[ID: Gauche painting of a vibrant orange-red tiger creature against dark foliage, gazing behind itself to meet the viewer. Its stripes are tinted green, with an extra set of legs; it curves around a small, bright red star. End ID.]
Synopsis: The distance was supposed to be temporary. The waiting was supposed to get easier. Instead, every day apart seems to pull Y/N deeper into feelings she no longer knows how to control, until one emotional phone call threatens to unravel everything.
A/N: This was definitely the hardest chapter to write so far, and it ended up being huge. I just can’t seem to write short chapters, but I hope you like it because we’re finally moving the story forward. Let me know what you think about it ;)
SERIES MASTERLIST
You had never cared much about dates. Not really.
You never remembered anyone’s birthday except your own, and only because yours was the worst day of the year. Followed closely by New Year’s Eve. Both had a way of forcing you to stare too long into the void of your own existence, to see yourself at the bottom of it.
Always alone. Always lost.
So you learned, over time, not to pay attention to the calendar beyond its practical use.
But when you woke up that Sunday morning, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t work, or food, or even the dull ache in your body that hadn’t quite left since Wednesday. It was him.
A thin ribbon of sunlight slipped through the small gaps in your curtains - soft, hesitant, almost shy. In London, that kind of light felt like a quiet miracle, faint but brighter than the usual gray that coated everything.
You squinted slightly, turning your face away from it as it brushed over your eyes. And then it hit you.
Eleven months.
It had been eleven months since that show. Since you had first seen Sleep Token live. Since you had met him. The realization came gently at first, like that strange, disorienting feeling when you notice time has passed without your permission. Like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing.
And then it turned bitter.
Eleven months. Almost a year of your life.
A year you could count, almost embarrassingly, by the handful of times you had actually been with him. And everything else in between had been repetition, routine, waiting, anticipation amd fear.
That constant, gnawing ache of wanting to be with him and not being able to.
It wasn’t a healthy way to live. You knew that. But knowing didn’t change anything.
You sighed, kicking the sheets away as you rolled onto your back, staring up at the plain, unremarkable ceiling of your apartment. A faint crack ran near the corner, something you had noticed a hundred times before. Your mind didn’t stay there long.
It drifted, uninvited, to the ornate plaster ceiling at the Wetherby. The intricate molding. The chandelier casting warm, golden light across the room.
God, you missed that room. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t the room you missed.
You lay there for a long moment, unmoving, letting the weight of another monotonous day settle over you.
You hadn’t worked since Thursday.
Since the panic attack.
Nancy had stayed the night. You had spoken on the phone Friday. Gone out for drinks on Saturday - something you knew wasn’t exactly wise given your state, but still… it had been better than being alone.
Now the thought of spending the entire day in your apartment again pressed heavily against your chest.
Because being alone meant thinking about him.
Missing him.
You had talked to him on Thursday. All day, through messages. Then for hours on the phone that night.
You had finally replied to the message he sent Wednesday - the one Nancy had stopped you from answering - early Thursday morning, after she left. You lied. Said you hadn’t seen it because your internet had been down.
Even as you typed it, something in you knew he didn’t fully believe it. But you stuck to it. Because the alternative was telling the truth and that was impossible. What would you even say?
I had a panic attack because you told me you weren’t coming back.
It sounded ridiculous. Pathetic.
And yet... Strip away logic, and the truth remained: whatever you had with him had crossed the line of healthy a long time ago.
Not because of him. You were certain of that. If anything, you were convinced that man was incapable of anything but love.
No, if there was something wrong in all of this, it was you. Your inability to exist around anyone who wasn’t him. You simply couldn’t talk to people the way you talked to Vessel.
With others, conversations felt shallow, distant. When you tried, you often found yourself stuck in endless monologues where the other person spoke about their life, their stories, their trivialities - requiring nothing more than a few “hmm” or “really?” from you to keep going indefinitely.
And when you tried to speak? To share something that mattered to you? You were cut off. Or laughed at.
“You’re hilarious, Y/n.” “You’re so weird.”
Always said like a joke. Always landing like something sharper. And every time, you shrank a little more, wondering if maybe they were right.
-Okay, Nancy was proving to be a wonderful exception. But even then… It wasn’t the same.
Maybe you really were different.
Too intense.
Too much.
Like your sister always said.
And even though Nancy tried to understand, tried not to judge, you still caught those looks. The ones she didn’t quite hide when you talked about him.
Even to her, you were a little too much. A little too far removed from reality.
But not to him. Never to him.
Vessel had never made you feel like you were too much. He understood you in ways no one ever had. He listened. Truly listened. Paid attention to the things you said, the things you didn’t say.
In less than a year, he knew you more deeply than people who had been in your life forever.
He made you feel seen. Chosen. And that... That was the perfect ground for the kind of emotional dependence you had built around him.
But how could it have been any different? He was the only one who had ever given you that. The only one who made you feel like you mattered. Like you were worth something.
And he was… Perfect.
Vessel felt like someone born to be loved.
And yet the scars on his arms told a different story. You never spoke about them. Neither did he. But they were there. Always there. Visible to anyone who looked closely enough. Discussed in threads online where strangers speculated endlessly without even knowing who he really was.
But you knew. Not because you had searched for his name. But because he had shown himself to you. Out of everyone, he chose you to see him without the mask. To exist beyond it.
And there was nothing beneath it that you loved any less. Nothing. If anything, you loved him more for it. But you also knew he carried his own weight. His own fears. That quiet, lingering doubt that he might not be enough without the persona he had built.
And sometimes you wondered if that fear had anything to do with the scars. Something in you always said yes.
You understood him - or at least, you liked to believe you did - because you felt the same. You had never felt like you were enough either. The world had made sure of that. And that was what had broken you.
Once, you heard a line in a movie you never forgot: the broken are the more evolved. Was that it? Were you both just… broken in compatible ways? Two fractured things clinging to each other...
like branches in a flood?
There was no better way to describe what you had if not in his own lyrics. And still, despite everything those scars might have meant, despite whatever pain had shaped him, Vessel was sweet.
There was no other word for it.
