He says your name in a way that conveys how truly dumbfounded he is, "I have seen filthier and more pitiful things than this, you have nothing to apologize for." You can hear the cogs turning in his head, you can see him put the dots together and the realization dawn on him.
"Are youâŚapologizing for being human?"
or
You're dealing with the throes of chronic illness, and Armand is there to take care of you, despite it all
WC: 3.3K
Hi so, this is very very personal to me. As a chronically ill person, this came directly from my heart and lived experiences. Let Armand properly take care of something, i think it would be healthy for him. TW: upset stomach
Everything is quiet. Everything is cold. Everything feels as though it's trying to burrow under your skin.
It's actually a miracle this hasn't happened yet, in the few weeks you've been in Dubai. But you've been pushing yourself. The late nights and lack of sleep, the rigorous hours spent pouring over notes and rearranging theories, whatever your relationship with Armand is; it takes a toll. The body can only carry on for so long, running on fumes until the engine finally sputters out.
Moonlight streams in through the large window in you're bedroom. It's uncharacteristically early for you to have gone to bed, just past midnight, but you've felt off all day. Headaches and brain fog and a lack of appetite, resulting in your polite decline to the offer of sitting in on a session tonight. All three men had looked a bit stunned, you're never one to pass up an opportunity to further your research. But your dark circles have darkened to a worrying degree, and only become more deep set in your face. Even the way you walk has changed, no longer as sharp, but sluggish and laborious.
The duvet is simultaneously too heavy and too light, your skin covered in a feverish sweat. Exhaustion creeps at your mind but the pit in your stomach refuses to let you sleep.
Come to think of it, the pit in your stomach has shifted, it's more of a pain now than a sinking feeling, more stabbing than an ache.
Please god no.
But prayers so often fall on deaf ears, and the stabbing pain becomes sharper, more urgent, crawling up and up and up until something clicks in your brain and you are up and sprinting to your bathroom.
This is how it goes. Run to the nearest bathroom, dry heave or retch out whatever is left in your stomach, and then sit on the floor hugging the toilet until you pass out. Every few weeks, sometimes days, you'd complete this ritual. Stress certainly accelerates the process, and the lack of self care doesn't help either.
Doctors have said it's a mix of anxiety and gastrointestinal issues. What issues exactly? Jury is still out.
Maybe you can convince the doctor who tends to Daniel to give his opinion. What was his name? Fareed? You could convince him, surely.
The cool porcelain is nice against your forehead, a pleasant yet ineffective distraction from the roiling in your gut. You've only been able to empty your stomach once, but the nausea hasn't left yet. It sticks around like a lingering smell you can't get out of your house no matter how hard you try. It's resilient.
A knock at the door.
No. No, not now. Not again. He can't be here to dote on you again.
"Go away." It's weak and hoarse from the acid, and it hurts to speak.
The door opens anyway, and you don't bother to look, shame wrapping its tendrils around you. How can you face him like this? Weak and tired and ill and oh so terribly human. Completely and utterly exposed and vulnerable. You know he wouldn't actually hurt you; obviously, it's more like embarrassment. It's awful when anyone sees you like this, let alone him.
"I said go away."
"The door was unlocked." As if that negated your request.
A miserable little laugh breaks through, "I didn't want it to be hard to get to my corpse in the event of my untimely demise."
He frowns, though you can't see it. It shifts the air, and you can feel it. It can't be good how attuned you seem to be to him (and he to you).
Cool fingers gently sweep the hair from the nape of your neck, and the sigh of relief you let out is not voluntary, and you know you'll be replaying it in your head when you feel better, analyzing what that could have possibly meant.
Deft hands gather up the mass of hair and move it, "Stop joking about your death."
"It's my coping strategy."
"It's not a very healthy one."
You scoff, though the action sends burning waves down your throat, "Coping mechanisms aren't healthy or unhealthy. It matters how often they're used and if they're working for you." Even down for the count like this, you are armed to the teeth with psycho babble. He exhales, short and forceful, clearly annoyed with the fact that you're quipping whilst bent over the toilet.
A hair tie seems to have materialized from somewhere, or he had one when he walked in, because you can feel him wrapping it around your tangled, sweaty hair and securing it in a low bundle. Every lose piece of hair combed back by his fingers, pulling them away from your clammy face.
