#writebler

His skin glistened with rain, a trail of droplets sliding from his collarbone to the edge of his shorts. He looked like the storm had spat him out and left him here: shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes so hollow she almost didn’t recognize them.

Her gaze snagged on the ink curling over his shoulder, dark against golden-brown skin. The tattoo. The one she knew belonged to them, the same guys he’d spat venom about for months.

Her breath hitched. His hair—God, his hair. Gone. Shorn short. The beautiful length she remembered, hacked away like he’d shed it along with something else. He was taller, buffer, cut into harder lines. Different.

Her voice wavered as she forced the words out. “How’d you… how’d you get up here?”

Her room was on the second floor. A long, long ways up.

Jacob didn’t answer. He just stared, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts, like he’d run through hell and only barely made it back.

Her throat went dry. He just stood there, dripping on her rug, not saying a word, not even blinking, like she was something to study instead of someone he used to know.

“Jacob,” she whispered, taking a half-step back until her shoulder blades touched the cold glass of the window. “Why are you here?”

Still nothing. Only the thunder answering for him, rattling the walls.

She let out a sharp breath, anger rising to cover the sting in her chest. “You can’t just show up like this. You can’t just—” her voice broke, then sharpened, “climb into my room like nothing happened. We don’t even talk anymore!”

That made his jaw twitch. His eyes, dark and burning, locked on hers.

“You stopped talking to me,” he said finally, voice low and frayed at the edges.

Her laugh came out short, bitter. “Because you gave me nothing to say! You shut me out, Jake. You pushed me away. And now… now you look like this.” Her hand trembled as she gestured at him: his shorn hair, his hardened frame, the black tattoo seared into his skin. “Do you even realize what you look like? Who you look like?”

His chest heaved once, twice. “You think I had a choice?” he ground out, stepping closer, water still dripping from him onto her floor.

The storm cracked outside, lightning flashing across his face, carving him into something both familiar and frightening.

She shook her head, robe tied tighter around her. “You could’ve told me. You could’ve trusted me. But you didn’t. You leave me in the dark, Jacob, like I mean nothing.”

His eyes flickered, hurt cutting through his anger for just a second. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?” she snapped, her own voice breaking now. “From you?”

For a beat, there was only the rain, hammering the roof, beating the earth. His gaze dropped to the floor, then dragged back up to her face. His voice was raw when he finally spoke.

His gaze dropped to the floor, then dragged back up to her face. His voice was raw when he finally spoke. “When you left…” His throat worked, the words catching like they hurt to say. “When you left, I was angry. So angry at myself for letting you walk away. And when you didn’t answer my calls—” his jaw clenched, the muscles ticking, “I thought maybe that was what I deserved. To lose you. To lose everything.”

Her chest tightened, but she kept still, nails biting into her palms where they clutched her robe.

“This isn’t who I thought I’d be,” he whispered, motioning faintly to the tattoo, to the hardened lines of his body. “It’s like something pulled me into it, whether I fought or not. Like I didn’t even have a choice.” His jaw worked, breath catching. “And I don’t even know why I’m here except… I need to know. I I just need to see if you still look at me like I’m worth anything.”

He stepped forward, closing the space between them until her spine pressed against the cold pane of the window. His arms braced slightly at his sides, almost caging her in without touching. The storm flared behind him, but the pull between them was louder, heavier.

Then their eyes met. Really met.

And something inside her chest gave a sharp, breathless tug, like a string pulled tight, binding her to him in a way she couldn’t name. Her lungs stuttered, her pulse roared in her ears, and for a second she couldn’t feel the floor under her feet.

Jacob stilled, as if the storm had frozen him in place. His pupils blew wide, his breath shuddering out like he’d been punched. And the look in his eyes… it wasn’t just longing, or anger, or sorrow. It was recognition.

Terror.

Reverence.

It was the look of someone who had found the missing piece they’d been chasing all their life. Terrifying because he hadn’t been ready. Devastating because he couldn’t undo it. His lips parted, but no words came—only that look, raw and unmasked, as if she’d just reached into his chest and touched the core of him.

Her heart raced wildly, her own breath trembling as she whispered, “Jacob…” not knowing why her voice sounded like a prayer.

Her chest still throbbed from the strange pull in her ribs, that invisible thread tugging and tightening between them. She tried to steady her breath, but it only hitched when she looked at him again—rainwater still streaming down his body, eyes burning like something more than human was inside him.

“You’re gonna be sick,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “Out in this weather… no shirt, no shoes…”

He didn’t move. He just stared at her, chest rising and falling, like he was holding back a tide that wanted to drown them both.

Her hands shook as she lifted them, hovering for a heartbeat before pressing her palms to his forehead. Heat poured off him, not just warmth but a searing fever that made her gasp. “You have a fever already, Jay,” she whispered.