He was intelligent, beautiful, sensitive, attentive, funny… and he knew exactly how to pull reactions from your body that no one else ever had.
He was... godlike.
So what, exactly, could exist in him that wasn’t worthy of being loved?
The moment your thoughts started dragging you under - slow, heavy, familiar - you knew you were in trouble again.
It wasn’t a panic attack this time. The medication wrapped around your mind like a soft barrier, keeping the worst of it at bay. Your breathing stayed steady, your vision clear. But that didn’t mean you were safe.
Because you recognized this too. The pull. The ache. The hollow, gnawing descent into need.
Your chest tightened without warning, a dull, persistent pressure settling right beneath your ribs, and you exhaled sharply, pushing the blankets off as if they were suddenly too heavy.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.
You forced yourself out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor, grounding yourself in something, anything, real.
Be practical.
That was the plan.
You took a long shower, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders until your skin turned pink, hoping it would wash something out of you. It didn’t. When you stepped out, the air felt too cool, too empty. You brushed your teeth slowly, methodically, staring at your own reflection like you were trying to recognize the person looking back.
You tidied the apartment next - folded a blanket, aligned books that didn’t need aligning, wiped down a spotless counter. Small, controlled movements. Order where you could create it.
Then you made a grocery list. You stared at it for all of five seconds before abandoning the idea entirely, the thought of stepping outside, of facing the world like this, immediately exhausting.
No. Not today.
You tried painting your nails. The faint chemical smell filled the room as you carefully brushed color over each fingertip, only to smudge one and swear under your breath. You left it like that anyway.
You turned on the TV. Another horror movie. Something mindless. Loud enough to fill the silence. It became background noise within minutes.
At lunchtime - her lunchtime - you called Nancy.
You curled up on the couch, knees tucked under you, phone pressed to your ear as she talked, her voice bright and animated, filling the spaces your mind kept trying to slip into. You hummed, laughed at the right moments, let her carry most of the conversation. You told yourself it helped.
It did... a little.
You’d even agreed tomorrow she’d come over for dinner. “To update you on the Anna situation,” she had said, like it was some kind of dramatic investigation. That thought lingered just enough to lift something inside you.
A small, fragile thread of anticipation.
But the day kept stretching. Long. Quiet. Suffocating. And your mind, well, your mind was a terrible place to be alone in for this long.
You drifted back to the bedroom sometime in the afternoon, then to the living room again, then back. Restless. Unsettled. Your phone never far from your hand.
Again and again, your thumb hovered over his name. Call. The green icon glowed like a dare.
You sighed, letting your head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
You wanted to hear his voice. God, you wanted it so badly it almost hurt. But you didn’t press it. Not once. And that realization hit you in a strange, quiet way.
You had never called him. Not even once. It had taken you months to feel comfortable even texting him first. Calling felt… different. Bigger. Too direct. Too intrusive.
But shouldn’t it not be, after eleven months? The thought settled somewhere deep and didn’t leave.
As evening crept in, the light outside dimming into that familiar London gray-blue, the idea began to shift. Grow. By the time the streetlights flickered on outside your window, casting soft amber lines across your walls, you were no longer just thinking about calling him to hear his voice.
You were thinking about asking him to come back. Your chest tightened again, sharper this time.
You paced the apartment, phone in hand, unlocking it, locking it, unlocking it again. Your reflection passed you in the darkened TV screen - restless, wired, eyes too bright.
You hovered over his contact. Stopped. Locked the screen. Walked away. Came back. Hovered again.
Your heart was racing now, a steady, insistent drum against your ribs.
What if it was too much? What if you were crossing some invisible line you didn’t even know existed? Would he think you were too much if you did? Would he get annoyed? Angry?
The thought stopped you cold. You frowned slightly, realizing something that felt almost surreal. You had never seen him angry.
Not once. Not even close.
You two never fought. Never disagreed. Everything between you flowed so easily it almost didn’t feel real sometimes.
Was that good… or was that something else entirely?
By ten, you were in bed.
Not because you were tired, your body felt wired, restless, but because it felt like containment. Like if you stayed there, under the covers, in the dark, you might stop yourself from doing something impulsive.
Your phone rested on your chest, rising and falling with each breath. You stared at the ceiling, barely visible in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
The idea didn’t go away. It rooted itself deeper.
You turned onto your side. Then onto your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Kicked it off. Your fingers tapped lightly against the back of your phone, restless energy with nowhere to go.
Just call him.
Not to ask him to come back.
Just to talk.
That’s all.
You repeated it enough times that it started to sound reasonable. Safe. Your throat felt dry. Your hands were cold. Your heart wouldn’t slow down.
Before you could overthink it again, you unlocked the screen. Your thumb pressed the call button. And immediately, your breath hitched.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then...His voice hit you like a shockwave. Warm. Familiar in a way that went straight through your chest and unraveled something tight inside you all at once.
Your entire body reacted - skin prickling, breath catching, heart stumbling over itself - as if just hearing him was enough to pull you back from wherever you’d been slipping.
“Hey, sugar"
The moment his voice reached you, something inside your chest twisted so sharply it almost hurt. The ache of missing him wasn’t abstract anymore, it was physical, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.
“Hey…” Your voice came out unsteady, thinner than you wanted. “Are you busy?”
There were voices in the background, muffled, overlapping, but as you listened, they grew distant, like he was moving away from them, carving out a space just for you.
“I’m at the studio,” he said, his tone shifting, focusing entirely on you. “Recording… a few things. Is everything okay?”
There was a hint of tension there now, subtle but unmistakable. “You sound...”
“I… I don’t want to bother you,” you cut in quickly, panic rising without warning. “I shouldn’t have called…”
Your grip tightened around the phone, your fingers slick with sweat. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thin.
“Sugar,” he said, firmer now, grounding. “You’re not bothering me. Tell me...are you okay?”
You hummed in response, a weak, meaningless sound, because you knew if you tried to form actual words your voice would betray you completely.
This had been a mistake.
A terrible, impulsive mistake.
“Yeah?” he pressed, softer but sharper at the edges. “Then why aren’t you talking to me?” A pause. “Sugar, don’t lie to me. Why did you call?”
And just like that, everything broke.
