~~*~~
Anitta's eyes narrowed as she watched him. Something about the way he retreated into his mind was familiar. She'd watched many supernatural creatures do that trying to cope with the change or what they were or just the weight of it. It had been different for her family. They had thousands of years to get used to the idea of what they were and what they had to live with. Others only had one lifetime to do that in. Wolves especially.
But she had been right. Just as he uttered that last sentence she realized it. He was talking about his own childhood and this gift giving was likely tied to that more than anything. She could relate. "What's your name?"
"My name?" Benjamin raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with mild curiosity. He wasnât entirely sure why she wanted to know, but he couldnât quite see the harm in giving it to her either. Still, something about sharing a name always felt like more than just exchanging pleasantries. It was a small thing, but it carried weight. He had learned, over time, that giving someone your name took away a little piece of the anonymity that kept you safe, that kept you distant from others. After all, once someone knew your name, you werenât a stranger anymore. You were something else, something more vulnerable.
He hesitated, feeling the weight of the decision, however small. Did he really want that? To be less of a stranger? He had convinced himself over the years that he was perfectly content being alone, living out in the quiet wilderness, just him, his cabin, and his woodwork. It was a simple life, but it was his, and it kept the world at bay. Out here, there were no expectations, no need to explain himself to anyone. And certainly, no need to share more of himself than absolutely necessary.
But something about this woman, her presence, made him pause. He didnât know if it was her curiosity or the easy way she spoke, but for some reason, Benjamin found himself lowering his guard, just a little.
"Benjamin," he finally said, his voice a touch softer than before. "Benji, for friends." The word âfriendsâ rolled off his tongue awkwardly, as if it was something he wasnât used to saying anymore. Friends had been a concept heâd long since let slip away, like driftwood caught in a current, moving farther and farther out of reach.
He glanced at her briefly, wondering how sheâd take that. Did she want to be a friend? Or was she just asking for the sake of formality? It wasnât often that he got asked his name out here, so the question felt strangely intimate, even though it was a common enough thing to ask.
A second passed, and he muttered again, almost as an afterthought, "Unless you meant my last name." He gave a small, humorless chuckle, as if amused by the fact that someone might want more information than just his first name. "Thatâs Amsel," he added, his tone slightly more resigned, as if giving that piece of himself away cost him more than heâd like to admit.
Benjamin Amsel. The name felt heavy in the air between them, a bridge that connected them in some small, unseen way. Heâd lived alone for so long that the act of introducing himself felt foreign, almost like he was opening a door that had been shut for years, a door he wasnât sure he wanted to open again.
He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Would she take that name and carry it lightly, or would it mean something more? He didnât know. All he knew was that, for better or worse, he wasnât a complete stranger to her anymore.
