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@botrusanimarum
❛ Just above our terror, the stars painted this story in perfect silver calligraphy. And our souls, too often abused by ignorance, covered our eyes with mercy ❜. —𝑨𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒋𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒊
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Open Threads HERE. Rules HERE.
Untitled by ΛNDREW CHΛRLES on Flickr.
@kdramaspace 2024 YEAR IN REVIEW | Cinematic Excellence | best cinematography or directing/director of 2024 Light shop (2024) dir. Kim Hee Won
A SHOP FOR KILLERS 킬러들의 쇼핑몰 — 2024, dir. Lee Kwon
— Leah Horlick from “For Your Own Good” (via lunamonchtuna)
the day clung to her like a second skin, exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders with the weight of something almost physical. her mind craved the quiet she knew waited here, in this house that wasn’t hers but might as well have been. the lee home was stitched into her memory just as tightly as her own, perhaps tighter, for where her childhood walls had been empty and cold, echoed with absence, this place had always pulsed with life. every corner here bore fingerprints of those who lived inside, the soft clutter of a home in motion, even the smell: warm popcorn blended with remnants of dinner and that familiar undertone of aged wood, it was enough to loosen something tight in her chest.
by the time she stepped in, humidity clung to her clothes, strands of damp hair glued stubbornly to her cheeks. habit carried her through, the automatic rhythm of setting down her bag, slipping out of her shoes. and then his voice, low, calm and familiar, rose through the quiet. she didn’t need to look to know it was him, that voice had been written into her bones since childhood. a smile bloomed before she could stop it, a soft curve that felt almost summoned, like a reflex.
her gaze lifted, and there he was: soo jin, sitting composed on the couch, posture neat, tone measured, that faint smile that never gave everything away but always gave enough. always the protector, always steady. she remembered umbrellas shared on rainy walks home, shoelaces tied when her fingers fumbled, the way he always made room without needing to be asked. even now, that same instinct lingered in him, and in her, the same sense of belonging it always stirred.
❝ very long day.. ❞ her voice carried both the heaviness of her fatigue and the relief of being here. her eyes flicked to the offering he’d pushed toward her, a bowl of popcorn and the sweating glass of soda, and only then did she realize how empty her stomach was. a small, clumsy nod followed as she made her way closer, lips pressed into something halfway between gratitude and weariness.
❝ it’s like you knew exactly what i needed. you’ll never tell me how you do that, will you? ❞ she teased softly, the pressed lips easing into a smirk that warmed her tired features. the weight of the day tugged at her still, though, and she glanced toward the hallway. ❝ would you mind if i take a quick shower first? after that, i’m all yours. ❞
she didn’t wait for an answer, knowing he wouldn’t deny her. moments later, hot water and soap washed the long day from her skin. borrowed pajamas comforted her, the soft fabric smelling faintly of romi. when she padded back into the living room, the glow of the tv and soo jin’s quiet presence felt like a tide pulling her to shore. without hesitation, she dropped onto the couch beside him, her light frame barely disturbing the cushion, though her presence filled the space between them with ease. leaning forward, she reached for the bowl of popcorn and set it between them, fingertips brushing lightly against the kernels as she picked a few.
❝ so - how was your day? ❞ she asked, turning her gaze to him, eyes glinting with both curiosity and the familiar concern she always carried for him. ❝ have you been practicing those deep breaths i told you to? you need to, you know. relax sometimes. it’s not good for your heart, soo jin. ❞ the words came half as a reminder, half as an invitation for him to let go, if only because she asked him to. she popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth, watching him quietly, waiting for his answer, the tapping of rain on the windows and the warmth of the room cocooning them in a moment that felt like home.
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･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑶𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒎 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔, blending with the low hum of the movie and the faint murmur of distant traffic. The room smelled of popcorn and lingering dinner, of polished wood and the faint trace of rain from her hair.
Soo Jin watched her as she padded back into the living room, the borrowed pajamas soft and slightly oversized, the faint scent of Romi clinging to the fabric. The warm glow of the TV flickered across her face, mingling with the gentle lamplight brushing the spines of books and the leaves of potted plants.
He had set up the movie quietly for himself, hoping the distraction would fill the hours while his siblings were still out, Minjae having called earlier to check in. His older brother had laughed softly over the phone, saying he’d stayed overnight in a hotel because the rain had made the roads slippery—much like the storm that had always seemed to find its way into their lives. Soo Jin had nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips, before hanging up, and now the flickering TV light and soft background noise felt like a tether, keeping him grounded while waiting.
She sank onto the couch, the subtle sigh she let out almost hidden in the quiet. Soo Jin’s chocolate eyes tracked the small motions—the tilt of her head as she reached for the popcorn, the way her fingers lingered on the bowl, the slow exhale that seemed to let the day slip from her shoulders.