"Was it something you ate?" His cold hands return to the base of your neck and it helps you block out the sensation of whatever is happening in your stomach.
"No," you shake your head as much as you can, "I wish. Then it would be over and done with as soon as it was out of my system." God, what a perfect wish, for illness to come and pass, just like it does for most other people. No lingering malaise that, while not excruciating, is just awful enough to be the only thing you can think of. How wonderful that would be.
"You've seen my medical records." It's not a question, it's obvious he'd taken a peak at some point. "Something chronic. Which may just be my whole chart at the point-" you're cut off by another retch, stomach contracting around nothing. Hands come up to grab at the rim, clenching like your life depended on being tethered to it. One of the hands on your neck migrates quickly to your forehead, icy coolness holding essentially the entire weight of your head while you dry heave around nothing. Not even bile. He holds your weight, the thumb at the back of your neck making little circles in the skin there.
It's a full minute before the feeling subsides.
Breathe. Just breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth.
Except it's not you thinking that. A delirious little giggle is pulled from you, despite it all.
"You can just talk normal, my stomach hurts, not my ears." But you're not serious. He's trying to help. Which is still something that has you reeling, given how your relationship had started.
"It was less of a request than it was a command to your subconscious."
What?
"Huh?" You shift somewhat to turn back and look up at him.
He's pulled over the vanity stool, sitting behind you. The dim light of the bathroom frames him in a golden halo, making his hair seem like it's glowing from the inside. Light cascading out from behind him and somewhere in your addled brain, you think him an angel of salvation.
If you're viewing The Vampire Armand as your angel of salvation, there is something deeply wrong with you.
"I wasn't asking you. I wasn't reminding you of what to do, you're in no state to be receptive. Cutting out the middleman and instructing your body seemed like the better and more effective option." He says it so causally, it would be funny were you not currently where you are.
"And it worked, didn't it?" There's a hint of smugness in his voice, like that of a parent telling their child 'that wasn't so bad, now was it?'. He's right, of course. Your breathing has evened out, deep breaths helping to loosen the death grip on your stomach. Everything is a little clearer now that the fog of excruciating pain isn't clouding your vision.
"So it did." You relent, shifting your legs out form under you, sitting instead of kneeling. Armand never takes his hands off you, hand leaving your forehead in favor of raking his nails along your scalp, as if afraid to let you go for even a second. The sensation is a welcome one, and it's another distraction technique that's working perfectly; getting lost in the feeling of being held, tended to, letting that wrap you up in it's embrace. Either you move to rest your head on the toilet seat again, or Armand is guiding you there. Perhaps it's a bit of both.
There is silence for a good long while. He doesn't move, save for his hands continuing their little movements. You remain still too, eyes closed, breathing deep and even, finally feeling the knot in your stomach untangling. It's easy to exist like this, easy to be here with him. You never thought that something like this would be possible, letting your guard down in front of an apex predator, in front of him. It's like putting a bullseye on your forehead, or running with a bum leg, easy prey.
"Sorry." It's half mumbled since your cheek is currently smushed.
His confused blink is practically audible before he says, "What could you possibly be sorry for?"
Eyes crack open a sliver, and ever so slowly, you lift your head off of the seat. God what a pitiful sight it must be to him.
"YouâŚhaving to deal with me. I know it's notâŚideal orâŚI don't know."
He says your name in a way that conveys how truly dumbfounded he is, "I have seen filthier and more pitiful things than this, you have nothing to apologize for." You can hear the cogs turning in his head, you can see him put the dots together and the realization dawn on him.
"Are youâŚapologizing for being human?"
Yes. That's exactly what this is. How can you not? Surely Daniel might feel similarly, you'd have to ask him. Being human, having to deal with human processes, all the things that ailed you, every sniffle or smell or awkward thing you did just seemed so much bigger in comparison to the two vampires you now cohabited with. They were technically perfect, in the literal sense. They didn't have to deal with all of the gross and awful human things anymore. And here you were, throwing up, looking and smelling atrocious, unable to even take care of yourself and needing him to do it.
"Stop that." He chastises you again.
"Get out of my head, Armand." There's no bite to your words, but that's almost worse. They're sad, ashamed.
"Take your own advice."
His eyes find yours and he does not let them go, "Stop thinking so hard. Stop overthinking this. You have nothing to be embarrassed about."
