a guttural sound torn from deep inside—like you’re fighting to hold back vomit. your body convulses violently, heaving and gasping for air that won’t come. then, a scream rips free, a sound so raw, so pure in its torment, it pierces the night: pure excruciation.

your back arches sharply, ripping through your nightgown with a sound like tearing flesh. bones crack and snap, shifting and stretching in impossible ways—longer, thinner, grimly warped. muscles strain, stretched tight across exposed bone, sinew twisting and coiling like dark cords. tufts of coarse hair sprout wildly, but barely mask the unnatural, writhing changes beneath your skin.

remmick’s stomach churns violently, a sickness foreign and fierce overtaking him. he’s seen centuries of horror, but never this—a primal, unsettling transformation that twists his gut with nausea.

and then it’s done.

you rise—towering now, nearly two feet taller. your jaw unhinges grotesquely, stretching wide to reveal jagged rows of yellowed, broken teeth, uneven and sharp, glistening with thick, viscous drool that drips in slow, heavy globs. the sight is monstrous, raw, terrifying—and utterly alive.

and in some sick, twisted way, he believes you are more beautiful than ever—raw and untamed, stripped of every mask and pretense. here you stand, pure and primal, a creature shaped by the night itself. a powerful beast, fierce and wild, born to rule the darkness.

it’s tense as you lean down, your snarl curling into something more guttural, masking the growl clawing up your throat. drool spills freely now, thick and glistening—years of suppressing your true self have left you starved, feral, aching to give in to instinct.

remmick doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t run.

he just gazes up at you like a man witnessing a god—wide-eyed, awestruck, the stars reflected in his pupils. his lips part, a faux breath caught somewhere deep, but nothing comes out. no warmth, no fog in the air. just stillness. a reminder that he is inhuman.

now you are both raw—bare as bones, pure as sin.

your snout twitches. you inhale sharply, deeply, catching a scent far richer, far more alluring than the vampire before you. your gaze cuts toward the orchard, nostrils flaring. something delicate waits out there—something trembling, alive.

you pull back, your heavy limbs tense with anticipation.

remmick watches, dazed, as you leap forward—claws slicing into the damp grass, propelling your massive form into the dark. you vanish between the trees, the sound of your stride echoing long after the orchard swallows you whole.

and it seems the commotion has stirred the manor—its old bones creaking with sudden life. the first to burst through the doors are your aunt talia and uncle, faces drawn tight in alarm. remmick recognizes the names; you’d mentioned them once, maybe twice, in passing.

talia storms forward, eyes blazing, her nostrils flared and fists clenched at her sides like she’s ready to strike the night itself. her voice cuts through the dark, sharp and commanding—“lucius, get roxanne. now.”

lucius hesitates only for a breath before disappearing back into the house.

and then—more footsteps. faster, heavier. your mother and father rush into the scene, breathless, disheveled. your mother’s eyes go straight to the torn fabric on the patio and the broken pieces of obsidian that glint faintly in the moonlight. your father scans the orchard, hand instinctively going to the blade tucked at his hip.

remmick doesn’t move. he stays rooted in the shadows behind the wall, watching them all with a gaze like ice—unblinking, unreadable. waiting.

roxanne steps in fast, her expression unreadable but her pace all urgency. talia’s already waiting, pacing in place like a caged animal.

“that damn vampire,” talia spits the moment their eyes meet, voice low and sharp, “i knew he was trouble the second she started acting strange.”

roxanne doesn’t immediately reply—just scans the mess: the snapped twigs, the broken pendant, the churned-up ground.

“you think he did this?” she asks quietly, but there’s no softness in her tone.

talia scoffs, “please. you know what he is. even if he didn’t cause it, he’s the reason she’s rebelling.”

roxanne exhales through her nose, slow, “no. not rebelling. changing.”

talia whirls on her, “don’t get poetic with me, rox. she was fine before he came around.”

roxanne’s eyes flick to the darkened orchard. she doesn’t respond. remmick hears her coo at the younger children before telling the older children to get the others to bed.

remmick swallows hard, “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. he doesn’t want to intervene—not yet—but the urge claws at him. it’s not about heroism or guilt. it’s control. it’s instinct. it’s her.

