Weâre back to Virada, the girl we were following before, and now she stands out just outside of her bedroom door in the upstairs hallway. In her left hand she holds a hoodie, a plain navy blue one to put on her before she takes herself outside to face the rain, not wanting to get too wet while sheâs out there waiting for her ride. Down the other hall is her parentâs bedroom along with the upstairs bathroom and it sits with the light off, shrouding the hall in darkness. She usually used the downstairs bathroom more often since her parents used the one across their room, but she preferred to have that personal space for herself for⊠multiple reasons. But down the hall she goes, passing through fob webs to make her way to the stairs so that she can scale them down to get to the first floor of the house.
The house is quiet, too quiet.
Viradaâs booted feet press softly against the wooden stairs, each step creaking just a little. The living room below is dark, and she stares down the staircase to scan the, wanting to make sure that no one is down there as she attempts to sneak out. Shes never done this before, and itâs not something sheâd like to be caught doing, especially not by who she believes is still home⊠A floorboard groans under her weight as she reaches halfway down, looking beside herself as she defends. Two posters are hung on the wall just beside the steps, the closest being one for a role-playing community her parents were a part of, the other from a movie her father loved. She wasnât one to judge peopleâs interest, thats not her place. At the bottom of the first set of stairs lay some dice on the floor tucked to the corner, a signature breadcrumb of her other prenatal figure in the house. There is no light except for the dim glow of something left on standby, casting a faint blue light across the couch, where a figure sits spread across the sofa.
The figure on the couch shifts slightly, their silhouette half-lit by the faint blue glow from the screen from their cellular device as they adjust on the couch that they take up to relax gainer it. It was her mom, probably on her phone to either doom-scroll through the internet or talking to her friends. She was sprawled out in his usual way with her legs stretched long across the cushions to rest on the armrest on the opposite end of the cough, thick boots hanging casually. She doesn't move right away when Virada steps down, the creak soft enough that she must have dismissed it as settling house noise⊠or maybe not noticed at all yet. But if she takes another step? Another breath too loud? Sheâll turn her head, and theyâll see one another face to face as she stares her down in the dim light of the home, the silence thick enough to choke on. She didnât want to be noticed, not now, not ever.
The soft blue light flickers slightly as her thumb scrolls down her phone, eyes half-lidded in that lazy, predatory focus she always had, and she doesnât turn or reactâ yet. Virada attempts to take another small step, the floorboard softly groaning louder this time, making her freeze in place. The house isn't silent anymore, but it's holding its breath like the rest of them might snap if someone moves wrong, and she watched as he moms head lifts, just a little to the side turning toward the staircase with deliberate calm. Her horns catch the dim glow first, a sharp silhouette against her dark hair as she stares at the stairs for a good moment out of her peripheral vision, her piercing eyes scanning upwards to the top of the steps. Virada is halfway down the kitchen hall as her mother stares up, her hoodie too big for her frame stilling hanging on halfway through her neck as the silence thicker than blood holds between a mother and child after everything theyâve been through together⊠and apart...
In the kitchen she stands now, having pulled the hoodie over her neck and down to rest on her body. The room is just as dark as the rest of the house, and on the counter sits the cake that her father mentioned he made for her back when he came to check on her upstairs. The cake sits on the counter, pristine and modestly decorated with red velvet icing swirled just right on every little end of the corners for slicing. No candles sit on it yet, probably since there would be no celebration because of her fatherâs work day, but still left out for her to eat if sheâd like. Itâs smaller than most regular bakery cakes, but still complete in its production even if it wasnât professional. Itâs clear that he put effort in.
The empty bowl he used to stir the ingredients together is still sitting in the sink beside the table, soapy water sitting where there was once cake mix. Along side by the countertop, a box of cake mix he got to make the birthday treat. It was evidence he actually made this himself instead of buying something cheap last minute like usual. Yeah, he didnât forge the ingredients from the molecules of the bread of whatever you need to bake, but she still appreciates it anyway. It shows he tried. She knows sheâs not gonna be able to finish this all before she goes, so the nicest thing she can think to do for now, is simply put it away so it doesnât go stale.
