#soupwrites

She set down the knife, already laughing. "They thought the meal needed a little something extra to seem authentic. So they put some garlic in a pan, except they had no idea what they were doing. Somehow, they managed to set the entire thing on fire."

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh. "Rookie mistake."

"Oh, it gets worse. They panicked and threw water on it. You can imagine how that went."

He could. The flames must have shot up, smoke billowing out of the windows.

"Something actually flew out of their apartment," she continued. "A toaster. Out the window. Just-gone."

Sylus blinked. "Why would a toaster-"

"I have no idea!" She grinned, shaking her head. "To this day, it remains a mystery."

She turned back to the stove, stirring something in the pan. He watched her for a moment, the way she smiled to herself, the way she enjoyed telling these stories.

She made the simplest things feel full.

And Sylus, who was never one to linger, who always had one foot out the door, found himself staying.

The rain turned heavier in the afternoon, hammering against the windows, washing the city into a watercolor blur.

She made a space for them on the couch, piling blankets and insisting that bad weather was an excuse to be cozy. Sylus had rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

They played chess. Well...Tried to.

She got distracted halfway through, stacking the pieces instead of making actual moves.

"You realize this isn't the goal, right?" Sylus asked dryly, watching as she carefully balanced a knight on top of a bishop.

"It's my goal," she countered, fully focused. The tower wobbled dangerously.

Sylus smirked and very deliberately nudged the table.

The pieces toppled. She gasped in betrayal. "Sylus!"

He leaned back, satisfied.

She huffed, nudging his arm. "You're terrible."

"You were asking for it."

"That’s debatable," she muttered, but she was smiling as she started picking up the fallen pieces.

The hours stretched. The rain softened.

She read aloud to him, voice lilting, warm. He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until she nudged him with her foot. "Are you falling asleep?"

"No."

She laughed softly, not calling him out on the lie.

The world outside faded.

Inside, it was quiet.

Inside, it was safe.

By the time Sylus finally stood to leave, it was late.

The rain had stopped hours ago. The city beyond her window was quiet, the streets slick with silver light. He reached for his coat, draping it over his arm, turning toward the door.

And then-

"So soon?"

He turned back.

She was still curled up on the couch, knees tucked under her, book resting in her lap. The glow from the nearby lamp cast her in gold. She wasn’t pleading, wasn’t even really asking. Just looking at him with wide, expectant eyes.

As if he had never really planned to leave.

Sylus swallowed, fingers tightening slightly on the doorknob.

He was good at leaving. It was second nature, slipping away before things became too real, before anyone could ask him to stay.

But she wasn’t asking.

She was just waiting.

She tilted her head. "Stay."

Not a demand. Not a request. Just a truth.

Like she had already decided he belonged here.

Sylus hesitated.

Then his grip on the doorknob loosened. His coat slipped from his arm, landing in a quiet heap on the chair beside him.

She smiled, soft, knowing. And without another word, she patted the empty space beside her.

He sat down.

Just for a little longer.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tim was lost.

Well, he knew where he was, technically. But he was still lost. Lost in his head, lost in his home, lost in his family, lost in his city. He was lost.

When Tim held up his hand, he expected it to shake. It didn’t. He’s had plenty of food today, and drank plenty of water. He even had a cup of peppermint tea beside him, with enough sugar in it to make Alfred’s nose wrinkle at the taste.

This was much less a body-problem, but something that was entirely in Tim’s head.

He was lost.

Tim checked his phone again, the empty inbox of his messages staring back at him. Same as usual.

The background of Tim’s phone rotated hourly with pictures Tim had favorited, making him very familiar with Stephanie’s blonde curls and Kon’s handsome smile. Bart never sat still long enough for a good picture, Jason always glared, Duke seemed allergic to looking at the camera, and Cass always blinked.

Right now, the warm tanned faces of Tim’s oldest brother smiled back at him. Dick’s dimples were profound in this picture, smile so wide he was squinting. His silky black hair was wind-ruffled, and waves rippled through the locks like water. He had Tim in a headlock, Tim not nearly as photogenic as Dick.

Tim smiled at the picture. God, he missed his older brother. He missed all of his siblings, even Jason, despite the fact he saw them all on patrol the night prior. He missed Bruce, Alfred, and Babs.

Tim knew this meant he was experiencing a depressive episode, he’d had plenty before. Dick would want to know.

That was the reason he chanted in his head, no other. He packed an overnight bag. Dick would want to know. He tied his converse, pulled on his favorite jacket, and hopped in his car.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Your alarm screamed at you, begging you to wake up. You groaned, reaching for your phone and quickly turning off the alarm, rubbing your eyes. Taishiro was still fast asleep beside you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. You attempted to pull away from him, but his grip only tightened.

“(Y/N), what time is it?” he grumbled, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You gave him a pat on his arm in hopes he would let go. He didn’t move an inch.

“It’s five in the morning, hon- I’ve gotta get ready for work.”