and whether she wants him there or not, he knows it’s better if he keeps watch. keeps close. just in case.

the town had no warning. no omen. just blood.

you moved through the fields first—silent and low. the livestock never stood a chance. sheep were torn open like paper dolls, cattle gutted clean down the middle. the ground drank it all, soaking up the red until the grass bowed under the weight of it.

your eyes glowed—something between amber and hellfire—as you prowled through smoke rising from barns now caved in.

remmick watched from the edge of the treeline, still as the trees around him, his chest rising and falling with something close to awe, close to grief.

he should’ve stopped you. gods, he should’ve.

but he couldn’t bring himself to.

not when you looked so alive.

you hunted with purpose, with rage buried so deep it poured out of you in snarls and ragged breaths. you didn’t pause. didn’t question. a horse kicked and ran; you dragged it back down. chickens fluttered, feathers floating like snow in your wake.

a man stepped outside with a lantern. your head snapped in his direction. he didn’t even scream.

remmick looked away only once—when the crunch of bone echoed too loud, too final—and by the time he looked back, you were already gone again.

just red footprints and silence.

he hears the crash before he sees it—the sickening sound of wood splintering and glass shattering. screams cut through the night air, frantic and raw, echoing from inside the house. somewhere a dog barks wildly, sharp and desperate, but then it whimpers, trailing off into silence.

then you burst through the broken doorway, wild and untamed, dripping with thick, dark blood. it clings to your skin and fur, slick and heavy, pooling at your feet with every step you take. your breath is ragged, muscles tense and ready to spring again.

remmick’s eyes narrow as he watches you, every inch of you fierce and raw under the moonlight. without a word, he whistles—a low, teasing sound that cuts through the chaos.

you turn, a flash of hunger and madness in your eyes, and with a snarl. remmick watches you for a moment, chest tightening with a strange mix of dread and exhilaration. the cold night air bites at his skin, carrying the sharp scent of crushed grass and blood that clings to you. faint sounds of splintered wood and distant, fading screams hang in the air, but all he can focus on is the wild pulse of your movements. the moonlight glints off your claws, wet and gleaming. then suddenly, you spring forward, muscles coiling and releasing with raw power, and remmick feels the thrill ripple through him as you peel after him into the orchard, the chase igniting beneath the stars.

remmick jogs slowly, purposely letting the distance between you grow. the rhythm of his footsteps shifts, becoming heavier, deliberate, almost inviting. beneath the tangled branches of an ancient oak, he stops completely, body tense but still—waiting. his chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, masking the hunger that pulses beneath his skin. the cool night air presses against him, but his focus is fixed on the sharp snap of twigs behind him—your approach.

then, with a sudden, feral burst, you pounce, claws digging into his shoulders, teeth bared in a wild snarl. remmick catches your weight, grinning despite the sting of your claws, eyes dark with longing. he doesn’t struggle; instead, he thrusts his head forward, sinking his teeth into the tender skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper—a sharp, startled sound that ripples through the night air. but before he can linger, you smack him away, fierce and sudden, breaking free with a flash of movement. you scramble off, claws scraping against the earth, breath ragged as you vanish into the shadows, leaving him grinning—half frustrated, half exhilarated—still craving more.

he finds you face down in the field, the first pale light of dawn just brushing the horizon. your skin is bare, smeared with blood—crimson against the pale frost that clings to the grass beneath your trembling fingers. despite everything, you look raw, untamed, and hauntingly natural, as if this wildness is your true form. slowly, you lift your head, eyes meeting remmick’s. he’s standing over you, a crooked smile playing on his lips, full of something like admiration and something darker, something that makes the air between you crackle with unspoken promises.

your eyes are heavy with exhaustion as your fingers trace the tender wound on your neck, “you bit me..” you whisper.

remmick nods, a small smirk tugging at his lips, “yeah, vampire bites act like werewolf neutralizers. funny how that works, huh? shoulda just told me from the get-go, but…” his voice trails off, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something softer beneath.