❛…My day was fine ❜. he said quietly, voice calm, measured, a small lift at the corner of his lips. ❛ Minjae called earlier, said he stayed overnight at a hotel—rain was heavy, roads slippery, like tonight. I… didn’t want to sit around waiting for everyone to get back, so I settled for a movie night, tried to keep myself busy ❜.
His gaze softened for a fraction longer than necessary, noting the faint curve of her smile, the tired gleam in her eyes, the subtle relief in the way she leaned back on the couch. Memories flickered—umbrellas shared on rainy walks, shoelaces he had tied when her fingers fumbled, scraped knees he had bandaged, the quiet comfort of holding her hand to guide her home. That instinct to care had never left him, woven into his attention now as naturally as breathing.
❛ I… have been trying ❜. he continued, eyes briefly meeting hers. ❛ The breathing. Helps… sometimes ❜. The pause that followed carried more than words could—he wasn’t perfect at this, but he tried.
He leaned back slightly, hands resting lightly on his knees, letting her settle beside him. Every small movement—the easing of her shoulders, the brush of damp hair from her cheek, the soft settling of her frame—was quietly noted. The quiet glow of the TV, the patter of rain against the tall windows, and the warmth of the apartment seemed to cocoon them both.
❛ And…❜. he added softly, voice low, almost a murmur against the hum of the movie, ❛ I was glad for the quiet, honestly. Just… this, for a while ❜. His words were measured, reserved, but the glance he gave her spoke volumes—the small, unspoken weight of fondness, of comfort in her presence, and of the shared history that threaded through every motion, every glance, every quiet moment.
For a long moment, he let himself simply observe her, the calm breathing, the gentle movements, the subtle exhale of a day eased by being home. The twins and Romi would return eventually, but for now, the quiet of the room and her presence were enough—more than enough—and he allowed himself to settle into it.
inside those four walls felt a sense of stability and safety. two of these words managed to become a common vocabulary word in hyejung's dictionary, though, if you were to ask her about these words as a teenager, she wouldn't have understood its meanings. she would have crumpled them up and shoved them down her throat, claiming that she had not deserved either one of those. she had gone down many twisted turns, and this path seemed to smoothen out not only for her, but for the future that lied ahead of her -- ahead of them.
"kind of funny now that you mention it." she chuckles, teasing at his pun this time around. she leans into his touch as she's always yearned to, figments of her imagination slowly turn into reality. she could see the walls painted to whatever color they'd think would be best, images of furniture fill up the rooms as the scent in the air becomes heavy with infatuation. if one were to look at them from the outside looking in, they would describe it as a kind of puppy love, except stronger and more certain. as hyejung looks up to soojin, the orbs of her eyes naturally dilate and she's afraid that he can see all of her.
even with this fear, she chooses to show it. to sink into the embrace of his arms and to let go of any worries she'd have. it doesn't matter. she understands the fear that the both of them had. "and for someone as serious as you, you seem to lace your words with jokes quite often more than before. is it because you can do so around me?" she chuckles, nuzzling her nose against his. "if so, continue to let your guard down around me, mm? and keep making your cute little jokes. i find them funny."
the playfulness easily turns into a flirtatious attempt now to swoon her husband. husband? holy shit. the word felt so unfamiliar, yet it danced on her tongue in perfect precision. the way his fingers felt hot against her skin, even at the slightest touch, was enough to make hyejung succumb. the younger her wouldn't believe in this domestic life. but here it was, being painted for her right before her eyes. "you think so?" she chuckles, raising an eyebrow. "i would have thought my husband would fight harder to handle a girl like me." another joke to lighten the atmosphere, now leaning in to bite at his neck. "i, for a fact, know that we'll be able to handle it. you know why?"
she lets the question linger, impatient fingers now slide under his shirt just to feel the warmth against her own. "it's because we're both taking a jab at it. you know? even with the future being unknown.." this was the most hopeful she's ever been. and to take that away with such a silly thought.. it would take more than that. he has proved - time and time again - that he was worthy to be in this position with her. she had let down her walls and was willing to rebuild them, but this time, with soojin by her side.
and if ever her walls were to fall again, the only way was to go up. he had seen the ugliest parts of her and decided that even then, he would choose her. it was... touching. she could understand what people meant when they said you just know. there was no feeling to describe how she had chosen him as well. "you don't have to hold everything together. and the crazy part is.." she pulls her hands away to wrap around him. she starts to drag them away from the counter this time, slow dancing without any music. "you had taught me that, you know? or even if you don't know, i'm confessing now."
through many broken tears, hyejung had had to pick herself back up and wipe them away in order to be taken seriously. in this moment and the mention of his mother, it reminds her of her own mother, wishing that the both of them could meet each others' counterpart. she sheds a tear now, but this time, she doesn't wipe it away. "it would have been nice to meet her too, i feel like." with the way that she was now, she was a little more confident in meeting others, even if they did not fully understand her childhood.
she stops spinning them, though there's still a bit of a sway in her step. she takes in every word that he says, nodding her head as she caresses his hand to bring closer towards her lips. the distance was quite close, the tenderness of her lips linger on his skin before pulling him closer yet again. "it is you that has made me feel like family. you decided to create your family in lieu of your own. and for me--" she almost chokes on her words, but decides to falter. "--a girl who had no family.." silence fills up the air before she lets it delate. "i'm ready to finally understand and create one. with you, my love."