Virada hesitates before moving closer, reaching into a cabinet beside the fridge and grabs a clean plastic wrap from its roll. Gently, carefully, she lifts the cake plate and wraps it tightly to seal out air and humidity, her prosthetic fingers moving with practiced precision. There is no clatter or drop of the pastry despite how nervous her hands are beneath all that silence pressing down around her. The plastic wrap sticks slightly to the icing on a tiny corner, but she doesnât panic, smoothing it down with her thumb, careful not to smudge anything. Everythingâs still, no sound from upstairs of footsteps or voice calling out.
She places the wrapped cake carefully onto the middle shelf of the fridge, ensuring it sits in a secure spot where it wonât dry out or get crushed before tomorrow. She shuts the door with practiced quietness, and the warm light inside flickers off on its own automated sensor as the seal meets the frame. She watches the illumination die, leaving her staring at the collection of dull fridge magnets facing her in the dim room.There are no handwritten notes left behind by her dad on the fridge on those magnets. No leftover coffee sits warming in the glass pot by her usual spot near the corner cabinets. The only thing filling the kitchen is a heavy, suffocating silence, masked with the white noise of the rain outside. It feels like an open pathway leading straight through the back door toward the freedom waiting beyond this roofâ a roof that, despite the years spent under it, had never felt quite like home anyway.
The last room before she reaches the outside is the laundry room, which holds nothing of interest to her. It is a small space with a washing machine and dryer stacked in one corner. The opposite corner houses a hamper and a detergent cabinet, providing all the basic necessities for washing clothes. The only reason this room matters to her now is its door to the backyard, which allows her to sneak out without using the far more obvious front door. Itâs a nice little space for a break, for her and possibly whoever follows. Just as she pushes the glass door to the backyard, she pulls up the hood of her hoodie, making sure her horns easily slide in as the rain starts to hit against her boots.
The cool night air hits her face the second she steps outside: damp, fresh, and carrying the scent of wet grass and pavement. Rain falls in a steady downpour, pattering against her hoodieâs fabric and taps softly on her horns sticking out of the navy blue hood. The backyard is dark except for one flickering porch light near the back door, a small yellow glow fighting through mist. She doesnât look back at the house, no hesitation now or second-guessing, even if her ride isnât here yet. She hopes itâll be sooner than later, because the text said that he left just about ten minutes ago, but her standing out here in there freezing wet isnât something she would want to have to deal with.
Shes grateful that her hope is answered sooner than later thoughâŠ
A car glides to a stop just outside her home, being the ride that she expects. The window rolls down a fraction, revealing a pair of dark purple sunglasses cutting through the grey rain to lock eyes with her. Shielding her face with her arms, she breaks into a mad dash through the downpour. She rounds the hood, flings open the passenger door, and ducks inside, quickly hauling her legs into the dry cabin and shutting out the storm. The car door slams shut behind her with a solid thud, sealing the roar of rain outside into muffled pattering against the roof. Inside, itâs warm, blessedly dry, and smells faintly of car air fresheners. The heater is on low, casting soft pulses of warmth across her soaked hoodie, making her sigh back as she leans back against the leather seat.
Her boyfriend sits as the driver, his long dark hair spiky against the green of his jacket feathers. He doesnât say anything at first, simply adjusting their sunglasses slightly before reaching over to turn up the heat for Virada without comment. His eyes flick toward them briefly through those tinted lenses, assessing and concerned⊠but not prying yet. He lets her simply sit without the immediate attention brought to her, letting her get comfortable and dry off as she starts his car. Quiet solidarity as they shift gears and pull slowly away from curb, leaving her house, and whatever tension was inside it, increasingly far behind.
âY:u ready t: talk baby?â
Sangre whispers out to her as she pulls her phone out to her pocket to click it unlocked and check her notifications while sitting beside him in the car. He doesnât push, he never does. Instead, he let her just exist for a moment, scrolling through her phone with quiet focus while water starts drying out from her damp hoodie sleeves near the vents blasting warm air. The glow of her screen paints faint blue reflections on her reading glasses, the only light in an otherwise dim cabin lit by only its headlights and passing streetlamps outside. He hears a notification pop up but doesn't react much beyond a slight tilt of his head before looking to the road, not pressuring, just waiting.