“i thought you was breathtaking tonight,” he murmurs, the words a quiet play on the night’s violence and your fragile beauty. you laugh through tears, then break, sobbing harder as the weight of the lives you took settles over you.

he lowers himself to his knees, fingers petting down your tangled hair. your face twists with anguish—he knows you feel stained, broken.

remmick moves quickly, pulling you into his lap, his voice soft and steady as he soothes you, “there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. you’re okay.”

you shake your head fiercely, voice trembling, “i killed people, remmick. that’s not okay.”

he holds you tighter, eyes fierce but tender, “this is whatcha are. you can’t help that… and you looked so free, nothin’ holdin’ you back, the best version of yourself.”

remmick wipes your tears, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

you nod slowly, a shaky smile breaking through your tears, the rawness of the night still clinging to your skin. remmick’s hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the damp trails your tears have left, grounding you in the moment.

his eyes glint with something fierce yet tender, an unspoken promise of acceptance and understanding. the world outside disappears—it’s just the two of you, bound by something deeper than fear or pain.

your breath mingles, shallow and uneven, as you lean into him, the warmth of his cold body strangely comforting against the chill in your bones. for a moment, the chaos fades, replaced by the quiet, electric charge of being so close, wrapped in a silence that speaks louder than words.

his lips press against yours, but it’s not just a kiss—it’s something darker, more primal. remmick’s tongue slips inside your mouth, tasting the blood that lingers there, lapping it up like a thirst long denied. every movement feels hungry, possessive, like he’s consuming you piece by piece—not just your blood, but your very soul. you shiver beneath him, caught in the fierce intimacy of it, the way he devours you with his mouth, claiming you in a way no words ever could. it’s raw, intense, and somehow painfully tender all at once.

remmick’s hands roam from your hair down to the curve of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you. his lips part, brushing yours with a hunger that’s been smoldering too long, and you respond with equal fire—pressing your body against his, tasting the sharp, intoxicating heat of him. every kiss is deeper, more desperate, like you’re both trying to memorize the other, to hold on through the chaos inside and out. his touch sets your skin ablaze, fingers tracing every inch, igniting a fire you didn’t know you had. breaths hitch, hearts race—though his doesn’t beat—and the world fades, leaving only the wild, aching connection binding you both.

remmick slides you gently from his lap onto the cool grass, the early morning wrapping around you both like a secret. he brushes a soft kiss to your lips—delicate, a quiet promise—before his mouth trails down your skin, each kiss deeper, more urgent. he sucks softly, reverently, as if memorizing every inch of you, worshipping your body in the tender darkness. the world falls away until there’s only the heat of him, the pulse beneath your skin, and the breathless connection binding you close.

remmick moves like a slow bloom unfurling under the dawn’s soft light, petals parting one by one with deliberate grace.

his lips trace the curve of your skin like dew settling on fragile blossoms, sending shivers like whispers through your veins. goosebumps rise like tiny buds swelling beneath his touch, a dark promise flashing like thorns beneath velvet petals.

with reverent hunger, his mouth explores you—each kiss a tender petal brushing against delicate skin, each lick a slow dance of nectar and desire.

you are the flower, opening to his devotion, each gasp a petal trembling in the morning breeze, every shiver a blossom swaying in the heat of the sun. his hands roam possessively, like vines curling and clasping, drawing you ever closer into his embrace.

beneath the stars, you are both wild garden and sacred ritual, blooming fiercely into the night, petals drenched in euphoria.

waves of pleasure unfurl inside you like a sudden burst of color, fireworks blossoming behind your eyes. your cries are the song of blooming petals tearing free from the bud, soft moans and desperate gasps unfolding like fragrant blossoms bursting open in the heat.

your hands claw the earth, roots digging deep as your body twists and curves in pure, untamed bloom. every flick of his tongue, every brush of his lips is a gentle caress of pollen on petals, igniting sparks that bloom like wildfires in your veins.

as the tension builds, the flower’s pistil pulses—stamen trembling, petals ready to burst—then, with a shudder like the first rain after a drought, you erupt into a dazzling bloom, white-hot and radiant, your cries the fragrance carried on the wind.

he holds you steady, vines wrapped possessively around the fragile bloom, as you ride the wild storm of blossoming fire—lost in the beauty of becoming, wild and free.

your breath quickens, shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling with desperate urgency. the heat pools deep between your thighs, spreading in wild, insistent waves that make your skin tingle, your senses sharpen.

your fingers clutch at his hair tighter, nails digging in, desperate to anchor yourself as the pressure builds unbearably, every nerve screaming in delicious torment.

the world fades until all you feel is the ache, the need, the rush of sensation exploding inside you—a crescendo that promises to break you open completely.

and just as you’re about to cum again, just as you tilt over the edge remmick pulls away, eyes glossed over, faded with want.

remmick lingers close, his breath warm against your skin, eyes searching yours for the faintest hesitation.