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･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚. Every subtle sound—the distant hum of traffic, the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet, the soft whisper of the evening breeze through the slightly cracked window—seemed amplified in the hush. Soo Jin could feel Hyejung’s warmth pressed against him, the delicate weight of her hands resting lightly on his back, and it anchored him in a way that was both grounding and intoxicating.
He tilted his head slightly, letting his forehead brush against hers. A soft sigh escaped him as he inhaled the faint scent of her shampoo, mingled with the lingering warmth of her skin. ❛ Just when I think I can't love you more... ❜. he murmured, voice low and intimate, each word a feather against the quiet. ❛ You prove me wrong ❜.
Her nuzzle against his neck drew a shiver from him, involuntary and soft. He let his hands drift up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over the planes of her cheeks, slow, deliberate. He lingered there, memorizing the curve of her jaw, the soft warmth beneath his fingers, the gentle rise and fall of her breath. It was in these small movements—this careful, unhurried attention—that he felt the deepest connection, deeper than words could reach.
Their sway was slow, unstructured, guided by nothing but the press of their bodies and the rhythm of their shared breaths. He let his fingers trail down her back, pausing at her waist, letting the fabric of her shirt shift under his touch. His lips hovered near her temple, brushing it ever so lightly, before settling to press the faintest kiss there—a whisper of affection. ❛ You have this way of…❜. he started, voice catching just a little. ❛…making the world feel lighter, safer, like it doesn’t matter what tomorrow holds. Just… being here with you is enough ❜.
He let his gaze travel over her face slowly, as if committing every detail to memory—the glimmer in her eyes, the faint flush of her cheeks, the tiny movements of her lips as she breathed. His chest pressed gently against hers, and he allowed himself the quiet delight of feeling her heartbeat echo against his own. ❛ And you… you make me want to be better. Even when I think I can’t ❜. he whispered, letting his hand drift over hers, fingers entwining. ❛…you make it seem possible ❜.
A soft laugh escaped him, warm and light, as he leaned his forehead back against hers. ❛ Is there something you can't do Mrs. Lee? ❜ he teased gently, letting a playful spark creep into his eyes. ❛… I believe I married well and above my station ❜.
He tilted his head slightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. ❛ And… when it comes to starting a family ❜. he murmured, careful, affectionate. ❛ we’ll have all the time in the world to practice. To figure it out together. There’s no rush, and nothing to get wrong ❜.
Even in the small, tender moments—the brush of lips against temple and cheek, the slow sway of their bodies, the intertwining of fingers—there was a rhythm forming between them. A rhythm neither had to name, yet both felt deeply. Soo Jin pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of her head, then slid a hand along her back again, resting there as if holding her could make the world fall away entirely.
❛ So… let’s just stay like this for a little while longer ❜. he murmured, warm and soft, letting the quiet intimacy stretch between them. ❛Just us. And all the little things we’ll learn along the way ❜.
Then, with a playful glint in his eyes, he spun them gently in a slow sway, his arms firm around her as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them. He dipped her slightly, laughter bubbling from them both, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, tasting the warmth of their shared excitement. Rising back up, he held her close again, moving as if to music that existed only in their minds—an imagined waltz weaving through the empty apartment, every step, every turn, every laugh suspended in a perfect, timeless rhythm.
Soo Jin rested his forehead against hers, breath mingling, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. ❛ I remember our first dance... I stepped on your feet a few times... I should've practiced some more ❜. he murmured. ❛ I promise I'll get better... so I can teach our daughter one day, soon ❜.
Caspian had certainly not thought this through. There was a reason why he lived alone; why he liked things the way he liked them. He had odd schedules with his work life and like things ordered a certain way. The last time he lived with someone was back from deployment with his dad and foster siblings and that had been his childhood home. This was different.
Then again, he wasn't a horrible human being, at least not as horrible as the asshole that had hurt her and he wasn't going to send her away. He said he'd help her and she could stay so he'd stick to his word.
"You are my guest, there's nothing you need to do here, okay?" he tried as he sat a little straighter on the sofa. "I was getting some food before the whole thing started. Is there anything you'd like to eat? Are you allergic to anything?" he asked wondering what exactly what to do. He had to treat her like one of his patients to an extent; he knew how things were with abus.ed people. It was a waiting game.