âYeah⊠sorry⊠Iâm just⊠letting Conall know weâre⊠on our wayâŠâ
Sangre gives a small nod, eyes still on the wet road ahead as streetlights blur past in golden streaks and he reaches over without looking to gently brush a few damp strands of hair from her forehead before returning his hand back to the wheel. No pressure in the touch either, just affectionâ quiet reassurance that sheâs okay, theyâre okay. The car rolls steadily forward through rain-slicked streets toward downtown, the trail slightly bumpy as they drive further away from the tense homes and toward natural warmth. And when she finally puts her phone down? Sangre will ask again, but only if she seems ready this time.
âI um⊠I snuck out for the first time⊠that was scary.â
She weakly chuckled back to him as she lets her shoulders slightly slump against the seat of the car as she looks back up to the windshield, the drops of rain drumming against the glass. The way she mentioned it told him everything: the exhaustion of tension, the relief of escape, and that tiny spark of pride beneath it all because she did it. She actually snuck out on her own without permission or approval from anyone who normally controlled her movements, and she made it to safety.
âReally?â
He hums back to her again as he keeps his attention to the road, his expression softens for just for a second behind those dark purple lenses. He doesnât laugh or tease her for being scared, or call it dramatic like some people mightâve, he just listens.
âY:u feeling :k after that?â She nods to him back, her eyes behind her glasses grazing from the road to her lap where her phone sits. âG::d.â
Sangre replies quietly with no boastful praise. His fingers glide to turn up the radio slightly, some ambient synth track playing low through his car speakers, something calm and pulsing with bass you could feel more than hear over rain. He doesnât expect any big conversation right now, just a drive together while she decompresses after stepping away from home.
âI⊠I saw that my dad actually⊠made me a cake this yearâŠâ She starts up again after a moment of silence stretching on with the bass pulsing softly through the old car as they slide down the wet roads. âI canât⊠remember⊠the last time I⊠saw a cake for my birthday. I didnât eat it though⊠but⊠I hope itâs there when I get backâŠâ
Sangreâs jaw tightens, just a fraction, but itâs enough. He remembers all the birthdays Virada had missed, all because the people in her house were either too busy too, or didnât bother to make something. To take a moment to sing her happy birthday or even remember her age changed at all. He knows how much that kind of shit hurts, especially when youâre already used to being invisible in your own home. So when she tells him her father, a man who wasn't always around physically, had made her a cake? He knew that meant something to her.
âRed VelVet?â
He asks softly after a beat, the question simple but intentional, as if confirming what flavor it was without making it about feelings yet. Heâs giving her space to keep talking if she wants.
âHowâd⊠you know?â
She peeks over to him out of the corner of her glasses as a weak grin pulls at her cheeks for a flash, the muscles in her jaw making the gold dahlia bites on her lips pull up. The small grin also makes her buck teeth show off a little more, the sharp ends similar to an alligators due to their troll genetics seeping through, but he doesnât mind it, not at all.
He still finds her so gorgeous, even if she canât see it.
Sangreâs lips quirk up too, just barely a smile that only shows at the corners, hidden mostly by his dark bangs and the shadow of his sunglasses.
âBecause I know y:u, and thats y:ur faV:rite.â A pause, then in a quieter tone âSeems he remembered it as well.â
He didnât mean it as a sort of accusation, not a jab at her parents for forgetting or not caring, as much as heâd love to say soâ just stating facts. Her dad tried, and he saw how him acknowledging her turning seventeen did something for her, that it was meaningful, the kind of thing parents are supposed to do without being asked. Sangre noticed because he pays attention, especially when it comes to her. The car rolls on through the rain, tires humming against wet pavement as his words settle in for her. That tiny detail, choosing her favorite cake. It was just red velvet icing⊠wrapped neatly in plastic wrap by her dad who probably stood there awkwardly wondering if sheâd even notice... but she did, and that one small act made something warm bloom behind her ribs despite all the fear and tension from earlier tonight.