"But-"
"That wasn't an invitation to speak. Cast the thought from your mind or I will pluck it out for you. I heard you and wanted to make sure you were alright. Seeing you like this does not diminish my opinion of you, nor aggravate me in any way, your psychoanalysis of me does that enough." He's half-smiling, and you guess that the latter half of his statement is a joke. Heat spreads over the back of your neck, and he must feel it, though he doesn't show that he does. The barest upward tilt of your own smile has him tilting his head affectionately.
His words fully catch up to your brain and even in your disheveled and decrepit state, you manage to say, "You heard me? Listening outside my door much?"
The smile leaves his face and is replaced by a long suffering look, which only makes you smile more.
"Feeling better then, are we?"
You nod once, "Dodging my question, as usual."
He heaves a great sigh that you're almost positive is hammed up for dramatic effect, ever the thespian that he is, "You were feeling off all day, and while I was not posted at your door, I kept an ear out just in case. Does this satisfy?"
The answer is so clear and succinct, not at all what you were expecting him to say. Usually he goes around in circles a few times to make you fight him for it. It must be because you're not feeling well, he's taking pity on you.
"Yes, it satisfies."
Amber eyes still have not let yours go, holding them fixed to his. Does he realize the effect he has on people? On you? The magnetic field that circles him and pulls you into his orbit like a moon, trapping you there, tethering you to him. He has to, right? He's a vampire, of course he knows.
The corner of his lip twitches upwards, though you're too engrossed in his eyes to really register it. Loud thoughts are not hard to read, he'd once told you. But you can't think clearly right now. Between the fatigue, the whole ordeal that just occurred, and him.
"I shouldâŚbrush my teeth and try to go back to sleep."
"Can you stand?"
"Let's find out." His hands slide down your shoulder to gently hold your bicep as you begin the process of detaching from your spot on the floor. You can't think about how gentle his touch is, how he holds your arm tight enough to hold almost all your weight should you falter. If you allow yourself to dwell on it, who knows what will come out of your mouth as a result. Every muscle protests, every bone loudly creaking in anger as you unfold. Sweaty, clammy skin exposed the the air once again after having been trapped against itself. The world is only spinning a little bit, just around the fuzzy edges. The en suite bathroom attached to your bedroom thankfully kept the theme of the rest of the apartment; dark stone, warm lighting, and of course an art piece on the wall. The vibrant red of the sun painted in Claude Monets Sunrise stares back at you, a watchful eye surrounded by a sea of pale blues, greens, and yellows. All you can think of now is how those colors remind you of bile, and your nose scrunches in disgust.
Armand has shifted his grip to your forearms, gently leading you forward to the large granite sink. All of your toiletries are laid out haphazardly, right where you left them this morning; skin care and makeup on the left, toothbrush and mouthwash on the right. The mirror is something you avoid altogether, not wanting to even think about what your appearance is at the moment.
"Ok, I think I can stand on my own." You murmur, resting your hands against the counter as Armand lets you go. Silence hangs over you both as you stand there, head dropped and leaning on your hands, trying to muster up the willpower to do the simple task of brushing your teeth, and he stands beside you, still as a statue while he watches you as though you might collapse at any moment.
It's just as one hand reaches for your toothbrush that he says, "I'll have Doctor Fareed look you over." That grabs your attention enough to risk a glance in the mirror, finding his eyes in the reflection. His generosity is forceful, satiating his need to control the situation. It's no less genuine, but it commands rather than offers. It's not unpleasant.
"And when he finds nothing wrong and my labs come back normal?" Your hand only shakes a little when you lift the toothbrush to your teeth, "I've gone through this all before."
The way he tilts his head indicates he sees the hypothetical situation as a challenge. It's been a masterclass in body language and micro expressions with him, every little movement indicating something different, and it's been enlightening to learn them all. Everything about the way he's standing lets you know that he wouldn't stop at one test, he'd refuse to stop looking for some sort of answer.
"We know many doctors."
"I don't want you spending exorbitant amounts of money." On me. The toothpaste splatters into the sink when you spit, swirling down into the drain.
"Would you feel better if I took it out of your payment?" He's really asking, though there is a teasing edge to his tone, now that you're convalescent and not withering away to dust without his hold.