A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, then another, and suddenly you couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but cry - messy, uncontrollable, humiliating.
“Y/n… sugar...hey, hey..." His voice shifted instantly, concern flooding every syllable. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
You dragged in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, pressing your free hand hard against your mouth as if you could physically hold the sobs back.
This wasn’t what you had planned.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“I’m sorry, Ves…” you managed between breaths, your voice breaking anyway. “Nothing happened. Just… my life.”
You inhaled deeply, forcing the words out before you could lose the nerve.
“I miss you.” Your voice dropped, fragile, honest in a way that made your chest ache even more. “I wish you were here.”
There it was.
Bare. Unfiltered. True.
Silence. Not long - just a second, maybe two - but long enough for you to feel it stretch, heavy with thought. Like he wasn’t just deciding what to say… but what to do.
“I’ve almost finished recording,” he said finally, slower now, deliberate. “There are a few things left, but I think I can wrap up by midnight.”
A pause. You could almost hear him thinking.
“There should be a night train… or I can drive.”
Your breath caught.
“You’d do that?” you asked, your voice small despite everything.
“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Sugar, I was going to text you tomorrow anyway. I was already planning to leave. I had tomorrow night in mind.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks as you shifted on the bed, pulling a pillow into your lap and wrapping your arms around it like it could hold you together.
“I should wait then,” you said, even as every part of you resisted the idea. “I don’t want you driving all night.”
You should wait.
You didn’t want to.
He shushed you softly, that familiar, gentle sound he always made when you cried, and it did something immediate to your chest - tight and warm all at once.
“It’s decided,” he said, with quiet finality. “I’m coming, and...”
He stopped abruptly.
A distant voice cut through the line.
“Bro, come on, what are you doing?”
You heard movement, fabric shifting, his voice pulling away slightly.
“Just give me a minute, for fuck’s sake.”
Then he was back, closer again, a faint edge of irritation in his tone.
“Sorry about that.”
“Who was that?” you asked, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.
“II,” he replied. “We’re finishing… something.”
You exhaled shakily, your chest still tight.
“Ves, we can just meet tomorrow,” you tried again, even though the words felt wrong the moment you said them. “I can wait.”
You couldn’t.
“I’m completely capable of waiting.”
You weren’t.
He didn’t believe you. Not even a little.
“If you could wait, you wouldn’t be crying,” he said simply, firmly. “I’m going to hang up, finish what I need to do, and then I’ll head out. Keep your phone close. I’ll update you so you can be a little bit calmer, yeah?"
You nodded automatically before realizing he couldn’t see you.
“Yeah… okay. Talk to you later, Ves.”
“Sooner than you think, sugar.”
The line went dead. And somehow, the emptiness inside you only deepened. Hearing him had made it worse - sharper, louder, more unbearable. Like your body had remembered exactly what it was missing and refused to settle for anything less.
You sat there for a moment, staring at your phone, your reflection faintly visible on the dark screen.
You weren’t going to sleep. Not like this.
You checked your phone again. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.
After the fifth time, you exhaled and pushed yourself off the bed, your body feeling strangely heavy, sluggish, like you were moving through water.
A shower. Another one. Maybe that would help.
The bathroom light was too bright at first, making you squint as you turned the water on. Steam began to fill the space, softening the edges of everything as you stepped under the heat, letting it cascade over your shoulders, your scalp, down your spine.
You stayed there longer than you needed to, letting the warmth soak into you, hoping it might quiet your thoughts.
It didn’t.
What the hell had that been?
You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, closing your eyes.
How long did you think he was going to put up with this? With you?
So needy. So unstable. So… much.
But he loves me.
The thought slipped in before you could stop it.
Did he?
Your chest tightened again, but differently this time, quieter, more uncertain.
His actions made it harder and harder to believe anything else. He was driving over a hundred miles in the middle of the night just to see you. Still… Even if he did feel the same - and that was still a dangerous “if”- you needed to get a handle on this.
Because this… this was starting to scare you.
When you stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the first thing you did was reach for your phone.
Your lips curved instantly.
Already at the hotel.
Packing my stuff.
Warmth spread through your chest as you typed back a simple heart emoji before setting the phone down.
You moved slowly after that, your energy low, your mind tired. You picked out a soft grey set - nothing special, just cotton, comfortable, familiar. Matching underwear. A little lotion rubbed into your skin, the scent faint and clean. You brushed your hair, left it damp. Toothpaste, quick rinse.
A hint of perfume.
That was all you could manage.
You drifted into the living room, the apartment dim except for the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. You sank into the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs, the TV flickering with something you barely registered.
Time blurred.
At some point, your playlist filled the room - his voice weaving through the quiet, wrapping around you, easing something deep in your chest just enough to make it bearable.
You didn’t realize how long had passed until your phone buzzed again.
2:03 AM.
On the road.
Just stopped for gas and a case of Red Bull.
A small, tired smile tugged at your lips.
Then...
We have a problem, sugar.
Wetherby’s fully booked.
Every decent hotel in the city is gone.
Some massive tech conference at ExCeL.
London’s a nightmare tonight.
I’m not taking you anywhere that isn’t at least decent.
You let out a soft huff of laughter despite everything, picturing him - tense, annoyed, probably running a hand through his hair as he typed.
An idea surfaced before you could overthink it. You sat up slightly, fingers hovering over the screen. Then you typed.
You can stay at my place.
A pause. Your heart started beating faster.
If you don’t mind it being nothing like our room at the Wetherby.
You bit your lower lip as the typing bubble appeared. Stayed. Disappeared. Came back again.
Felt like forever.
Oh, sugar.
You’re inviting me into your place?
Didn’t see that coming.
But I definitely like the idea.
Your smile spread slowly, uncontrollably. You exhaled, something warm settling in your chest as you typed again, this time without hesitation.
Then it’s settled.
You added the address, fingers steady now.
Flat 12
Riverside Court
Greenwich High Road
London SE10 8JL
A pause.
Waiting for you.
You answered with far more confidence than you actually felt.
He was coming.
Vessel was coming to your apartment.
The realization settled slowly, then all at once. You weren’t just going to see him outside of a hotel room for the first time, you were bringing him into your space. Your home. Your bed.