“What? You don’t leave for work ‘til eight, though…”

“Well, if you want me to make breakfast, you’re gonna have to let go,” you reminded him, attempting to pull away from him again. Of course, your attempts were futile. Although you were strong, he was much stronger.

“I don’t care about that. We can just go out to eat for breakfast today,” he mumbled stubbornly, determined to keep you in bed with him for a little while longer. He began planting little kisses all along your neck and your jawline. You had lost this battle, and you both knew it. “Just a few more minutes? Please?”

You sighed, turning around in his arms and cupping his doughy face in your hands, smiling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Oh, trust me, I know I am.”

He pulled you in as close to him as he possibly could, his hands resting comfortably on the small of your back. Even in his skinny form, he was extremely soft to the touch and extremely squishy, like a pillow, and a nice pillow, too. Like a hotel pillow.

“You know I’m obsessed with you, right? You know I’m in love with you?” he asked you, playing with your hair and continuing to kiss along your neck. “I feel like I don’t say that enough…”

“I do know… and I love you too, hon.”

He smiled against you, nuzzling his face into your chest. He was always extremely affectionate when the two of you first woke up in the morning. He was extremely affectionate all day long, really. Although in past relationships you had always doubted that your partner actually loved you, you never doubted Taishiro. You knew he loved you more than he loved anything else in this world.

“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to work, so we could just stay home all day and I could hold you, like this,” he muttered beneath his breath. You laughed, caressing his cheek.

“I’m sure people would miss you if you stopped working, though. A lot of people look up to you, Tai.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled tiredly, now pulling you in for a real kiss. You immediately melted into his touch. He always tasted so sweet, it was almost criminal. He pulled away from you, keeping his lips only an inch away from your own. You whined, leaning in to kiss him again, but he pulled away.

“Weren’t you the one complaining about needing to get up just a minute ago?” he asked with a smirk. Oh, so he was teasing you, was he?

“I can still get up anytime I want,” you reminded him. “In fact, I think I’ll be getting up now if you’re done with me-”

His grip on your waist tightened. “Fine, fine, you win. It’s a shame, really. I should’ve married someone who loved me for my charming personality rather than someone who only loves me for my kisses.”

“Oh, shush, you know I love you for more than just your kisses. They are nice, though,” you said, planting little kisses all around his mouth. Now he was the one leaning into you, hoping for a proper kiss.

“Say please,” you jeered.

“We’ve been together for six years and you’re going to make me say please to get a kiss from you?”

“Yep. Go on, I’m waiting.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes at you. “May I please have a kiss?”

The thought was strange, unwelcome. He had never needed such things before. A hand to hold. A touch to tether. And yet, there was a hollowness where her warmth had always been. A quiet sort of ache, one he did not have the words to name.

He clenched his fist, as if that might somehow stop the feeling. He told himself it didn’t matter. But when she finally did reach for him again—later, when she pulled him toward a shop window, exclaiming over something utterly ordinary—he felt the world slide back into place.

And he knew, with a slow and sinking certainty, that he had never stood a chance.

______________________________

She never really thought about it, the way she reached for him. It was something that simply was, as natural as letting sunlight spill across her skin or tilting her face into the wind.

Sylus was always so composed, so sharp-edged and careful, like a blade too wary of cutting anything too deeply. But he never pulled away. Never tensed, never looked at her like she was something unwelcome.

So she kept reaching.

It wasn’t until that day in the market that she noticed it; that quiet sort of stillness, the way he seemed distracted by something just out of reach. His jaw tight, his hands tucked into his coat, his gaze distant, unreadable.

She had paused, unsure. Had she done something? Said something? But nothing had changed, not really. She had only-

Ah.

She had not reached for him.

She almost laughed at herself, at the ridiculous realization. But something about the way he stood there, tense in a way that had nothing to do with battle or calculation, stopped her.

So, on a whim, she reached for him again. Let her fingers slip into his, let her warmth press against his palm, the way she always had.

And there! There it was. The way his breath eased, the way something unspoken settled into place, the way his fingers curled around hers, as if he had been waiting.

He did not say anything. Neither did she.

But in that small, quiet moment, she understood.

So she held on, just a little longer.

Sometimes I think I should tattoo my debts on my forearm, just to remember which job is paying off which one. Car wash in the mornings, café shop part-time after that, and maybe—if I’m lucky—four hours of sleep that doesn’t involve the sound of a mop bucket sloshing in my dreams.

Today it’s the café. Nothing fancy. I’m the guy who scrubs gum off the underside of tables and refills the sugar packets before anyone notices they were empty. But it’s warm here. And quiet. And the manager doesn’t care if I hum while I wipe down the counter.

I was halfway through wrangling a trash bag out the back door when the bell above the entrance chimed, and I knew it was her. Same way you know when it’s about to rain—something in the air changes.

Two days, and she’s back. No shiny car. No oversized sunglasses. Just a long scarf wound around her neck and that same unreadable expression. She looked like she was trying not to be noticed. Which only made her more noticeable, if you ask me.