That broke him.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest, animal and unrestrained, and before she could pull away, his mouth crashed against hers.

The kiss stole the air from her lungs. Hard, frantic, desperate, as if he thought she’d vanish if he didn’t hold her down. His hands found her waist, gripping tight, dragging her closer until her robe strained against its knot. One slid up, broad and hot, wrapping the side of her neck. He pressed her back into the cold window, lips clashing with hers—sucking, biting, tasting her like he needed her carved into him.

Her gasp opened her mouth to him, and he groaned, tongue sliding against hers, deeper, wetter, rougher. She clutched at his shoulders, his skin burning beneath her fingers, and the storm outside roared like it was keeping pace.

With a sudden surge, he hoisted her up, strong hands gripping her thighs. The edge of the windowsill dug into her as he sat her there, his body slotting between her legs, lips never leaving hers. She wound her legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him in closer, tighter.

He kissed her like a man starved—licking, sucking, breaking only for a sharp breath before diving back in. Every sound he made was raw, aching, reverberating through her chest until she couldn’t tell where his heartbeat ended and hers began.

And through it all—through the feverish heat of him, the storm thrashing against the glass, the dizzying pull in her chest—she felt it. That same unshakable tether pulling them together, binding them in ways she couldn’t explain.

He tore his mouth from hers only to press it lower, scattering kisses down her jaw, her throat, the curve where her collarbone met her shoulder. Each brush was frantic but reverent, like he was memorizing her with his mouth. His breath came ragged, hot against her damp skin, and she swore she felt him breathe her in.

Her robe slipped, the tie loosening just enough for the fabric to fall askew. His hand found her thigh, big and rough, sliding under the hem. He gripped and rubbed, fingers sinking into the softness, pulling her closer as if he couldn’t stand a millimeter between them. Her legs tightened instinctively around his waist, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“Jay…” she panted, the word torn out of her. Not a stop. A warning. His name sounded like a plea, like a prayer, like she didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t slow down—and didn’t know what would happen if he did.

And then—“Honey? Are you okay?”

Her mother’s voice, muffled but close, drifting from the hallway. “I heard some yelling?”

Jacob didn’t pull away. He only slowed, lips still ghosting against her collarbone, teeth grazing lightly as if daring her to tell him no. His grip on her thigh tightened possessively.

“Yeah, Mama,” she called back, her voice strained, almost too high. She swallowed hard, forcing steadiness. “Just on the phone with Kees!”

A pause, then her mother’s warm, oblivious reply: “Okay, baby. Tell him I say hey.”

Her pulse thundered harder than the storm outside. Jacob finally lifted his head, his eyes locking onto hers. They were dark, wild, glowing with something that terrified her and drew her in all the same. His lips were swollen, his chest heaving, but he didn’t move his hand from her thigh.

“Jacob…” she whispered again, softer this time, not warning but something else—something she wasn’t ready to name.

Her breath was still ragged, her robe slipping, her lips swollen and wet from his kiss. The storm rattled the glass at her back, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside her.

Reality crashed in, sharp and suffocating. She pressed both hands against his chest, trying to push him back, but her palms met something like stone—solid, unmovable. He didn’t even sway.

“You—” her voice cracked, lips trembling as she lifted her hand to cover them, as if she could hide the kiss he’d branded there. Her other hand tugged her robe tighter, fumbling with the sash. “You should go.”

Jacob’s chest rose and fell beneath her palms, hot and unyielding. His jaw flexed, his eyes locked on her like he was seeing every piece of her at once and refusing to look away.

His voice came out rough, almost broken. “I can’t. Not now.”

Before she could argue, he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. Heat radiated off him in waves, his breath shaky against her lips. Her heart slammed so hard in her chest she was sure he could feel it.

“Jacob…” she murmured, swallowing thickly. Then, softer, with a small, nervous laugh, “You know my mom’s nosey. She’ll come back in here wanting to know what we’re talking about.”

For the first time that night, his mouth twitched. The sound that left him was low and rough, almost a laugh, and it broke the tension just enough to make her chest loosen.

Their eyes met again, and this time he kissed her slow. Soft. Melting her inch by inch, nothing like the frantic crash before. His lips lingered, savoring, tasting her like she was something precious. Her hands curled into his damp skin, and she felt the tether pulling tighter, anchoring her to him.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let her go. Instead, he slid his arms beneath her, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and set her gently on the edge of her bed. He stood over her, drenched and trembling, chest heaving like he was in the fight of his life. She could see it all over him—the battle between wanting to stay and knowing he couldn’t.

At last, he leaned down, pressed his lips to her forehead with aching tenderness, and pulled away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised, voice low but steady.

Then he turned, dripping and barefoot, moving toward the window as if it was the only way he could leave without shattering completely.