The thought made something twist low in your stomach, sharp and warm, the overwhelming ache of missing him shifting into something else entirely. Familiar. Electric.
You moved around the apartment in a quiet rush, suddenly hyper-aware of the late hour and how little time you might actually have before he arrived. The place that had always felt safe and comfortably yours now seemed too small, too exposed, like every detail of it would be seen, measured.
You grabbed an empty mug from the coffee table, your fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic before you carried it to the sink. A stack of school papers disappeared into a drawer with a soft thud. You straightened the cushions on the couch, pressing them into place with unnecessary precision, smoothing the fabric like it mattered more than it did.
The flat was simple, you knew that. Modest furniture, a tiny kitchen barely separated from the living room, books scattered in corners and stacked in uneven piles. But it was clean. Cozy. Unmistakably yours.
Still, as you wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the counter with the edge of a dish towel, a flicker of insecurity crept in, quiet but persistent.
What if he thought it was too humble? Too ordinary?
The image of him stepping through your door made your heart stutter again, your chest tightening as you forced yourself to take a slow breath.
This place - this small, carefully kept space - said more about you than any luxury hotel ever could. You knew that. You just hoped he would see it that way too.
You spent nearly half an hour moving from one corner of the apartment to another, folding blankets that didn’t need folding, adjusting objects that were already in place, wiping down the kitchen counter again just to have something to do with your hands. The quiet hum of the refrigerator filled the silence of the late hours.
When there was nothing left to fix, nowhere left to tidy, you finally slowed.
You stood in the middle of the living room, arms hanging loosely at your sides, your gaze drifting toward your phone resting on the coffee table.
Okay.
Think.
You tried to do the math in your head, your fingers curling slightly as if counting would somehow make the time feel more predictable. He had left Birmingham after midnight. The drive, what, two hours? Maybe more with traffic. But there would be no traffict now. Well, he had stopped for gas.
You lifted your hand, counting quietly under your breath.
“One… two… three…”
Maybe four in the morning.
The uncertainty twisted tighter in your stomach.
Waiting felt unbearable.
Sitting still felt worse.
That was when you noticed it, an emptiness that wasn’t just emotional. Your stomach tightened again, this time with actual hunger. Real, physical, grounding. Somehow in the middle of everything you handnt even stopped to eat properly the whole day.
And suddenly, the thought of him arriving - tired, drained, having driven through the night - and finding nothing here felt wrong.
You moved before you could overthink it.
The kitchen light flicked on with a soft click, casting a warm, slightly yellow glow over the small space. You tied your hair back loosely, fingers fumbling for a second before securing it, and opened the fridge, scanning its contents.
Something simple. Something warm.
You settled on pasta with tomato sauce.
It felt safe. Familiar. Manageable.
You filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove, the metal ringing softly as it touched the burner. The quiet hiss of gas and the low flame grounding you in the moment. You reached for garlic, crushing a clove under the flat of a knife, the sharp scent immediately blooming into the air.
Minutes passed.
They moved differently now - still slow, but not suffocating. Just enough to keep your hands busy, your thoughts from spiraling too far.
As the tomatoes began to simmer, the kitchen filled with warmth, with smell, with something alive. The soft bubbling of the sauce, the rhythmic clink of utensils against the pan, the faint steam curling upward toward the ceiling.
You moved barefoot across the small space, the floor cool beneath your feet, your steps quiet. Every movement was deliberate, focused. Something to hold onto.
You were trying to look busy. Trying to feel normal. Trying not to think about the fact that at any moment, he would be there.
Eventually, the water started boiling and you added the pasta, stirring it absently while the sauce bubbled gently on the stove. Steam curled up toward the small kitchen light, softening everything in a warm haze. You reached for the herbs almost without thinking and added some basil leaves to the sauce, remembering clear as if it had just happened the way he had casually mentioned once that he liked basil. Just like that, your usual recipe had changed because of him.
You kept stirring even when the sauce didn’t need it, your hand moving in slow, repetitive circles just to keep your fingers busy, to give your restless energy somewhere to go. Every few seconds, your gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall, doing useless calculations in your head.
At some point your mind started telling you this was ridiculous, that cooking at nearly four in the morning for a man who wasn’t even technically yours was insane, and yet your heart kept racing like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When the doorbell finally rang, the sound shot through you like electricity.
For a split second, you thought about turning off the stove, fixing your hair, checking your reflection, but instead, you dropped the wooden spoon into the sink with a clatter and rushed to the door, pulling it open with barely contained urgency.
And there he was.
In jeans and a t-shirt, a dark jacket thrown over it - not denim, not leather, something heavier - and a black knit beanie pulled low over his head. A backpack hung from one shoulder, clearly heavy, and he held his guitar case tightly in his hand. There was a faint, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Hello,” he said.
And before you could even process the moment, you were already moving, already throwing yourself into his arms.
You heard the soft thud of the guitar case hitting the floor as he dropped it to catch you properly, his arms wrapping around you instantly. His hand came up to your chin, tilting your face just enough for him to kiss you - firm, immediate, but brief - breaking just as quickly so he could look at you.
“Let me see you, sugar. You had me so worried,” he said, his voice almost too serious, but never sharp, never accusatory.
“I’m fine,” you answered, your cheeks warming under his gaze. It hadn’t been true before he arrived, but now it would be. “I just… missed you. A lot.”
He leaned his forehead against yours, exhaling softly.
“I know. I’m here now.”
His fingers brushed lightly along your cheek, grounding, steady.
“Now… are you going to let me in?"
A soft, nervous laugh slipped out of you despite the tears still clinging to your lashes. You stepped back, reluctant but smiling, opening the door wider.
“I’m sorry. Come in. Let me take that.”
He handed you the backpack, closing the door behind him as you moved to set it on the armchair. He followed, leaving the guitar case beside it, and for a brief second there was silence - thick, charged - as you became painfully aware of yourself. Your clothes. Your hair. The fact that you hadn’t changed.
But he didn’t give your thoughts time to spiral.
His hands found you again, warm and certain, pulling you flush against his chest like he had been holding himself back for hours. His eyes searched your face for a single heartbeat.