"Let me show you your room, okay? C'mon," he said softly and thought of offering her hand but decided against it and merely got up before leading her towards the rooms. This was bigger than her home because he had bought both apartments and gotten the walls torn between them, making a bigger space for himself. "You can also take a bath, get settled, just let me know. You're safe here okay? I promise."
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･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑵𝒊𝒌𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒍𝒚, her heels soft against the hardwood, the echo too loud in her ears compared to the muted hush still pressing against her chest. The living room was neat—orderly in a way that almost unsettled her. Everything had a place, as if chaos had never touched these walls, and for a moment she felt like an intruder dragging shadows where they didn’t belong.
Her hands curled loosely against the fabric of her dress, thumb brushing an invisible crease, a habit of control she couldn’t quite unlearn. He spoke with measured calm, words chosen with care, and though she told herself to only nod, to only listen, she found her gaze rising toward him anyway. His presence wasn’t loud—it wasn’t demanding—but it carried the kind of steadiness that people who had weathered storms often wore like a second skin.
Food. Allergies. A room. The simplicity of it made her throat tighten. After months—years—of walking on glass, of calculating every breath against someone else’s temper, the questions felt almost foreign. Ordinary kindness was a language she had to translate in real time.
❛ I’m not allergic ❜. she said softly, her voice carrying the careful cadence of someone testing the edges of safety. She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the space he gestured toward, then back to him. ❛ You don’t have to… go through the trouble. I can manage ❜.
But his insistence pressed gently against her defenses, and when he promised she was safe, something in her shoulders faltered, the weight of vigilance loosening—if only by a fraction. Her fingers rose absently to the faint bruise at her jaw, then stilled, as though acknowledging it aloud might shatter the fragile air of the moment.
Her arms wrapped loosely around herself as though to hold her frame together, knuckles white where her nails pressed into skin. The fabric of her dress still faintly carried a cologne that wasn’t his, and the scent made her stomach turn, a reminder she wanted to peel away but couldn’t yet.
She drew in a quiet breath, steadying herself before she added, almost apologetic. ❛ Thank you. For stepping in. For this. I— ❜. She stopped, searching for the right word, something that could hold the depth of gratitude and the ache of not knowing how to receive it. Finally, she settled on the simplest truth. ❛ I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t ❜.
Hong Hwa Yeon
Update.
I am working through drafts and shall be queuing a few up, I should be posting a few by this weekend.
Wanted plots: Moving, light shop, A Shop for killers.
@botrusanimarum · / · 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂 & 𝐒𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 · *
Eric woke like a man surfacing from a storm, lungs full of weight and light, not sure if it was the sun carving its molten lines across the floorboards or the fact of Sawyer pressed to his chest that dragged him back into waking. Her body had sunk into him in the night, the full gravity of her curled across his ribs, cheek pinned to his shirt, arm cast like a claim over him, and he could feel the ghost of every twitch, every unconscious graze of her fingers against his side as though the smallest movements had been written to undo him. The air itself smelled altered, heavy with the sweet-bitter trace of last night’s wine, cedar’s low bite, and the warmth of her skin braided through it until his breath was nothing but her, until exhale became worship and inhale became greed.
He let his eyes open in pieces, not all at once, because the sight of her was too much too quickly. Auburn hair spilled wild across him, strands catching in the sunlight like filaments of fire, glowing brighter where it crossed the dark lines of his shirt, and he wanted to gather every one, wrap his fist in it and anchor her to him, never let the day pry her away. Her lips parted against the cotton at his chest, a trace of breath warming his skin beneath, and Eric felt his pulse stagger as if his heart recognized hers before his head could form the thought. She looked like a secret dropped over him by the universe — Sawyer Holder, restless and untouchable, transformed into something soft and ruinous sprawled over him — and he was a fool for staring but he did it anyway, drank her in like the last glass before collapse.
Her hand twitched again, tracing a clumsy shape into the fabric between his ribs, not conscious, not deliberate, but so damning he nearly groaned. The circle of her nail dragged heat into his skin, the pause afterward making him ache for the next, and he found himself pressing his own thumb against her waist in answer, silent Morse, telling her without words that he felt every stroke, that she had turned his body into a surface for her dreaming. He almost laughed — how absurd that a journalist armed with wit sharp enough to cut him down in daylight could undo him with nothing but half-asleep patterns drawn into his shirt, but the sound caught in his throat and melted into something rougher, something closer to awe.