“you sure?” he murmurs, voice low and tender, almost fragile. you nod, chest rising and falling with a desperate urgency.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling—not with fear, but with need.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

the world narrows until there’s only the two of you, the silent promise between gasps and trembling hands. he moves with a careful reverence, every touch gentle yet filled with an aching hunger.

his hands slide along your sides, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

your breath hitches as he lowers himself, lips tracing a path over your collarbone, down to where your skin burns beneath his touch.

“i’m here,” he whispers, voice rough and full of need, waiting for you—wanting you to feel safe, wanted, desperate like him.

when you nod again, wordless and sure, he enters you slowly, carefully, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. the world falls away with every shared breath and every pulse of closeness, the moment raw and fragile and utterly consuming.

he stays gentle but fierce, moving with a steady rhythm that speaks of both passion and reverence—of a connection neither of you can deny.

his hands cup your face firmly, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as his fingers trace the sharp line of your jaw with deliberate tenderness.

he leans in slowly, lips parting before crashing onto yours in a fierce, searing kiss that steals your breath. the heat of his mouth is intoxicating—hungry and possessive—melding with the softness of yours, a storm of fire and silk.

your bodies press tighter together, his chest warm and steady against you, every pulse and shiver sending sparks through your veins. the world shrinks until only the slick slide of his tongue, the rough scrape of his stubble, and the desperate gasps you share remain—each breath, each sigh, each whispered name weaving you deeper into a suspended moment of raw, aching desire.

he moves with deliberate patience, matching your desperation—slow, steady, each stroke tightening the coil of tension between you both until it’s raw, pulsing, unrelenting.

your hands claw at his back, nails digging deep into muscle and skin, desperate for something solid to hold onto amid the raging storm inside you. every thrust sends sparks shooting through your core, breath hitching, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

then, breaking through the mounting pressure, you cry out—voice trembling with a fierce mix of pleasure and anguish. hot tears spill down your cheeks, salt mingling with the sweat slicking your skin, as waves of ecstasy crash against the sharp sting of guilt: the bitter weight of betraying your family cuts through the haze, but beneath it all, the fire he’s ignited inside you burns too fierce to resist.

trembling and undone, you surrender completely—naked, vulnerable, and fiercely alive—in the fierce, consuming heat of his arms.

the storm inside you finally settles, leaving a calm so deep it feels almost unreal. your breath slows, your body still humming with warmth as the tension unwinds from every muscle.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

he smiles tenderly, understanding without words, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as if to anchor you back. in that soft, fragile moment, everything else fades—the world, the pain, the fear—and all that remains is the quiet promise held in his eyes and the gentle pulse of your shared breath.

you walk through the orchard, the dawn just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky with soft pink and gold. you’re wrapped in remmick’s too-big button-up, sleeves hanging past your hands, and he’s shirtless beside you, cool morning air kissing his skin. everything’s quiet, like the world’s holding its breath just for you two.

he breaks the hush, voice low and steady, “ain’t gonna be easy, you know that. your kin—they won’t take it gentle. they’ll make it hard as hell.”

you pull the shirt tighter, shivering but steady, “i know. but we’ll get through it. no matter what. together.”

he takes your hand in his, fingers lacing easy and sure, like home, “i know you’re tougher than anythin’ they throw at you. i ain’t givin’ you up.”

you squeeze back, heart thumping, feeling that wild hope in his touch, “then we face it all. come hell or high water.”

he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering, “tha’s my girl,” he smiles into your hair, voice rough with something tender beneath the edge, “ain’t no storm gonna break us.”

you lean your head on his bare shoulder, breath mingling with his, the orchard waking around you—the scent of dew, the distant call of a waking bird, “we got each other,” you whisper, “and that’s all that matters.”