I ducked behind the espresso machine. Not hiding—Just... Rearranging the napkin holder. She didn’t see me at first, not until I stood again.

“You again?” she said.

“You’re the one who walked in,” I replied, grinning.

“And you’re the one who seems to work everywhere I go.”

“Maybe I just work wherever you might show up.”

She raised a brow. “Is that your new pickup line?”

“No,” I said, wiping the counter like it needed it. “Just an observation. You keep ending up in the least convenient parts of town, and I keep ending up wiping the floors where you walk.”

She leaned in slightly. “Then I must be your fairy godmother.”

I laughed. “Do fairy godmothers usually wear perfume that costs more than this café’s rent?”

She tilted her head, lips twitching. “So you did notice.”

“Hard not to. It lingers,” I said, quieter now. “Even after you leave.”

That made her pause. Just for a breath, but I saw it. Like maybe she hadn’t expected something so honest from a guy in a stained apron.

“I didn’t know cleaners were so poetic,” she said.

“We’re not,” I said, watching her. “Most of us just pretend not to be watching.”

There was silence after that. One of the good ones, full of questions neither of us wanted to ask yet.

“You want your usual?” I offered, even though I knew she didn’t have one.

“I don’t have a usual.”

“Well,” I said, flipping on the machine, “then I’ll make you mine.”

She didn’t answer right away. But she didn’t leave either.

I wasn’t supposed to be here today. Called in to cover for someone who got food poisoning. My shoulders were still sore from the café shift last night, but I needed the extra hours.

The sky was a bleached-out gray, the kind that makes you feel like time’s standing still. The machine was humming low, brushes dragging in slow circles like it was half-asleep.

Then her car pulled up.

Same sleek thing, tinted windows, too polished for this place. She always looked like a story driving in — like the ending didn’t belong in this parking lot.

But today... She didn’t roll the window down.

No wave. No small smile. Not even the nod I’d grown used to, the kind she’d give me like we were sharing a secret.

Her face was barely visible through the glass, but I could make out the tight line of her mouth, one hand clenched on the steering wheel, the other holding a phone to her ear.

Her eyes were somewhere else entirely.

She said something sharply — I couldn’t hear the words, but the tone cut through the closed windows like a knife.

The air pressure dropped. Or maybe that was just me.

I stepped up out of habit, sponge in hand, but she didn’t even glance my way. Just stared ahead, jaw locked, as if looking at me would crack something open she couldn’t afford to spill.

I backed off. Gave her space. Just did the job.

Foam ran in rivulets down her windows, white streaks blurring whatever expression she wore. And I hated that — hated that I couldn’t read her anymore.

By the time I finished and gave the back a final rinse, the call was still going. She mouthed something quick — maybe “thanks,” maybe “drive” — and pulled out before I could even get a second look.

She didn’t see the way I stood there a moment too long, like an idiot hoping she’d brake or look in the mirror.

She didn’t.

And I didn’t ask for more.

Because if she needed distance, I’d give it. Even if it stung sharper than I expected.

The night felt longer than usual.

I was lying on my back in the dark, one arm over my eyes, the hum of the ceiling fan trying to drown out everything I didn’t want to think about.

But her face kept slipping through.

That look — not angry, not sad, just… armored. Like she couldn’t afford softness. Like something was breaking beneath it, and she didn’t want anyone to see. Not even me.

I kept replaying the way she wouldn’t meet my eyes. How she drove off like the world was ending and she was trying to outrun the aftershock.

I shouldn’t care. We weren’t anything. Not really. Just a few passing smiles, a few teasing words in the sun and soap.

But I did.

I stared at the cracks on the ceiling, wondering if she’d ever show up again. Wondering if I was just a joke she indulged when she felt bored, or if I’d missed something real in the way she used to linger before driving off.

The vibration of my phone startled me. A single buzz.

I squinted at the screen — unknown number.

you never gave me your name

I sat up. Blinked. Read it again.

A beat. Then another buzz:

i mean i could guess but you don’t look like a Benjamin or a Marcus. definitely not a Sebastian.

I couldn’t help it — I laughed. Just once, short and stupid and tired. Then I typed back:

I never gave you my number either.

A pause. A little longer than I expected. Then:

you’re not denying the Sebastian thing though.

I stared at the screen, warmth creeping into my chest like dawn was sneaking in early. I bit back a grin and stretched out again, phone still in hand.

She was still out there.

And maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t run away from me.

I let the text sit for a second. Then typed:

Because I’m too busy being personally offended you thought I looked like a Marcus.

touché...

I stared at the little smirking emoji for longer than I’d admit out loud.

Alright then, mystery man, What should I call you if not Sebastian, Marcus, or Benjamin?

I hesitated, thumbs still, then typed:

Depends. What do you call the guy who makes you laugh when you're not supposed to?

There was a pause. No typing dots. For a second I thought maybe I went too far. But then—

…dangerous.

My breath caught for half a second. Then I laughed quietly.