“Let me kiss you properly,” he murmured.
And then he did.
This time, there was nothing hesitant about it. The kiss was deep, consuming, like all the distance and longing between you had snapped at once. Your fingers clutched at his jacket while his hand settled at the small of your back, holding you steady, anchoring you. His lips were still cool from the night air, and there was the faintest tremor in them that made your chest tighten.
For a few endless seconds, nothing else existed. Not the past week. Not the anxiety. Not the exhaustion. Just him.
The weight that had been pressing against your chest for days dissolved completely, leaving behind only a faint, lingering nervousness, something quieter, sharper, like your body still didn’t quite trust the calm.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours again.
“Is that basil?” he asked simply.
“Oh my God...” you blinked, pulling away abruptly. “I completely forgot.”
You left him standing there and rushed back into the kitchen, turning off the sauce without even checking it. It was pure luck it hadn’t burned. The pasta, on the other hand…
“Shit,” you muttered, staring at it. “Oh God… what am I going to do?”
Your voice spiraled as your hand pressed against your forehead, thoughts racing too fast to catch.
“You’re actually cooking for me? At…” he glanced at his watch, “…almost four in the morning?”
You hadn’t noticed he had followed you. He stood in the doorway now, leaning slightly against the frame, a faintly amused smile playing on his lips. And it made your cheeks heat all over again.
“I was trying to. But the pasta is clearly overcooked and I don’t know how to...” your voice wavered dangerously, like you were teetering on the edge of tears again.
Why were you like this?
He was here. Everything was fine. And still, your chest felt tight all over again.
“Let me try it,” he said gently, stepping closer, his tone immediately shifting as if he could read everything unraveling in you.
He found a fork in the drying rack, picked up a strand of spaghetti, blew on it lightly, and tasted it. Simple. Casual. And yet, to you, it felt absurdly intimate. Unreal. Your brain struggled to process the fact that he was standing in your kitchen, eating your food.
“You forgot the salt. But it’s pretty good to me.”
He handed the fork to you.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Just add a pinch of salt before draining. It’ll work.”
The way he said it, so certain, so easy, made something settle inside you.
“Okay… um… please, sit,” you gestured toward the chair. “I’ll finish this so we can eat. Are you… are you even hungry? I didn’t ask. I...I don’t know what I’m doing here, Ves.”
Instead of sitting, he took your hand, squeezing it gently.
“You’re cooking pasta. For us,” he said softly. “And yes, I am hungry. I stayed at the studio all day, barely ate anything. I’m basically starving, and your sauce smells so...”
You cut him off with a quick, clumsy kiss. Just a brush of lips. A quiet thank you you couldn’t say out loud.
“Okay,” you breathed.
“Okay?” he checked.
You nodded, inhaling deeply.
“Okay. I’ll go wait, then,” he said, his tone deliberately calm, slower than usual. “Take your time. No rush. Everything is okay.”
His thumb pressed lightly against your hand before letting go, and you understood exactly what he was doing.
When he stepped away, your mind felt clearer.
You followed his suggestion, adding salt to the pasta water, stirring once before draining it. The movements felt more controlled now, less frantic. You even remembered to grab a small tablecloth, laying it over the tiny kitchen table before plating the food—spaghetti, sauce, a bit of grated parmesan on top.
No wine, of course. You almost never drank - except when you did, and those moments were never about taste. In the end, you grabbed two cans of Coca-Cola from the fridge and set them on the table.
And there it was.
Your late-night “romantic” dinner.
Overcooked pasta, slightly questionable sauce, and soda.
When you went to call him, you caught him slowly wandering through the small living room. He moved with that quiet, almost careful curiosity of someone stepping into a new world. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched as if he didn’t want to disturb anything, taking his time as his gaze traveled over every detail.
The soft yellow light from the standing lamp cast long shadows across the room, turning familiar objects into something softer, almost unfamiliar under his attention.
You watched him pause in front of your record player, his fingers hovering just above the turntable, hesitating like he was resisting the urge to touch it. He leaned down a little, flipping gently through the stack of vinyl beside it, his head tilting with quiet interest as he read the covers one by one.
From there, he drifted toward the bookcase.
A few framed photos were scattered between worn novels and old notebooks, and he picked one up, though from where you stood, you couldn’t quite see which one. He studied it longer than you expected, his thumb brushing lightly against the edge of the frame, like he was trying to piece together a version of you that existed outside of him.
It felt… intimate.
Seeing him discover parts of your life you had never thought to explain.
Then, of course, he got nosy.
You noticed too late that the bottom drawer of the cabinet was still slightly open from your earlier frantic attempt at tidying up. He crouched down without hesitation, curiosity getting the better of him, and pulled it the rest of the way open.
You stayed where you were, leaning lightly against the kitchen doorway, watching him sift through the mess of school papers you had carelessly shoved in there. Sheets of corrections, lesson plans, scribbled notes - your life, disorganized and exposed.
And then he found it.
Your degree certificate.
Neatly framed, but hidden beneath everything else.
He lifted it carefully, bringing it closer to read, and you felt your face heat almost instantly as he turned his head slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. Completely caught. Completely unapologetic.
He smiled at you.
Those small, sharp fangs showing just enough to make something flutter low in your stomach.
“4 a.m. dinner is ready,” you said, your voice softer than you intended.
He nodded, placing the certificate back exactly where he had found it, sliding it under the papers again before closing the drawer with a gentle push.
You were painfully aware of how simple everything was as he followed you into the kitchen.
Just pasta. Two cans of Coke. Mismatched cutlery.
Nothing glamorous. Nothing impressive.
And yet he sat down across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world, rolling the spaghetti onto his fork with an ease that felt natural. The faint hum of the fridge filled the quiet between you, along with the distant, muffled sound of a car passing outside.
He took the first bite.
Paused.
Then nodded.
“This is really good.”
Simple. Honest.
And the relief that washed over you was so strong it almost made you laugh at yourself.
He reached automatically for a drink, grabbing the can and opening it with a soft hiss. He lifted it straight to his lips without hesitation, taking a sip like it didn’t even occur to him that something might be missing.