Her face shifted, pressed deeper into him as though she could burrow straight into his chest and live there, and Eric’s head tipped back involuntarily, eyes closing again because the sensation of it was too much, because her weight and warmth and breath folded him open. His hand went to her hair again, couldn’t stop going there, fingers dragging slow through the auburn strands with the reverence of a man drowning and clinging to the rope thrown his way. The strands caught at his knuckles before slipping free like water, like smoke, like anything that couldn’t be kept, and still he combed through, over and over, anchoring himself in the impossible softness of her.
He tilted his head until his mouth brushed her crown, barely grazing, not even a kiss, just enough for the taste of her shampoo and the salt of her skin to ghost his lips, and he breathed her in again, reckless. The room could have caved in and he wouldn’t have moved. The house could have burned around them and he would have kept his arms locked where they were, holding her tighter when she stirred as if even sleep couldn’t unmake her grip. His ribs felt branded by her cheek, his skin mapped by her touch, his heart rewired by the simple fact of her sprawled over him, and the thought that he would ever return to emptiness after this felt like the cruelest cosmic joke.
Her voice broke into the quiet, fragile and rough with sleep, a whisper of — good morning — that cracked through him like lightning splitting stone, soft but destructive. Eric’s mouth curled, not the cocky grin he threw at everyone else but something smaller, uncontainable, a smile that lived only in the corner of his jaw where she couldn’t see. He tightened his arm around her waist in answer, pressed his chin to her hair as if sealing her to him, and when she mumbled again — hungry, eggs, coffee — the laugh came low and husky, rolling out of his chest beneath her ear.
❝ 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, ❞ he murmured, half-smirk twisting into the words, voice still heavy with sleep, ❝ 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. ❞ The tease hung in the air, dressed like banter but carrying weight it shouldn’t, and he hid its edges by dragging his fingers down the length of her spine, slow and deliberate, until his hand settled at the small of her back. Her blush bloomed against him, he could feel it in the heat of her cheek through cotton, and it undid him more than her words ever could.
The light climbed higher, scattering gold across her shoulder, catching in the hollow at her throat, and Eric stared like he’d been starved, cataloguing every fragile piece of her the sun dared to reveal. He thought of how she looked in daylight usually —sharp, guarded, biting her words like knives — but here, flushed with sleep, mouth soft, lashes brushing her cheek, she looked mythic. Not untouchable, not divine, but the kind of myth that ruins men, the kind of beauty that makes you forget to breathe until your chest caves in. He had no business looking at her like this, had no business having thoughts of her like this, but he did anyway, reckless and unrepentant, his hand burying itself back in her hair like a prayer.
He bent his mouth to her crown again, not for a joke, not for a tease, but because the compulsion was too strong, and whispered, almost without meaning to, ❝ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞. ❞ The words came raw, scraped from the part of him that never surfaced, the part he drowned in noise and laughter and chaos, and the sound of them terrified him even as he held her tighter. Sawyer’s breath caught against him, her body shifted into him rather than away, and Eric felt the ground tilt. The morning stretched wide around them — dust motes in golden air, traffic humming far away, silence pressed like velvet into the walls — and none of it mattered. The universe could collapse, and he’d be here still, mouth against her hair, arms locked around her, undone entirely by the fever of being allowed to hold her.
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･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑺𝒂𝒘𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆, muttering about scrambled eggs and coffee as though naming simple hungers might disguise the larger one pulling at her ribs. But when his laugh rolled low beneath her ear, when that single word — liar — brushed against her in a voice rough with sleep, it hollowed her out. He had felt it. Every unguarded inch of her, the way she’d melted into him, the way she hadn’t fought the steady pull of his arm tightening at her waist. A flicker of panic stirred — brief, sharp — but it unraveled almost at once, undone by the weight of him surrounding her.
She stayed still for a breath, lashes glued together with sleep, the faintest tremor moving through her as though hesitation alone might undo the moment. But his warmth was everywhere — the press of his chest rising beneath her cheek, the slow ebb of his breath combing through her hair, the trace of cedar and cologne mingling with the faint wine still clinging to her own skin. She found herself breathing deeper, without meaning to, until the cadence of him filled her lungs, steadying what threatened to scatter.
Her nose brushed the hollow of his throat when she shifted, a mishap surely, or perhaps, a small surrender of gravity, her body traitorous as her arm tightened faintly across his ribs, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Not a grab, not a claim — but a quiet compliance, as though her bones had decided before her mind. His hand was moving too, slow and certain, trailing the length of her spine until his palm settled at the small of her back. The weight of it there sent a ripple through her, grounding, dangerous.
Then came the whisper — stay — so raw it burned the quiet between them. For a second she thought her chest might cave in under the weight of it. She almost cut it away with a quip, something sharp enough to restore distance. But instead, she tilted her face just slightly, peeling away from the crook of his neck, lids heavy but opening enough to catch him. Bright verdant eyes blurred with sleep but found his outline through the spill of sunlight, each line softened by morning. The sight pulled a smile from her before she could think better of it — small, feeble, barely there, like wildfire cracking frost.