You sigh, placing your toothbrush back in its spot, and fix him with a hard stare, "You're not going to take no for an answer." The smile that spreads across his face makes your stomach whirl all over again, but it doesn't have you rushing back to the toilet.
"Haven't you profiled me enough to know that, my mirror?"
It started as a complete and utter joke. An offhanded remark about how you were only showing him himself. Only reflecting all that he is back into his view, and he'd called you his mirror. And it stuck, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and protested.
"Enough to know how persistent you are, and that's answer enough." Warmth leaks into your voice without your say-so. It's easy to talk to him, to spar and banter. It's fun, even when you're feeling like shit, to push his buttons while he pushes yours.
Turning around triggers a wave of fatigue that has surely been waiting to make itself known for a few minutes at this point, staved off out of pure necessity to complete the task before you. He notices instantly and shifts a fraction of an inch closer, as if automatically.
"Will you need help falling asleep again?" He asks, following you out of the bathroom. Once he shuts the main bathroom light off, your entire room is plunged into darkness, only having been illuminated by the light spilling through the open door. There is a small salt lamp in the far corner giving off a pinkish glow. It's not dark enough that you can't see, but everything is obscured now. Armand is little more than a shadow and two glowing eyes. HuhâŚthey do glow in the dark, if only slightly.
Sinking down onto your mattress, you shake your head, "No, I'm about to sleep for fourteen hours, if past trends continue to hold true, but thank you for offering." Thank God for the bed that's in here, it's like sleeping on a cool cloud every night, and immediately after laying down, you feel it start to work it's magic.
"You're welcome," He says in a tone you can't quite decipher, perhaps it would be easier when you're not half asleep.
"Thank youâŚfor making sure I was ok." It's quiet and soft, so unlike your usual presence. It's too dark and you're too tired to see the way he truly stops and stares, taking in this rarely seen side of you with a kind of awe one might have when looking at a natural wonder.
He's close enough that his hand can brush over your forehead once, like ice cold velvet running across your skin. When you lean into it slightly, whether knowingly or not, he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth might snap.
"If I don't take care of you, who will?"
And in the late afternoon when you wake, feeling much better than the night before, you notice that the painting in the bathroom has been swapped out. Crisp blues and reds and dark greys in place of light greens and yellows and that harsh orange sun, The Meeting on the Turret Stairs waits for you when you rise. It's not surprising that he picked up on your distaste of the previous painting, but how thoroughly he has perceived you, to replace it with this is cause for later reflection, you think.
As the knight grasps the lady's arm, bringing it to his lips, you think of Armand's hand against your neck, his refusal to not be touching you in some way, and realize that they may be one and the same. Your knight in shining black, your angel of death, of salvation.
The fact that you've begun referring to him as 'yours' surely means nothing.
At least that's what you tell yourself.
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Tag list: @yesimwriting @dalia-fahrenheit @amaishima @bad-biddie @temperaynse
seems like michael is interested you, but why a toy store?
i never thought i would end up writing something like this but michael has been on my mind non-stop so why the hell not it was a fun idea and it was fun to write!
cw : nothing too serious ! fluff, RPF, tooth rotting sweetness light slow burn and this is not proof read LMFAO thriller era mike, reader is a bit stubborn
The toy store was loud in the way only toy stores on a weekday afternoon could be, squealing wheels on linoleum, a demo radio somewhere in the back playing something tinny, a toddler three aisles over making his feelings known to the entire building. You navigated through it all with the focused energy of someone on a mission, list in hand, your little brotherâs very specific instructions replaying in your head like a voice memo you unfortunately could not delete.
The red race car. The one with the yellow stripe. Not the orange one, not the blue one, the red one with the yellow stripe, and if you get the wrong one Iâm not speaking to you.
He was seven. The threat was empty. You were getting the right one anyway.
You found the aisle, crouched down to the lower shelf where the die-cast vehicles lived, and scanned methodically. Blue. Blue. Orange. A green one that looked promising but wasnât. And then â there. Red body, yellow stripe down the side, exactly as described. You reached for it.
Another hand got there at the same time.
You looked up.
He was tall. Dressed plainly enough, dark trousers, a simple jacket, unremarkable except for the wide-brimmed fedora pulled low and the sunglasses sitting on his face indoors, which you clocked immediately as the symbol of I believe I am someone important. He had a stillness about him, something gentle in the way he held himself, but he was also very clearly holding your brotherâs race car.