Alright. She wanted to play.

Guess I’ll answer to that for now.

Still nothing about her day. Still nothing about how she’d looked earlier — like she’d built a wall too quickly, too neatly. But maybe this was her way of climbing down from it, a brick at a time.

Then came another message. Slower. No emoji this time:

Sorry about earlier. Wasn’t you.

I tapped my fingers against the phone, trying to figure out if I should lighten it or ask the real questions.

I settled on:

You looked like you were yelling at the moon through your windshield. Hope the moon deserved it.

It did. It always does.

I smiled, lying back against the pillow, the phone resting on my chest now like it weighed a little less.

Name’s Sylus, by the way. You going to tell me yours or are you just going to keep appearing like a coffee-scented mirage in the middle of my shifts?

The typing dots danced for a bit. Then:

I like the way that sounds. But you can call me Trouble.

It had been four days.

Not that I was counting. That would be weird. Desperate, even.

But it had been exactly four days, eleven shifts, and three near-heart-attacks every time the café door creaked open.

I hadn’t texted. Not since the night she called herself Trouble and made me grin at my phone like a fool. I kept second-guessing it. Maybe I’d come off too hopeful. Too familiar. Maybe I was just a blip in her day — coffee, carwash, a little banter, and nothing more. Maybe she’d deleted my number the moment the moon stopped deserving it.

But then she walked in.

No grand entrance. No hair tossing or cinematic wind. She just slipped through the door like it owed her no introduction, coat folded over one arm, a pair of sunglasses she didn’t need at this hour still tucked into the collar of her shirt.

I froze behind the counter, halfway through replacing the milk carton.

“Black with honey,” she said, not looking up yet, digging for something in her coat pocket.

I slid the cup toward her before she finished speaking. “Already made it.”

That’s when she looked at me, and something about her expression said she wasn’t surprised. Not entirely.

She blinked, then gave me a dry smile. “You’ve been promoted? You’re a server now?”

I almost answered. Almost said something smug like manager, actually, just to see her roll her eyes.

But then I saw the bandages.

White gauze peeking from under her sleeves, wrapped tight around both hands. A strip taped carefully at the side of her neck. Clean, clinical, and completely out of place on someone who once flipped her hair like she could command hurricanes with it.

Something in me stalled. Like all the sentences I’d been holding onto this week got jammed behind my ribs.

She followed my gaze, just briefly. But didn’t explain. Didn’t shift. Didn’t offer one of her clever half-lies like I wrestled a raccoon or you should’ve seen the other guy.

She just sipped her drink.

So I left it.

I let her enjoy her peace, her silence, her small corner of the café like it was sacred ground no one else could trespass.

But before I stepped into the back to stack trays or mop up something spilled near the espresso machine, I said it.

Soft, without drama.

“No one deserves to be treated like that.”

It was quiet enough that she could ignore it if she wanted.

I didn’t wait for a reply.

I didn’t turn around when I felt her eyes on my back.

And I definitely didn’t linger to see if she was confused, or furious, or just… unreadable again.

But later, when I took out the trash, I noticed she was gone — and her coffee cup was still half full.

I wasn’t planning on seeing her again.

Not that day, anyway. One sighting per shift was already a statistical miracle.

But there she was.

The wind off the coast curled around us like it had been told to behave, the sky dimming into copper and slate. And she was walking barefoot, holding her shoes by the straps like someone who didn’t care if she stepped on broken glass — or maybe didn’t believe she would.

I was walking my bird.

And no, that’s not a metaphor. Actual bird.

Mephisto. Crow. Loud. Judgemental. Believes himself to be a reincarnated prince. Has opinions about people’s eyebrows.

She stopped a few feet away, one brow arched, eyes low and amused. “You dress like you were raised in an old family portrait.”

I looked down. Black button-up, rolled sleeves, suspenders. Mephisto had a small red ribbon around one leg.

I sighed. “This is me dressing casual.”

She let out a short laugh and stepped closer, hair tangling in the breeze. “And here I was thinking you wore that just to impress the seagulls.”

“I was trying to impress the tide,” I said dryly. “But it ghosted me.”

She squinted at me in that mock-assessing way. “You’re funnier than you look.”

“Thanks,” I deadpanned. “You’re shinier than your car.”

She smiled. “You’ve been thinking about that car, haven’t you?”

I tilted my head. “Hard not to. It’s so clean it could guide ships at night.”

“That’s a service I provide,” she said with a mock-curtsy. “Free nautical aid.”

I side-eyed her. “You come by the carwash a lot for someone whose car could blind God.”

She gave me a look.

And then, casually: “Maybe I just like watching you shirtless.”

I blinked. Loudly.

“Well,” I said after a pause. “At least you’re honest.”

She shrugged. “Better than lying about an imaginary mud puddle on the bumper every other day.”

We walked a bit.

Mephisto flew ahead, then circled back to perch on my shoulder like a self-satisfied judge of character.

She stared at him, hands stuffed in her coat pockets. “You walk a bird.”