Only then did it hit you - you hadn’t brought glasses.
You opened your mouth to apologize, already feeling that familiar flicker of self-consciousness creeping in, but he was already taking another sip, completely unbothered. Like drinking Coke straight from the can at four in the morning in your tiny kitchen was exactly where he wanted to be.
He didn’t ask for anything more.
He never did.
At first, you mostly watched him. The way he leaned back slightly in the chair between bites, the way his fingers rested loosely around the fork, the way his attention shifted fully to you whenever you spoke. There was something unhurried about him now, something that hadn’t been there when he first arrived.
You could feel it happening inside you, slowly.
The tight knot in your chest loosening. The constant, anxious buzzing fading into something quieter.
His presence worked on you without effort, like a steady hand resting over a storm. The urge to cry slipped away without warning. The heaviness in your stomach eased. At some point, you realized you were smiling, and it wasn’t forced.
Conversation came in small, easy pieces.
He told you about the day at the studio, careful with his words, never spoiling anything, never saying too much, but always just enough. And you asked questions you knew he couldn’t fully answer, pushing just a little, and still, he always gave you something. A detail. A hint. Something small that felt like it had been chosen just for you.
You didn’t talk about your day. Or about your work.
And he didn’t ask.
Not because he didn’t care, but because he seemed to know those were edges better left untouched tonight. And he wasn’t going to risk pulling you back into something that had already nearly broken you earlier.
Minutes blurred together in that quiet, unremarkable way that only happens when you feel safe.
The food disappeared slowly. The cans sat half-forgotten on the table. The light stayed soft, the world outside distant and irrelevant.
And at some point, without realizing when it happened, you noticed something simple.
You weren’t trembling anymore.
You were calm.
...
You were standing at the sink, rinsing plates under the low, steady stream of water, the faint clink of porcelain and cutlery filling the quiet apartment. The air still carried the remnants of dinner - something warm, savory - now fading into the early morning stillness. Empty cans sat scattered across the small table behind you, and you reached back absentmindedly to gather them, trying to keep your hands busy.
“I’m afraid to ask if you’re going to work tomorrow.”
His voice came from behind you, low and careful, like he was testing the weight of the question before letting it fully land.
A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. You set the last plate aside and turned, drying your hands on a towel as you faced him.
“Why?” you asked lightly. “Do you not want me to go?”
He didn’t answer right away, just nodded once, almost to himself, then reached out his hand. You took it without hesitation, letting him pull you closer, fitting you between his thighs.
His other arm slid around your waist, grounding, warm. His fingers laced with yours, steady and familiar.
“That,” he murmured, glancing at you, “and the fact that it’s already five in the morning… and, as far as I know, you’re supposed to be waking up in an hour.”
You stilled.
For a moment, everything in you hesitated. Lying wasn’t an option, not like this, not with him looking at you the way he did. There was something in his gaze, sharp and attentive, like he could read every shift in your expression if you gave him enough time.
But telling the truth felt... too much.
“I’ve been home since Thursday,” you said finally, with a small shrug, pretending it was no big deal.
Your fingers traced absent patterns against his sleeve as you spoke.
“I kind of… had a breakdown at work on Wednesday.” You paused, your voice thinning just slightly as the memory brushed up against you. “I passed out at school. The doctor signed me off for a few weeks.”
A beat.
“But it’s nothing serious,” you added quickly, softening the edges of it.
For a fraction of a second, something in his expression shifted, his brows pulling together, a flicker of concern breaking through before he exhaled and smoothed it away.
“That’s why you didn’t answer me Wednesday night,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“You should have told me.”
His tone wasn’t angry. It was worse than that - firm, controlled, threaded with a concern he was clearly trying not to show too much of.
And somehow, that made your chest tighten.
You didn’t want to be something he had to worry about. Didn’t want to become a weight, a complication. Something that might eventually make him pull away.
So you did what you always did. Minimized.
“It’s nothing,” you said, softer now, your fingers drifting up to his face, brushing through the short strands of hair that fell over his forehead. “I’ve just been tired. Working too much.”
Your thumb lingered there for a second, a gentle, distracting touch.
“You must be exhausted too,” you added, your voice dipping into something sweeter, intentionally lighter.
For a moment, it almost worked.
His eyes closed briefly, leaning just slightly into your touch, like he was allowing himself that small comfort.
But when he opened them again, the focus was still there. Still on you.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said quietly. “But we need to talk about this.”
“What?” you deflected, a faint edge slipping into your voice. “I told you, it’s nothing. I just need some time off, and I’ll be fine.”
Maybe it could have sounded convincing. If he hadn’t seen you break down just an hour ago.
You didn’t give him time to push further, though. Your hands came up to cup his face, and you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
Soft at first. Careful. Then deeper. More insistent.
Your fingers curled slightly against his jaw as you kissed him again, slower this time, your mouth parting, inviting. You felt the moment he hesitated, just a breath, before he gave in, his lips parting under yours.
A quiet sound slipped from him, barely audible, as his hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
You took that as permission.
What had started as distraction unraveled quickly into something else, something heavier, hungrier. Weeks of absence, of distance, of tension you hadn’t fully let yourself feel until now, suddenly rising to the surface all at once.
Your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up. Before, everything had been dulled by anxiety, blurred and distant. But now... now you felt him. Fully. The warmth of him, the weight of his hands, the way he held you like he didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.
You broke the kiss eventually, breath unsteady, your forehead brushing lightly against his for a second.
Then you reached for his hand again, fingers slipping into his, and gave a gentle pull.
“Come,” you murmured.
He followed you without a word, his hand still wrapped around yours, fingers laced together like neither of you wanted to risk losing contact.
You led him down the narrow hallway, your bare feet soft against the floor, your pulse just a little too fast for how quiet everything else felt.
But just before you reached your bedroom, he stopped. His grip on your hand tightened, and he gently drew you back toward him.
You turned, following his gaze.
The framed poster hung directly across from your bedroom door, impossible to miss. The Even in Arcadia Tour artwork sat inside a heavy, ornate gold frame - far nicer than anything else you owned, a small indulgence you had never quite justified even to yourself. In the soft hallway light the colors looked deeper, richer: the towering figure beneath the moon, the cathedral spires, the sweep of dark wings. It dominated the wall the way it had dominated your thoughts when you bought it.