❛ …Just a little ❜. she breathed, the words fragile as gossamer. Her lips parted again, another instinctive reach, and what slipped out was softer, absurdly plain. ❛ …but coffee, after ❜.
Her cheeks warmed at her own voice, heat blooming under her skin, and she ducked her gaze almost instantly. But her body betrayed her by and by, burrowing back into him, cheek pressed to the firm plane of his chest where his heartbeat thudded steady and insistent beneath her ear. The rhythm filled her, slower than hers, stronger, a lullaby she hadn’t realized she needed. Her fingers flexed once more against his side, brushing the seam of his shirt as if answering some unspoken question, the motion tentative but deliberate, her own pulse following the tempo of his thumb at her spine.
She had never allowed this. Not with anyone. The warmth of her family had been different — the only arms she’d ever trusted to hold her this close. Beyond them, she had never let anyone linger. Coffee dates had been polite, laughter shared in public places, but her work had always swallowed the rest. Her father’s overprotectiveness, her aunties’ endless meddling had made romance seem more trouble than it was worth, a tangle she’d rather sidestep than endure. No flings, no blurred nights, no quiet mornings like this one.
Yet here she was — sprawled across Eric on a sunlit floor, her body yielding to his without protest, his breath brushing her crown, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. And she felt it then, an odd, delicate sentiment curling in her belly, unfamiliar and perilous, like the first sip of something strong: sweet, dizzying, too easy to want more of.
Thick lashes fluttered once, twice, brushing faintly against the curve of his neck before she stilled, hiding her face deeper into the crook of it. The scent of him met her there, the faint trace of incalescence and wine she had already come to recognize, and she breathed it in slowly, as though her lungs could learn calm from his steadiness. Here, folded into him, the clamor of her usual self — the rush, the sharp edges, the relentless pace of her days — seemed impossibly distant. Instead there was only this warmness, the press of his heartbeat, the silence thick with morning light.
For a fleeting second she thought of pulling away — of retreating before the weight of this closeness asked too much of her. But her body refused her mind. Instead, she let the silence cradle her, let the cadence of his heart claim its alliteration over her own.
Her breath caught on the thought — not that she should leave, but that maybe she didn’t want to. Not now, not when everything around them was spun so fine and rare. The world outside could wait; the noise, the roles, the sharp edges of who they were to everyone else. God help me, she thought, lashes brushing his skin again, I am so screwed.
@botrusanimarum · / · 𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀 & 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 · *
The silence after Holder’s knock still rattled inside Isabella’s bones echoing long after the chain slipped free. She had known it would come — some inevitable moment where hiding would no longer feel like safety. Where the outside world pressed its fist against her door. But knowing hadn’t steadied her. Her hand shook on the lock, her breath trembled as she pulled it open just enough to see him. Holder. His presence filled the doorway like a shadow might, heavy and certain, carrying with it the promise of both protection and doom. Isabella thought, fleetingly, that perhaps she would have preferred another night alone in her coffin of a house, alone with her ghosts. At least she knew the shape of those. She looked as though sleep had abandoned her the night her father’s blood spilled across polished marble and had never once returned. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, knotted and tangled in places where frantic hands had pulled through it without care, strands catching the light like broken threads. Her eyes were rimmed red, glassy and unfocused, carrying the hollow weight of nights spent awake in fear. Her face was pale, drained of anything but exhaustion, lips cracked and pressed tight as if holding back words that would never come. She looked less like an heiress than a ghost draped in human skin, her posture brittle, every inch of her body carrying the tremor of someone who had run too far and found no safe place to stop.
When he stepped inside, she felt smaller. Not only because of the way his shoulders brushed the air or the gravel of his voice when he set down rules in tones that made no space for questions. No exceptions, he had said, and she had nodded, though her chest had folded in on itself. What little strength she had gathered in the days of running — the fragile scaffolding of survival, creaked under the weight of him. Isabella wanted to speak, to tell him she could follow his orders, that she understood, that she wasn’t reckless. But her throat was a locked door. Fear had turned her tongue into stone. So she crossed her arms instead, pressed her own warmth close as though it could stitch her back together.
She flinched when Holder closed the blinds, one after the other, as if every snap were a gunshot. In her mind, the blinds weren’t falling —they were curtains drawing back on the same terrible scene she could never unsee. Matteo slumped in his chair, the smell of scotch and smoke clinging to the velvet air, the sudden hot bloom of blood spreading too quickly for her to stop. Isabella still felt the slick of it on her palms when she had tried, uselessly, to hold the wound closed. The silence that followed that night had been louder than any scream she could make, and it still rang in her ears now, here, with Holder’s shadow moving through the house.