She stood quickly, robe tugged tight, heart lurching at the sight of him stepping toward the window. “Jacob, wait—you’ll hurt yourself,” she blurted, voice shaky. “Climbing out like that again, you’ll—”

But before she could finish, he was already moving. For him, it was nothing. A breeze. He swung one leg over, then the other, and dropped down with impossible ease, like gravity itself bent for him.

The storm had softened into a drizzle, the rain misting against the glass. He turned once, glanced back up at her, water dripping from his hair. And then he smirked—crooked, familiar, enough to make her knees threaten to give.

Before she could breathe his name, he disappeared into the dark, the woods swallowing him whole.

She stood frozen for a moment, then sagged to the floor, palms flat against the boards where his puddles still glistened. Her body felt boneless, melted, her heart still thrashing against her ribs. She pressed a shaky hand over her mouth, trying to catch the last trace of his kiss.

Just like she called it, the knock came at her door.

“Honey?” her mother’s voice, warm and nosy, slipped through the wood. “What are you and Kees talking ’bout?”

Her eyes flew wide, robe clutched tight as she scrambled to her feet, heat rushing to her cheeks.

“Uh—n-nothing, Mama! Just… just homework,” she blurted, wincing at how shaky her own voice sounded.

A pause. Then her mother’s easy chuckle filtered through the door. “Mm-hmm. Sounded a lot more serious than homework, baby. Don’t be up too late.”

Her footsteps drifted away, and the silence that followed felt louder than the storm.

She sagged against the edge of her bed, pressing her palm hard over her mouth. Her lips still burned from his kiss. Her skin still hummed where his hands had been. And in her chest, that strange, unshakable pull knotted tighter, like a thread she could never cut loose.

Tomorrow. He’d said he’d see her tomorrow.

The thought terrified her. The thought thrilled her.

She curled in on herself, heart still sprinting, trying to decide whether she wanted the night to end—or to never end at all.

I left her tent in a huff with a tornado spinning in my lungs. "What a beguiling witch," I cursed under my breath, and wrath was the only way I could catch my breath.

But I did sit in the street and think. I imagined a future that reflected the past: families lost, my mistakes permanent. The loneliness was a living, beating thing and it sat on my chest. Even my shadow had left.

I went to the fortune teller the next day. I asked her the same thing, even if I hated repeating myself.

She said, "I won't tell you your future before you make peace with your past." And she said it with an air of someone that knew I would keep coming back—but never going back.

I seethed so I could breathe. "Listen, lady. Don't you want to be paid? Take my money and read my palm, damn it."

She told me to get out.

I left her tent in a huff with a tornado spinning in my lungs. I hated repeating myself, but I did sit in the street and think. I replayed the past in my head, but only the moments I couldn't stomach, a film reel of tailored horrors. I said to myself this is the price of naïve living. Dead parents and childhoods ashen.

And I had to learn and I had to know what the future holds, so I wouldn't live a naïve living.

I went to the fortune teller the next day, but she was gone. She had traveled on. I sat in the empty earth where her tent used to sit, and I thought. How come she could travel on, and I had to stay in the past?

I stared at my calloused palms. At the fissures and creases carved with a sword's hilt. I tried to read them, but only remembered when they were softer, shallower, unable to grip a sword. I clenched my hands into fists.

I left.

A storm came. Angry, so angry with me. It bellowed. It burned. It was me, ripping apart my soul. A monster in my home—real and terrible. I crawled away from it, naked like an animal.

V, one day old.

I went to the fortune teller a different man. It was chance I found her. And I only went in for old time's sake. When I opened the tassels of her tent, she was sitting with two cups of tea–mint green, it hit my nose. My favorite kind. Maybe she was rubbing off on me, but I knew before she spoke that she would say, "Welcome. Sit."

And so I did sit. And I didn't think. I stopped doing that around the time I tore my soul.

"Are you prepared to have your future told?" She said.

The storm had blown over. I was an upheaved scarecrow. Mangled and laying in a world rich with crops and warm earth, and I was hungry and cold like a dead hearth.

"No," I said. I was not prepared, I was in pieces from finding peace.

"One often isn't ready when the future becomes our present."

And then she foretold my future in riddles. I was quite good with riddles, but I didn't try to decipher them. I sipped tea and barely listened. Air was whooshing inside my ears—I didn't know if it was the spring breeze or another brewing storm. One way or another, I would find out, wouldn't I?

When she was finished, she asked me to pay for the tea and not for the riddles. I didn't have any money.

She told me to get out.

I left her tent the same man who entered. That man was a different man than his past suggested. He was a dead storm, a dead monster, and a newborn.

He was memories and nostalgia, walking on two legs and a cane. The good memories were proof better times could exist, and the bad ones were proof the storms couldn't kill him.

It didn't hurt to remember anymore.