“He needs enrichment,” I replied.

“He can fly.”

“He still prefers the drama of the leash.”

We sat on a low drift of sand, where the waves frothed in small, uncertain sighs. She stretched her legs out like they didn’t belong to her, just two borrowed things she happened to be using for the afternoon.

I could feel the question forming in me again — the same one I didn’t ask earlier, the same one burning a hole behind my teeth.

She rolled her eyes and cut the silence.

“Okay,” she said flatly. “You’ve been staring like you want to ask something but are trying to be all noble about it. Just get on with it.”

I didn’t answer right away.

The wind pressed her hair across her cheek and she didn’t bother moving it.

Eventually, I asked, quietly:

“Is it the person you were yelling at? The one on the phone?”

Her jaw tightened, "I do not yell..." she muttered.

She scooped up a handful of sand and let it sift through her fingers slowly, like she was timing herself. The motion didn’t match her expression — the stillness of her jaw, the narrowing of her eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, edged with something sharper than the breeze.

“My line of work’s not for the weak.”

I didn’t interrupt.

She tossed the last grains of sand aside and dusted her hands on her knees. “And I happen to be good at it. Better than most. But sometimes… miscalculations happen.”

She said it like it tasted bad. Like the word miscalculation had teeth and she'd swallowed it anyway.

I glanced down at her hands — the bandages peeked beneath the sleeves of her oversized coat again. The skin around her knuckles looked raw. She noticed me noticing.

“Don’t ask what I do,” she said, not harsh, but final. “Not unless you’re ready for a lie.”

Mephisto let out a soft trill. She gave him a sidelong glance. “Your bird’s nosy.”

“He’s judgmental,” I corrected. “I’m nosy.”

A faint smirk curved one corner of her mouth. “I figured.”

We sat there for another minute, letting the surf cover the silence.

Then I asked, carefully, “Do the people you work with… Know you come to a beach and mock strange men walking their birds?”

She snorted. “If they did, they’d call me sentimental.”

“And that’s a crime?”

“In my world?” She looked out at the horizon, then back at me. “It’s a weakness.”

She said it the way someone might say family or home if they’d never had either.

She leaned back on her elbows, then let herself sink into the sand fully, her head tilted toward the sky. The wind pulled a strand of hair over her cheek, and before she could move it, My bird fluttered over and perched right on her chest, like he’d been invited.

“Traitor,” I muttered at him.

She chuckled, lazy and low. “I think he likes me more than you.”

“Birds have poor judgment,” I said, but Mephisto stayed put, proud and puffed-up on her sternum like a king claiming his throne.

She scratched behind his head once, gently. Then her eyes flicked back to me. “So tell me, Sylus…” Her tone changed, lost its teasing edge. “How are you so deep in debt you need more than one job… and still chose to take care of an animal too? You know they’re expensive.”

I shrugged and dropped down beside her, folding my arms behind my head. “He was a rescue. Someone left him in a box behind the garage. Wings clipped, half-starved. I couldn’t just throw him out.”

She was quiet, looking at Beau now like she saw something different. “Still. Food, care, medical—doesn’t add up.”

I gave a dry smile. “A lot of things in my life don’t. But he keeps me company. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn’t disappear for days without a word.”

Mephisto cocked his head dramatically, like he knew we were talking about him.

She exhaled slowly, eyes following a gull slicing the sky above. He was still a content little heap of feathers on her chest.

“If he ever needs medical care,” she said eventually, voice softer now, “come to me. I have a friend that's a vet. Owes me a favor. He’ll give you a good price.”

I turned my head to look at her. The breeze had started to carry sand through her hair. “So you'd rather help the bird than ask why I’m in so much debt?”

Her gaze shifted, met mine without flinching. “Yes.”

That caught me off guard.

“Why?”

“Because people lie when they’re cornered,” she said simply. "You’re more likely to let me help if it’s not about you."

I stared at her, trying to read between the lines. She looked back at the sky like she hadn't said anything unusual.

“Besides,” she added after a beat, “if you really wanted to tell me, you would’ve by now.”

Mephisto flapped his wings once, settled deeper onto her chest, and she gave a breathless laugh. “Guess he likes liars too.”

“Hey.”

“Kidding.” She smirked. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

We walked the shoreline afterwards in silence, the sun dipping behind the horizon like it was ashamed of how much it had seen today. The wind picked up just enough to sting the skin, and I offered her my jacket out of instinct. She didn’t take it, just gave me a look like she wasn’t used to people offering without asking for something back.

Mephisto had moved to my shoulder by then, puffed up against the breeze. She looked at the bird, then at me, something unreadable flickering across her expression.

"You're a strange pair," she said, arms folded, eyes on the waves. "You and him."

"We work," I said. “He doesn’t talk much, I talk too much. Balance.”

She gave a small sound that might’ve been a laugh.

We stopped where the sand met the broken cement of the promenade. She didn’t say she had to leave, but her eyes kept drifting to the road like she was trying to decide if the walk back to her life would be harder than staying here.