And now he was staring at it.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His eyes moved slowly across the image, tracing details you had memorized months ago, like he was seeing it for the first time - and at the same time, like he was trying to understand something about it.
About himself.
A strange heat crept up your neck.
You shifted your weight slightly, suddenly aware of how exposed it felt, as if the poster revealed something far more personal than you had ever intended. Your thumb brushed nervously over the back of his hand, a small, grounding motion.
His gaze lingered on the hooded figure, on the sharp, dramatic silhouette.
From where you stood, you caught the subtle shift in his expression.
There was something almost shy in it. Like he didn’t quite recognize himself in that version - the larger-than-life presence, carved out of shadow and gold. The figure in the artwork felt powerful, godlike.
The man standing beside you wasn't less than that.
But Vessel in that picture felt distant, untoucheble. There by your side he felt warm. Real. Close enough that you could feel the quiet rise and fall of his breathing.
You watched him watch the poster, your chest tightening slightly with a mix of vulnerability and something softer, something that felt dangerously close to being seen.
When he finally looked down at you, there was something unguarded in his expression. A flicker of pride, maybe. A hint of embarrassment. Something touched and uncertain.
And then he smiled.
Soft. Almost boyish.
“Come,” you said gently, your voice quieter now as you tugged his hand again, guiding him the last few steps into your room.
Your bedroom was small. Ordinary.
The kind of space you rarely thought about - until now. Now, every detail seemed louder.
The bed was unmade, the blanket twisted loosely across it. A few pieces of clothing rested on the chair in the corner, abandoned hours ago. Books sat in uneven stacks on your nightstand, and your desk carried the quiet chaos of papers and pens you had meant to organize but never did.
Nothing special.
And yet, with him standing there, it felt like everything mattered.
You watched him take it in, not with judgment, but with something quieter. Something that made your chest feel tight in a different way.
His breathing shifted, subtle but noticeable.
His eyes found you again. Then, just for a second, they dropped to the bed.
When they came back to you, whatever hesitation had been there before was gone.
He reached for you without warning.
One hand slid firmly to your waist, pulling you in, while the other came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers warm and steady.
The kiss was immediate. Urgent. It stole the breath from your lungs before you could even prepare for it.
You melted into him instinctively, your hands gripping the front of his jacket, holding on like letting go wasn’t an option.
There was no space between you.
Not even a fraction.
Weeks of distance, of tension, of everything left unsaid collapsed into that single moment.
Your hands took off his beanie, then moved under the heavy fabric, pushing it down his shoulders. He broke the kiss just long enough to help you pull his T-shirt over his head, both of you a little breathless, a little clumsy in the rush.
The fabric dropped somewhere behind him, forgotten instantly.
His hands found the hem of your top next, hesitating only for a second before you lifted your arms, letting him pull it off. A soft, breathless smile flickered between you, something light, almost shy, cutting through the intensity for just a moment.
Everything felt unsteady.
Not chaotic in a messy way, just… too much all at once. Too real. Too close.
His hands were warm against your skin, but there was a slight tremor there, like he was feeling it too. Your fingers fumbled briefly as you reached for the buttons of his jeans, your movements hurried, impatient.
He kicked off his sneakers without looking, careless and distracted, while you pushed your shorts down, stepping out of them without ever fully letting go of him.
There was no grace in it. No careful choreography.
Just need.
For a moment, you both paused, just barely, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, your lips brushing with each inhale.
A quiet second.
Then his arms wrapped around you completely.
He lifted you just enough for your legs to wrap around his waist, your body instinctively moving with his. You felt the edge of the mattress against the back of your knees, and then the world tilted as he lowered you down with him.
The bed dipped beneath your weight.
But neither of you let go. Not for a second.
You held onto him like he might disappear if you didn’t. And he held onto you the same way.
The room faded around you - the quiet mess of the night, the lingering weight of everything that had come before. The fear, the exhaustion, the uncertainty… it all softened at the edges, dissolving into something warmer.
Something quieter.
Time seemed to blur inside those walls.
And for a little while, nothing else existed.
...
The sky beyond your window had begun to soften into pale shades of morning, darkness slowly giving way to that fragile, grayish light that came just before sunrise. You didn’t know what time it was anymore, not really, but you knew the night was ending.
You lay there, still, your body heavy in the aftermath of everything that had passed between you. There was a strange softness to it now - not the numb, distant kind you had been carrying for days, but something warmer. Looser. For the first time in weeks, your muscles weren’t tight with tension, your chest wasn’t braced for impact.
You felt… calm.
Vessel was quiet behind you, his breathing slow and even, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. For a moment, you thought he had fallen asleep, and honestly, it would have made sense after everything, but then his voice came, low and slightly rough, breaking the quiet.
“I never asked how long you’ve been a fan.”
You were lying with your back to him, turned just enough onto your side to fit naturally against his chest. One of his arms was tucked beneath you, supporting your shoulders, while the other rested securely around your waist. His hand covered yours, fingers intertwined in that effortless way that felt both protective and intimate.
“Not long,” you answered honestly, your voice sounding unfamiliar in the stillness. “Spotify recommended Emergence, and I was sold.”
“That recent?” he asked, a note of genuine surprise threading through his tone.
“Yeah.” You let out a small breath, a faint smile touching your lips even though he couldn’t see it. “I wish I could say it was earlier, though.”
He shifted slightly behind you, settling in more comfortably, his body pressing closer along yours, his warmth grounding.
“And why is that?”
You shrugged lightly against him. “I guess I just wish I had met you sooner.”
He hummed softly, his fingers tightening around yours in a quiet squeeze.
“Me too.”
Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It felt full of shared breath, of the quiet hum of something fragile and real.
And then the question came back.
It had always been there, somewhere in the back of your mind, lingering, waiting, but you had never been brave enough to give it a voice.
Until now.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
“I like to think you just needed to be at that show that night,” he said suddenly, his voice calm, certain. “If you had known us earlier… maybe things would have been different.”
That did it.