âOh,â he said. Soft voice. Genuinely surprised, like he hadnât anticipated anyone else existing in this aisle.
âYeah,â you said. âOh.â
Neither of you moved.
He seemed to be waiting for something â maybe for you to step back, defer, let the moment resolve itself in his favor the way moments perhaps usually did for him. You tilted your head instead. He had good cheekbones, you noticed distantly. Didnât change anything.
âMy brother asked for this one,â you said, pleasantly, in the tone that meant this is a courtesy statement, not a negotiation.
âI was going toââ He stopped himself. Glanced briefly to his left.
A few steps behind him stood a large, broad-shouldered older man with watchful energy of someone who had stood behind this particular person through a great many situations. He had his arms loosely crossed and was studying a display of toy trucks with very deliberate interest.
The man in the hat looked back at you. Then, unhurriedly, he released the car.
You smiled at him â full, bright, just the slightest edge of triumph in it. âThank you so much,â you said, already straightening up, already turning. âVery generous of you.â
You didnât look back. You were almost to the end of the aisle when you heard, just barely beneath the store noise, the older manâs low voice: âShe didnât even blink.â And then something that sounded very much like a quiet, delighted laugh.
You were on your way to the checkout when you heard it â a hushed, rapid exchange near the front display.
âDid you see her?â The soft voice, quieter now, aimed at the older man.
âI saw.â
âShe didnât â she had no idea who Iââ
âI know, Mike.â
A pause. âI want to talk to her again.â
The older man â Bill, Michael had called him once or twice quietly during the exchange, youâd caught it, made a sound that was half agreement, half something else. Amusement, maybe. The careful kind, from someone who knew better than to make it obvious.
You were already at the register. You didnât think much of it.
He came back the following Tuesday. You werenât there.
He came back Thursday.
You werenât there either, but the woman at the register, who had worked the afternoon shift for years and had seen many things, noted the tall young man in the hat who walked one slow loop of the store and left without buying anything.
He came back the Tuesday after that.
You were there.
You were in the same aisle â not by any design, just because your neighbor had asked you to pick up a specific set of building blocks for her nephewâs birthday and the blocks were adjacent to the vehicles display and youâd paused to look at something on the lower shelf. You were crouched again, in the same spot, which in retrospect was a detail that would make you laugh later.
A tap on your shoulder. Light. Almost tentative.
You stood and turned.
The hat. The jacket. The sunglasses. The same man, and this time there was something different in his posture â a careful kind of hope, chin slightly ducked, like heâd decided to do this and was now fully committed but also fully aware it could go sideways.
âYou,â you said.
âMe,â he agreed. The corner of his mouth moved upward, just slightly. âDo you remember me?â
You made a show of considering it. Looked at the hat. The sunglasses. Let your gaze drift to the lower shelf where the cars were.
âHat,â you said. âSunglasses indoors. Tried to take my brotherâs toy.â You looked back at him. âThe one who thought about arguing and then thought better of it.â
He laughed â a real one, open and a little breathless, tilting his head back with it â and from a few feet behind him, Bill pressed his lips together and looked very pointedly at a shelf of action figures.
âI wasnât going to argue,â the man said, recovering.
âYou had the face of someone considering it.â
He blinked innocently. âI donât know what that means.â
âYou do,â you said, amused despite yourself, âbut thatâs okay.â He was still smiling. It was a good smile â soft, a little shy around the edges, like he wasnât entirely sure what to do with the fact that it was there. He extended his hand.
âIâm Michael.â
You shook it and told him your name. He said it back to himself quietly, deliberate, like he was making sure he had it right.
âSo,â you said, shifting the building blocks under your arm. âYou came back.â
He didnât try to dress it up. âI wanted to see you again.â
Something about the directness of it caught you off guard â not aggressive, nothing like that, just simple and honest. You looked at him for a moment. He looked back, patient, waiting.
âWell,â you said, âyou found me in the same aisle. Thatâs either fate or a concerning pattern.â
âIâm hoping fate.â
âIâm keeping my options open,â you told him pleasantly, and his smile widened.