“Thanks,” I said, though I didn’t really know what I was thanking her for.

She looked over, eyes shadowed under her bangs. “Don’t.”

And then she turned, just like that, and walked toward the steps leading off the beach. No wave. No backward glance. Like leaving things unfinished was her way of breathing.

Mephisto let out a sharp chirp once she was gone.

“Yeah,” I murmured, watching her silhouette vanish into the dark, “I don’t get her either.”

I didn’t know if she’d show up again. But I knew I’d wait, in one way or another.

And I had a feeling—just a flicker in my gut—that the real part hadn’t even started yet.

The walk back was longer than it should’ve been. Maybe because I was thinking too much. Or maybe because I didn’t want to go back to that room with the flickering light and walls thin enough to hear the neighbor’s regrets.

Mephisto stayed quiet on my shoulder, unusually still, like he could sense something shifting in the air.

I cut through the back lot behind the old tire shop—faster, even if the smell of oil and piss stuck to your clothes. Streetlamp half-dead, shadows thick and curled in corners. I knew this part of the city too well.

Too well.

I almost didn’t see him at first. Leaning against the wall like he belonged there, like he’d never left. A cigarette glowed in his hand, orange tip lighting up a face I’d hoped never to see again.

“Look who’s still breathing,” he drawled, voice all cigarette smoke and slow violence. “Sylus. Thought you would’ve drowned in debt or detergent by now.”

I didn’t stop walking, but my shoulders tensed.

“Riv,” I said. Flat. Careful. “Didn’t know you were back in this city.”

“Never left,” he said, stepping into my path. He looked thinner than before, but no less dangerous. Same scars, same smile that promised nothing good. “You’ve been dodging me.”

“Been busy.”

He laughed, sharp and joyless. “Yeah. Heard you’re playing housemaid in a carwash and talking to birds.”

Mephisto's feathers ruffled.

I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag. “What do you want.”

“You know what I want,” Riv said, voice dropping. “Three thousand. And that was six months ago. You think the world stopped counting while you were flirting with customers and playing savior to street pigeons?”

I clenched my jaw. “I said I’d pay.”

“You said that a year ago. You owe me, Sylus. And debts,” he leaned closer, breath hot and foul, “don’t just vanish because you got soft.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

“Get the money,” he said, backing off. “Soon. Or maybe next time I don’t find you alone. Maybe I find that girl.”

My blood ran cold.

He smiled wider, showing a chipped tooth. “Didn’t think I’d notice her? You’re not as subtle as you think.”

I stepped forward before I could stop myself, but he was already gone. Melting into the alley like a rat that had grown too comfortable in the dark.

Mephisto shifted back to my shoulder and pressed his head against my neck, and I realized I was shaking.

Three thousand.

And now she was part of the equation.

Shit.

Though her home lay in ruin, she became the shelter. She moved between neighbors like a flame softened to a lantern, steady and glowing. She found coats for shivering shoulders, bandages for scraped palms, phone calls for those who could not speak through tears. And all the while, the smoke clung to her, a second skin she had no time to shed.

She did not cry. She did not rest. She did not leave.

She understood this kind of chaos well, had lived through worse, where the smoke carried names it never returned. This time, no lives were lost, and for that alone, she was quietly, fiercely grateful.

When he came, it was not with warning. The wind shifted, and Sylus appeared at the edges of the street, the light catching in his eyes like some ancient creature pulled from dream or myth. He had only meant to visit, to bring her something small, a coffee, perhaps, or just the warmth of his presence.

But what he found stilled him.

She stood at the center of the wreckage, directing, mending, holding the weight of the night without complaint. Her pajamas were singed at the hem, her hands blackened from soot, but her voice did not waver.

He did not speak. Not at first. The dragon in him, the fire-forged self that knew rage and ruin, quieted before her.

Finally, when her hands trembled too long between moments, he stepped forward. "You haven't stopped," he said, voice low, almost reverent.

She turned, startled. Surprise flickered in her tired eyes, and before she could stop herself, her head leaned against his chest, an unconscious gesture born of relief. She did not touch him with her hands, as if the ash and soot might somehow stain him too.

But he took them gently, without hesitation. His fingers closed around hers, warming them from the cold, as if the fire had never touched this place, as if she were the only thing he needed to tend to.

"They needed someone," she said. "I was here."

He reached out, brushing ash from her cheek. "And where is your someone?"

She almost smiled.

"He just arrived." She replied so sweetly.

Sylus, felt something shift in him. Something older than the name he'd been given. Something that said: Here. This is what you protect.

Without another word, he drew her close, holding her not like a hero claimed a prize, but like a hearth guards a single candle through the storm.

She let him.

And for the first time since the fire began, she let herself lean into warmth not born of duty, but of relief.

In the days that followed, she did not argue when he brought her to his home. She was too tired to refuse, and perhaps somewhere deep within, she didn’t want to. Her body obeyed what her spirit could not yet reason through. She didn’t speak much, didn’t reach far. But he never asked her to.