Isabella remained standing, stiff as the walls themselves, because sitting meant letting go. And she could not let go, not yet, not when she knew the Farinellis had long memories and sharper knives. She wanted to tell Holder that no safe house could hold back the hunger of wolves. That every lock was only a promise waiting to be broken. She wanted to say it, but the words trembled and fell apart before they ever left her. Better to keep them pressed down, where only her bones could hear them.
Her eyes caught on the duffel Holder had set down, the neat ritual of his belongings spilling onto the couch. Gun. Clips. Notebook. And then, absurdly, a battered book, its spine tired from too many nights. She thought there was something human in that, something softer hidden between all the steel. For a moment, Isabella wondered if Holder read to forget, to replace the faces that haunted his memory with words on a page. It made her want to ask him if stories ever helped. But questions felt dangerous, and she did not want to risk even the smallest crack in her fragile defenses.
The house smelled of paint and absence. A place meant for hiding, not for living. Isabella had known places like this before, rooms dressed in neutrality where people played at safety. She could already feel the weight of silence pressing against her lungs, could already imagine her thoughts turning sharp enough to cut her from the inside. Safe house — such a lie, she thought. Safety did not exist. Not anymore. Not for her.
Betrayal burned sharper than the fear. She thought of the family friend, one she ran to first for help, the man who had smiled at her across candlelit tables, who had whispered kindnesses into her childhood like secrets. A man who had given her away with the ease of setting down a wine glass, if not her overhearing him and running to the police instead. Isabella knew now what trust cost. It costs blood. It costs breath. It cost her name being spoken like a curse in rooms where death was currency. That knowledge made her tremble more than Holder’s gun ever could.
And yet — Holder spoke with a kind of finality that made her pause. You’re not alone. The words landed like stones in her chest, heavy, impossible. Isabella wanted to tell him she didn’t believe in such things anymore. That alone was safer, because it meant no one else could be taken from her, no one else could leave her hollow. And yet the way he said it — without flourish, without softness — made her wonder if he meant it as truth, not comfort. Holder sat there, and she wondered if he would bleed for her before he let the wolves through the door, and that thought terrified her more than anything else.
Her gaze slid to the window, to the faint glow of lamplight beyond, to the small signs of life still spinning outside — bicycles tipped in grass, smoke curling up from a neighbor’s hand. Normal life. Ordinary life. Life she no longer belonged to. Isabella felt like a ghost walking through her own skin, already half faded, watching others breathe what she could no longer claim. Did Holder see it? Did he see how much of her had already been stolen?
Her arms loosened, almost without her willing them. Her hands fell, pale and useless, as if surrendering to the inevitability of this moment. ❝ 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞… 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐝, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨… ❞ she said softly, her voice like glass about to break, ❝ …𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞. 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞. ❞ The words came gentle, not sharp, but the ache in them was deeper than any blade. She kept her gaze lowered, unable to meet his eyes as the truth left her. If she looked at him, she thought she might collapse under the weight of it, and she could not afford to collapse. Not yet.
Still, the words lingered between them, fragile and irreversible. Isabella stood with them heavy in her chest, her body wrapped in shadow, her fear coiled like a second skin. Holder’s presence filled the room, rigid and unyielding, the sentinel she had been given, the stranger who now carried her survival in his tired, steady hands. And Isabella—terrified, fractured, trembling—wondered if survival meant anything at all when all she could taste in her mouth was the metallic ghost of blood.
┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄ ◌ ·𖥸· ◌ ┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄
･ﾟ° ☾ ✧ △ 𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕, her words sinking into the air between them like a weight neither of them could move. 'It’s just a matter of time…' He’d heard variations of it before, victims staring down the barrel of inevitability, convinced the wolves would always win. But hearing it now — from her, so small and raw, glass-voiced and hollowed out by grief — it cut deeper than he expected.
He thought of Sawyer. Of the way her tiny chest rose and fell when she slept against his arm, unknowing, untouched by the sharp edges of the world. He thought about what would happen if someday she were the one hiding behind locked doors, whispering about inevitability with her lips cracked dry from fear. The thought left a pit in his stomach, something heavy and merciless. He would never want someone to look at his daughter and treat her as a lost cause.
The safe house was silent around them, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the whisper of air through the vents, the soft scrape of his boots on the tile floor — small details that should have been comforting but only made him hyper-aware of the fragility of the space. Dust motes floated in the streaks of lamplight, and the air smelled faintly of paint and the sterile tang of antiseptic. Everything was in place, neutral, waiting. Waiting for a disruption.
Holder dragged a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble. His instinct was to push back hard, to set her straight the way he had with other witnesses — firm lines, no softness, no cracks in the wall he built around them. But looking at Isabella Moretti, he knew the usual tactics would only break her further. And breaking her wasn’t an option. Not when she was the last living thread to unravel Moretti’s murder and the Farinellis’ hold. Not when she was a twenty-something kid who had already lost everything.