You walked the aisle slowly, no real destination, and he fell into step beside you with the ease of someone who had been waiting for exactly this. He asked about your brother, the one the car was for â and you told him about the specificity of seven-year-old demands, the yellow stripe, the thirty-minute lecture youâd received about the difference between red-red and orange-red. He listened with full attention, genuinely charmed by it, asking small questions at the right moments. He was quiet in the way that felt considered rather than absent. Careful with what he said.
âYouâre not what I expected,â you said at some point, not meaning to say it out loud.
He tilted his head. âWhat did you expect?â
âSomeone who argues about toys.â He laughed again, softer this time. âI almost did.â
âI know,â you said. âI appreciated the restraint.â Bill, trailing at a respectful distance, was finding the educational games section deeply fascinating.
Youâd been talking for a few minutes, easy and unguarded, when you stopped in front of a display and turned to him properly.
âOkay,â you said, âI have to ask. The hat, the glasses â are you hiding from someone or do you just really commit to a look?â He paused. Something shifted, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, might have been mild anxiety, might have been both.
âLittle bit of both,â he said, carefully.
You studied him. He was still, watching you. And thatâs when you actually looked â past the low brim and the tinted lenses, at the line of his jaw, the particular architecture of his face, the way his mouth was set.
Something tugged at the back of your mind. You frowned, not unkindly.
âMichael,â you said slowly.
âYeah?â
âThatâs funny. Thereâs a singer.â You tilted your head. âMichael Jackson. You kind of â your face isââ You stopped.
He went very, very still.
You looked at him. He looked back at you with the careful patience of someone who had been in this exact position and knew better than to rush it. âYou kind of look exactly like him,â you finished, quieter now.
He said nothing.
Your eyes moved to the sunglasses. Back to the jaw. The cheekbones. The soft mouth. The hat, which now that you were thinking about it was a very particular kind of hat.
âMichael,â you said, differently this time.
ââŚYes?â
âMichael Jackson.â
A beat. âYes,â he said, gently.
You stared at him. He let you. You opened your mouth and closed it again. You were not â this was important â you were not the kind of person who lost composure. You were composed. You were always composed. You had been raised to be composed.
âIn a toy store,â you said. The words came out very flat.
âI like toys,â he said, with complete and simple sincerity.
âYouâre Michael Jackson and youâre in a toy store on a Tuesday afternoonââ
âItâs a good storeââ
âWith a hat,â you continued, gesturing at the fedora, âas a disguiseââ
âIt works more often than youâd think,â he offered.
You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth. The laugh came anyway â you couldnât help it, it climbed up through your chest and out of you, and for a moment you were just standing in the building blocks aisle laughing with your hand over your face while Michael Jackson stood in front of you looking quietly, helplessly delighted.
From somewhere behind a display of board games, Bill made a sound that was technically a cough. It was not a cough.
âYou didnât say anything,â you said, when you had recovered some portion of your dignity. âWhen I â the first time, with the toyââ
âYou didnât recognize me,â he said, and there was that warmth again, that almost-relief in it. âIt was nice. Itâs been a while since someone justâŚâ He searched for the word. âDidnât.â
You looked at him. Took in the careful honesty of it, the way he meant it without performance.
âHow long have you been coming back here?â you asked, though you suspected you knew.
He glanced, very briefly, at Bill. âA few times,â Michael said.
âA few.â
âA few,â he confirmed, and he had the grace to look slightly sheepish about it, ducking his chin in a way that was, against your better judgment, completely endearing.
You were quiet for a moment. He waited, unhurried, watching you with those dark eyes that were soft and steady and hadnât looked anywhere else since youâd turned around.
âFor the record,â you said finally, âthe hat is not a disguise. You look exactly like yourself.â
He laughed â bright and real, head tilting back again. âYouâre the first person to say that.â
âIâm not going to apologize for having eyes.â
âIâm not asking you to,â he said, and he was still smiling, that careful soft smile, and the afternoon light was coming through the storefront windows and catching the brim of his very insufficient hat, and your building blocks were getting heavy under your arm.
âWell, Michael Jackson,â you said, adjusting your grip on them, âyou went to a lot of trouble to stand in a toy aisle again.â
âIt was worth it,â he said simply.
You looked at him for one more moment. Then you nodded, once, acknowledging something unspoken, and started toward the register.
âYou should pick better disguises,â you called back.
Behind you, you heard him laugh again, quiet and warm.
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