Sylus tended to her gently, like a flame watching over burnt coals, carefully and patiently. He brought warmth back to her hands and color to her voice. When sleep claimed her at odd hours or memories came back too sharp, he was near. He didn’t speak of what she lost unless she did first, and when she wept, for the little things, for the quiet things no one would think to mourn, he mourned beside her, silently.

He said nothing of the quiet calls he made. Of the swift donations that passed through anonymous hands. Of how he quietly moved the world so hers could be pieced back together faster. He never told her how much he wanted to keep her longer. He simply made sure she had what she needed to heal.

Each day, he took her out, small trips at first. Stores, markets, soft places. She tried to reclaim pieces of what the fire had taken. A pair of slippers like the ones she’d worn thin. A mug she didn’t need but missed holding. A jacket not quite the same shade but still warm. Some things were gone for good, and she knew it. But when the grief caught her off guard, and the weight of it all pressed against her chest, he did not try to reason it away. He stood in it with her.

He carried what she couldn’t say aloud.

And in that quiet companionship, she of ash and flame began to breathe again.

He bought her more than she needed. Not out of thoughtlessness, but out of quiet hope. A second set of slippers. An extra toothbrush. A coat she said was too thick for spring but which he insisted she might need “just in case.” He stocked his home with traces of her, not because she asked him to, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving too soon.

If she noticed, she didn’t say.

Maybe she, too, was pretending they had more time.

Each new item was a small, unspoken tether. A way to delay the inevitable. But Sylus knew. Knew that the day would come when her apartment was whole again, when her neighbors returned to their lives, when she would smile and say she had to go.

And he would nod.

And she would leave.

And he would return to the silence that pressed tighter in her absence than fire ever could.

He had survived wars, storms, secrets carved into bone. But nothing had quite prepared him for the ache of loving someone too gently to confess it.

So he held her when she let him. Laughed when she did. Bought her two of everything so she’d always have a reason to stay.

And waited for the goodbye he could already feel in his bones.

Her hand rose slowly, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw as she turned his face toward hers. Her touch was featherlight but firm, and her gaze held his without wavering. In the hush of the moment, she spoke, not in grandeur, but in truth, her voice threaded with emotion.

"I’m happy it’s you I’m with."

Then, with the same ease, she laid her head back on his shoulder, as though she hadn’t just set his soul alight with seven simple words.

Sylus didn’t move, not right away. He felt the words like warmth blooming beneath his ribs, soft and blinding. His breath caught in his throat, and his chest ached with something so immense it hollowed him out just to hold it.

How many nights had he spent alone, wondering if he’d ever be worthy of her nearness, her peace, her quiet choosing? How often had he feared the silence would remain just that, empty, aching?

But now, she was here. With him.

And she was glad.

He turned his face slightly, brushing his lips to the crown of her head. His arms tightened around her waist. He closed his eyes.

And inside, his heart whispered over and over:

It’s me. It’s me.

There were no orders, no reports. No questions. He crossed the room in three long steps, boots silent on the rugs. When she stepped forward, he met her halfway.

Her arms wrapped around him, sudden and full, and he folded her in like she had always belonged in the hollow of his chest.

No words.

Just warmth. The kind that crept in quietly. The kind that stayed.

She smelled of gunpowder and winter air, of earth and distance. Her face pressed to the place where his heartbeat lived. And he held her, fiercely and carefully all at once.

"You're home," he murmured, a breath into her hair.

She only nodded, her face hidden, her silence a language he had long since learned to speak.

He closed his eyes.

And in the stillness, the base no longer felt so quiet.

It was never announced when she chose to be silent. The first time it happened around him, it was a quiet morning, the kind when snow gathers thick and soft against the base’s windows, muffling the world outside. Inside, his men moved with subdued energy, preparing for missions, checking equipment, their voices low and routine. She was there visiting him, still early in their fragile beginning, weaving excuses as reasons to see each other. Hers that day was simple enough, that she needed information on some obscure protocols’ buyer, a pretext that barely veiled the truth of her desire to be near him. She hid that desire well, scattering it beneath bursts of energetic chatter with the men around them, laughter masking the quiet ache he sensed beneath.

Sylus noticed it first, how she had gone quiet. Not just still, but silent in a way that felt deliberate. She stood near the equipment table, her fingers grazing the surface of a datasheet, eyes distant. When someone asked her a question, she responded with a nod, a gesture, but no voice. The rest of the men exchanged uncertain glances.

He didn’t ask. Not then.

Later, when the day's noise had softened and the base was humming low with evening quiet, he knocked gently at her door. Not urgent. Just presence.

She opened it. The lights inside were dim. She hadn’t spoken a word all day. But now, her fingers moved.

"I’m sorry."

She signed it quickly, but her hands lingered mid-air after, hesitant.

Sylus stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand.”