“Why me?”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. Almost hesitant. Like asking it might break something.
“There were so many girls screaming your name that night,” you continued, your throat tightening slightly. “Begging for your attention. Why did you pick me?”
You felt him inhale behind you, deep, steady, holding it for a second before letting it go.
“There was something… incredibly beautiful about the way you looked completely lost there.”
His hand came up to your face, gently guiding you to turn toward him.
“I can’t really explain it,” he admitted, his eyes searching yours. “But you caught my eye the moment I sat down, and I couldn’t stop looking at you for the rest of the show.”
His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.
“I wasn’t thinking when I asked them to bring you backstage. Nothing about that night was rational.”
You nodded slightly, letting yourself lean into him as he pressed a series of soft kisses against your lips, one after another, each gentler than the last, like he was trying to say something without words.
And slowly, you melted. Whatever tension had been left in your body dissolved completely, leaving nothing behind but warmth. Just love.
The silence returned, but this time it felt deeper.
You shifted again, resting your head back against his arm, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his forearm. Along the scars.
Thin, pale lines crossing over each other in uneven layers. Some so faint they were almost invisible, others wider, slightly raised - older, healed. Time had softened them, turned them into something permanent.
There were many, but three stood out. Perfectly aligned. Too precise to be accidental. Your fingers slowed as they brushed over them, your chest tightening almost imperceptibly.
None of them were new, just… remnants. A past he carried.
You felt him tense slightly beneath your touch, just for a second, but then he exhaled, something quiet and resigned, his body easing again.
“Dark shit,” you whispered.
He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in deeply.
“Dark shit,” he echoed, his voice muffled, but you caught the tremor in it.
And then it came back.
The feeling. Sharp. Sudden. Like a fist to your stomach. The weight of it hit you so hard it knocked the air from your lungs.
You couldn’t stay there anymore, so you pulled away, sitting up, crossing your legs as you turned to face him. The sheets shifted around you, cool against your skin, grounding in a way you needed.
“I don’t want to be a burden in your life, Vessel.”
Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it.
“What I did tonight… I can’t do that to you. I am too much. Too much problem, too much feelings…”
You closed your eyes briefly, forcing yourself to breathe, to stay present, to not spiral.
“I am painfully aware of how dependent I have become on you. And so are you.”
“Y/n…” he started, sitting up, his gaze fixed on you.
“Please, let me finish.”
Your voice was firmer now, even if your hands weren’t.
“This… whatever this is between us… it’s beautiful. It’s everything to me…” Your chest tightened, but you pushed through it. “…but it’s not healthy. I am no good for you.”
The words hurt. But they felt true.
He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you.
Thinking. Weighing. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, controlled, but heavy with something deeper.
“I don’t know if it’s healthy or not. Good god, nothing in my life has ever been easy, Sugar, and I went through some… dark shit. But you… you don’t feel that way.”
“Ves…”
“I’ve always had a hard time seeing myself as someone worthy of love,” he continued. “It got better with the band, with the mask… but it’s not the same thing. They don’t love me, Sugar. They don’t love this.”
He gestured toward his face. And your chest ached.
“But you do.”
He shrugged lightly, almost boyish, but his words carried weight far beyond that.
“So you have your issues. So what? I can handle it. Deep down, I think we’re perfect for each other because we complement each other so well. Darling…” He let the word linger, softer now. “You need me and I need you to need me. And that shit is dark and twisted, but so are we.”
Silence followed.
Thick.
Still.
Your eyes locked with his, neither of you moving, neither of you breathing properly.
Then he reached for your hand, brought it to his lips and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against your skin, his eyes closing like he was sealing something in that moment.
And then...
“Sugar, I love you too.”
Everything in you gave way.
Your body softened instantly, your breath catching, tears spilling before you could stop them.
He exhaled quietly, like even saying it had taken something out of him.
“I love you…” he repeated, more softly now. “In my own way, the only way I learned. Quiet, no deep declarations, not in the ‘taking you to see some shitty Hollywood movie and eat some ridiculously expensive popcorn’ way, but I do.”
He paused, his thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles.
“You have to believe me. And you need to stop annulling yourself the way you do, and I get it, it’s some kind of defense mechanism, but you don’t need to do that shit with me. Leave it to the others. With me, you can be who the fuck you are. You can be intense, you can be too much, you can call me crying in the middle of the night asking me to come because you miss me. I can take it.”
“Ves…” you whispered, barely holding together.
“I don’t know who broke you like this, Sugar. And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you need to know that I am aware of how broken you are. You don’t hide it as well as you think you do.”
He inhaled slowly.
“And don’t get me wrong, I’m not in a position to fix it. I can’t. I can’t even fix myself. But I can stay. I can stay with you. I can come to your place in the middle of the night when you call me… because you made me feel loved for the first time in my life.”
His hand came up to your face, wiping away the tears that had gathered along your jaw.
“Sugar, you make me feel loved. Not only desired. Not only worshiped. Loved. And I can’t let that go. I can’t let you go. So don’t come with that shit. I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiled then, soft, a little sad, and you could see the shine of tears in his eyes, barely held back.
“Let us be submerged together,” you whispered, your voice fragile, pulling from his own words.
He closed his eyes.
A tear slipped free, trailing slowly down his cheek.
And he didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t hide it.
And in that moment, it felt undeniable that the man who broke apart on stage, voice cracking through songs, was the same man sitting in front of you now, quietly telling you he loved you.
The silence stretched again, but you didn’t rush it. You knew silence was how he processed things. Finally, he reached out, his fingers finding the small golden charm at your neck, turning it gently between them.
“I knew I loved you the day I gave you this,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to say it. I spent a long time not knowing what to say… but you understood me so well. You understood everything… just not this.”
You swallowed, emotion rising too fast to hold back now.
“It isn't my favorite song,” you admitted with a small, shaky laugh.
He let out a soft laugh of his own - fragile, but real.
“Mine neither,” he murmured. “But now it is. Because it’s yours.”
I’d truly appreciate it if you left a like, a comment, and most importantly, a reblog. It really encourages me to keep writing.
gummygunk
kaledo-art
janainaart
ellievsbear
prguitarman