❛ You don’t get to decide that ❜. Holder said finally, his voice low but steady. He stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to ground the space with his presence. ❛ They want you to believe it’s only a matter of time. That’s how men like them win — fear first, bullets second. But the fact you’re standing here, breathing, proves they’re not as untouchable as they think ❜.
He let the silence stretch for a moment, the rhythm of his own breathing syncing with the tension humming off her frame. He noted the slight tremor in her shoulders, the way her knuckles were pale from gripping her own arms, the hollow edge in her wide eyes. She was poised for collapse, but she was still standing. Barely. That counted.
❛ Look, I won’t lie to you. This isn’t clean. It isn’t easy. And I can’t promise you a life that looks anything like the one you had before. But I can promise this — as long as you’re in my care, they don’t touch you. Not through that door, not in this house, not while I’m still standing ❜. Holder’s gaze flicked to the blinds he’d closed earlier, each one a reminder of the barricade he was building between her and the outside.
The faint glow of streetlights cut through the slats in stripes across the floor, painting the walls in soft shadows. He thought of the Farinelli case files stacked on his desk back at the precinct, of names scrawled in ink that led nowhere, of bodies left in alleys like discarded notes. He thought of how close he’d already come, too close, and how his boss had shoved him onto this assignment partly to save his neck.
Now, looking at Isabella, he wondered if it wasn’t just about saving his life. Maybe it was about giving him something to hold on to — something worth protecting with more than procedure. ❛ You’re not alone in this. You may feel like it — hell, I’d be worried if you didn’t. But you’ve got me. And I don’t walk away. Not from a case, not from someone depending on me ❜.
He set his hand on the duffel at his side, fingers brushing over the battered book she’d noticed, though he didn’t realize it. Its spine was worn, edges fraying, a small human tether in a room meant for survival. His other hand hovered at his hip, an unconscious habit born of too many years carrying steel.
❛ So no, you don’t get to send me packing. You’re stuck with me ❜. His mouth almost curved, but stopped short of a smile. ❛ And until the day I hand you over in that courtroom, the Farinellis are going to have to crawl through me to get to you. ❜.
Holder’s gaze swept the room again, cataloging every detail like muscle memory. The front door lock clicked reassuringly under his fingers, the deadbolt secure. Windows—single pane at the front, reinforced at the back—blinked faintly in the lamplight, edges catching shadows. He traced the perimeter with his eyes, noting the low dresser near the living room wall, the barely-there gap under the curtains, the corners where someone could slip by unseen if they weren’t careful.
He moved to the kitchen, testing cabinets and drawers with the soft click of fingertips, noting the pantry’s weak hinge, the dull thump of the refrigerator, the faint draft under the back door. Tiny things, but in a world where a step too loud could cost a life, nothing was insignificant.
The room smelled faintly of paint, faintly of the faint residue of cleaned surfaces, sterile and neutral—but Holder added the smell of something human, moving through the space, adjusting it. He pulled out a small thermos of coffee from his bag, a habit he’d kept from stakeouts. The warmth radiated through the metal, subtle but grounding. He set it on the counter, a quiet marker that someone had been there, alive, human.
❛ Rules ❜. he said finally, not looking at her, but knowing she’d hear. ❛ You follow them, you live. You don’t, you get both of us killed. It’s that simple. But it doesn’t mean you’re caged. You move when I say it’s safe. You eat when I say it’s safe. You sleep when I say it’s safe. I can’t promise comfort… only that you walk out breathing ❜.
Holder returned to the living room, taking the armchair nearest the door. His eyes flicked to the faint signs of life outside—the tipped bicycle leaning against the neighbor’s fence, the old man’s faint shadow at his window, the curl of smoke from a passing chimney. Normal, ordinary, fragile. Everything worth defending.
He watched Isabella out of the corner of his eye. Her arms were still crossed, but slightly less rigid now. Tiny, almost imperceptible signs of life, of cautious breathing. He noted the crease in her knuckles, the faint tremor of her shoulders, the way her eyes darted toward the corners of the room instead of at him. Awareness, vigilance, survival instinct intact. Good.
❛ You’re not a ghost here ❜. he said finally, voice low, even, carrying the weight of his own experience without softness, without harshness. ❛ You breathe, you move, you exist. I don’t care about their money, their threats, or their bullets. You exist, and I protect that. Nothing else matters ❜.
He leaned back slightly, scanning the blinds, the furniture, the corners. Every detail cataloged. Every risk accounted for. And beneath it all, the quiet thread of warmth — subtle, unspoken — that came from knowing he could make a difference. That at least tonight, in this small, painted, silent house, she would not be alone.