The words fell into the space between them like a warm blanket. She watched him closely, searching for anything in his voice that might hint at frustration or confusion. But she found none. Only quiet care.

“Will you teach me?” he asked.

Her brows lifted.

“Just a few signs,” he added, sheepish. “So I know how to listen.”

She smiled then, small and true. The kind that curled her lip just slightly and reached her eyes. Then she stepped aside, inviting him in fully. He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, knees close.

She began with his name. How to sign it. His fingers fumbled the first time, but she didn’t laugh. She took his hand, corrected him gently.

They went slowly.

Words like: okay. hungry. safe. stay.

And then, a pause. Her fingers brushed against his, more deliberate now.

“You see me?” she asked, hands shaping each word.

Sylus looked at her.

And signed back; clumsy but clear:

“I... see... you.”

Not just the silence. Not just the hands that spoke. But her.

All of her.

The days that followed were stitched together with small, quiet moments, each a step closer to understanding her silent language.

Sylus sat before the cracked mirror in his room, fingers fumbling awkwardly as he tried to form the signs she had patiently taught him: good morning. His brow furrowed in concentration, the shape of the words foreign and fragile between his hands.

She appeared beside him, watching with a soft smile. When his hands wavered, she reached out, guiding his fingers gently, their skin brushing. The touch sent a warmth threading through him, mingling with the frustration of clumsy attempts.

“Again,” she signed, eyes bright.

He repeated the gesture, slower this time, lips parting to catch her silent encouragement.

Later, in the quiet solitude of the base, Sylus found himself tracing new shapes, I missed you, against the dim light. The words felt heavier, layered with the ache that had settled in his chest.

One evening, seated side by side, he gathered courage. Turning to her, he signed carefully, fingers trembling, “You’re… safe… with me.”

Her eyes glistened, moisture pooling like fragile glass. With a trembling hand, she signed back, “I know.”

No words spoken. No sounds made.

But in that silent exchange, everything was said.

The aftermath of the mission settled over the base like a thick fog, dulling even the hum of machinery. Sylus moved through the muted halls, the quiet pressing heavily against his chest. For days, she had been silent, not the peaceful kind of silence, but a fortress, built strong and high around her. No words came from her lips, no explanations, only distant glances that cut sharper than any blade.

His mind had been elsewhere during the mission, fragmented by the weight of her absence in their conversations, her silence haunting him like a shadow. He missed crucial details, hesitated at moments that demanded precision, and faltered when clarity was needed most. The failure was a bitter reminder that the distance between them wasn’t just emotional, it had tangible consequences.

Each step through the base echoed with his frustration, not just with the mission’s outcome, but with himself for letting his focus slip. More than that, he feared the widening gulf between them, the growing silence that seemed to push them further apart with every passing hour.

One evening, the tension finally broke.

He confronted her, voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, words spilling out faster than he could stop them. His questions demanded answers, sought the reason behind her silence and the cold space she now occupied.

“Why won’t you speak to me?.... What am I supposed to do? You’re here, but it’s like you are not.” He stepped forward with quiet care, the sudden rush of words ebbing from his lips like a broken stream. His hands reached for hers, warm and steady, enclosing them gently within his own. Without a word more, they settled onto the floor, two souls drawn close in the hush of the room, facing one another in a silence as he waited for her to respond as he always did.

But she didn’t respond with words.

Her hands moved instead, sharp, deliberate, a storm of sign language cutting through the tension like blades. The silent language was fierce, a shield built from pain and distance. It spoke of walls, of a heart retreating from the world, and of fear buried beneath layers of quiet. But he did not understand, he did not yet know all the words of her language.

He shook his head slowly, the weight of longing softening his gaze. Bringing her hands gently to his chest, he held them there as if anchoring himself to her. “No,” he whispered, voice low and earnest, “please, say the words, I want to hear you. do not disappear.”

She met his eyes with a quiet plea, her hands slipping free from his grasp to circle gently around her own neck, then gesturing away as if pushing the weight of words from her. Her lips parted again and again, but no sound came, and he waited patiently. 

“Sometimes... it’s heavy.” She whispered.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, fragile and trembling, as she fought back tears that threatened to spill. she slowly moved her hands

“Sometimes the silence is the only way I feel I can breathe.”

Her vulnerability hung between them like a fragile thread, delicate yet unbreakable.

Sylus met her gaze, caught in that fragile moment where uncertainty wavered between them. For a heartbeat, he did not know what to say or do, then, as he saw the quiet ache in her eyes, his own frustration softened and melted away. Slowly, deliberately, he drew closer, pulling her gently to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. His lips brushed softly, a whispered promise carried in silence.

“Then I’ll breathe with you,” he promised, voice low and steady. “In silence, if that is what you need.”

They sank down together on the cold floor, her on top of him, the silence folding around them, not as a barrier, but a shared breath, a sanctuary.

In that quiet space, words no longer mattered.

Only the soft rhythm of their heartbeats, beating in tandem, speaking what neither dared say aloud.

dividers by @uzmacchiato