When Grace dies he asks for his body to be turned to ashes, and then into a statue. The statue has him sitting, legs crossed, arms curled slightly, with his palms on his knees. He says in his final message there is a reason for this very specific positioning, but that he can't say what it is.
Time continues forward. Rocky and Adrian grow and change. They move house a couple of times. Rocky changes career from engineer, to inventor, to scientist, to diplomat, to teacher. Adrian picks up a new hobby every few decades. They explore other parts of Erid they've never seen. They meet humans on more than one occasion, but there's something about it... Something not quite right. The Eridian mind can never forget, and no matter how much time passes, Rocky feels it. Missing Grace. His human.
And then time really does move on. Rocky walks stiffly, Adrian sleeps for weeks at a time, they both eat less often due to how draining it is.
And one day, the temperature is perfect. Adrian wakes earlier than they have in years. The warmth loosens Rocky's arthritis, the wind is quiet that day, and sound can carry for miles because of it. The soil is quiet, ready, resonant. And they both know.
They go for a walk, take a dip in the sea, attend a choir in a crystal cave. And then, without fanfare, when no one else is around, they visit Grace. And Rocky climbs into his stone lap. And Adrian curls their body around Grace too. Just like Grace did hundreds of years ago, they let go, no scream, no pain, just peace and togetherness. Too beautifully intertwined to ever untangle.
And there they sit, three stones, for the rest of time.
synopsis. You used to stay up late, talking about your future wedding. You wrote down your vows in a journal — silly things, sweet things, promises you meant with your whole heart. Then he pushed you away. Years later, you're marrying someone else. He's in the back of the church. He doesn't know why he came. Then you start reading your vows. And he realizes — they're not for the groom.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. major angst, angst/no comfort, reader dies, sad/bittersweet ending?, emotional hurt, wedding, reader marries someone else, he watches, he pushes you away, he never tells you why, breakdown scene, suicidal ideation (brief, not acted on)
word count. 4.9k+
A/N. i decided to bring it up a notch, my apology for not posting too much lately !! :,)
You used to stay up late, talking about the future.
It was silly, really — two people who had no idea what tomorrow would bring, planning for a lifetime. You'd lie on his chest, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin, and you'd ask him questions.
"What kind of wedding do you want?"
"Small," he'd say. "Just us. And maybe Shoko. She'd kill me if I didn't invite her."
"How about Suguru?"
"He'd come. He'd complain about the food."
You'd laugh — that soft, sleepy sound — and he'd hold you tighter, like he could keep you there forever if he just didn't let go.
"What about vows?" you asked once.
"What about them?"
"What would you say?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm not good with words."
"You're good with me."
"That's different."
You sat up, reaching for your journal — the leather-bound one you'd had since college, the one with the cracked spine and the coffee stain on the cover. You flipped to an empty page.
"Then I'll write mine now," you said. "So I don't forget."
He watched you write. Your hair fell across your face. Your brow furrowed in concentration. You pressed your lips together when you were thinking — he always loved that. You were beautiful.
"Done," you said.
"Let me see."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a surprise! For our wedding."
He smiled — that rare, real smile he only gave you. "You're assuming I'm going to marry you."
You looked at him. The room was quiet. The city hummed outside the window.
"Are you?"
He didn't answer.
He just kissed you.
And you let him.
You kept the journal in your nightstand. Right next to your side of the bed — the side he always left empty for you, even when you weren't there.
You added to it sometimes. A new line here. A new promise there.
He'd watch you from across the room, pen in hand, brow furrowed, and he'd wonder what you were writing. He'd wonder if you were writing about him.
You told him once that you'd written the perfect closing line. Something that meant forever without saying the word.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I'm not telling."
"Tell me."
He pulled you into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder.
"It's a surprise," you said, laughing.
"I hate surprises."
"No, you don't. You love when I surprise you."
"I love you, the surprises are just a bonus."
You turned your head. Kissed his cheek.
"You'll find out someday. At our wedding."
He held you tighter.
He didn't know that someday would never come.
He never found out.
It happened on a Tuesday.
He came home from a mission. His hands were shaking. His eyes were dark — not the playful dark you teased him about, but something hollow. Something empty.
He didn't look at you when he walked in.
"Satoru?"
He didn't answer.
"What happened?"
"I need you to leave."
You blinked. Thought you misheard.
"Leave?"
"Pack your things." His voice was flat. Empty. A stranger's voice in the body of the man you loved. "Go."
"Satoru, you're scaring me."
"Good." He finally looked at you. His eyes were red — not from crying, but from something else. Something you couldn't name. "You should be scared."
"I don't understand."
"I know."
"Then explain it to me."
He shook his head. "I can't."
"You can't or you won't?"
"Both."
You stepped closer. He stepped back. The space between you felt like miles.
"Satoru, please—"
"You need to go." His voice cracked. Just once. Just a little. But you heard it. "You need to go, and you can't come back. And I can't tell you why."
"Then I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are."
He walked to the door. He opened it.
The hallway was dark. The air was cold.
"Please," you whispered. Your voice was small. You hated how small it sounded.
He didn't look at you.
"Farewell."
You stood there for a long time after he left. You waited for him to come back. You waited for him to say it was a joke. A mistake. A nightmare.
He didn't come back.
You left.
You didn't know why.
You never found out.
The invitation came on a Tuesday.
Cream-colored envelope. Gold foil. Your handwriting — no, not yours. Someone else's. Someone who got to know your address. Someone who got to hold your hand. Someone who got to wake up next to you.
He stared at it for a long time.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of…
Your name. And someone else's. Someone he didn't know. Someone safe. Someone normal. Someone who could give you a normal life.
He traced your name with his thumb.
He thought about throwing it away. He thought about burning it. He thought about showing up and telling you the truth — that he'd pushed you away because he was scared, because his enemies would use you against him, because he'd rather lose you than watch you die.
He put the invitation on his fridge.
Right next to your photo. The one he'd taken on your first anniversary. You were laughing, your head thrown back, your hair a mess. His arm was around your waist. You looked so happy.
He didn't reply.
He went anyway.
The church was small — just like you'd always wanted. Pretty red roses. Soft lighting. Wooden pews. A few dozen guests — friends, family, people who got to stay in your life.
He stood in the back.
Alone.
His hands in his pockets. His sunglasses on. His mask in place.
He saw Shoko. She was sitting near the front, next to someone he didn't recognize. She turned — just for a second — and saw him.
Her eyes widened.
Then they softened.
She didn't say anything. She just nodded.
She knew. She always knew.
The music started.
He stopped breathing.
You walked down the aisle.
You were beautiful — more beautiful than he remembered. Your dress was simple, elegant, the kind you'd described years ago. White lace. A long train. Flowers in your hair.
You were smiling.
You weren't looking at him.
He watched you walk past him. He watched you stop beside the groom. He watched you take someone else's hands.
He watched you choose someone else.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
The officiant spoke. Words he didn't hear. Promises he didn't want to witness.
He stared at the back of your head. At the flowers in your hair. At the way your dress fell across your shoulders.
He wondered if you'd thought about him this morning. If you'd hesitated. If you'd looked in the mirror and seen his ghost standing behind you.
Then it was time for the vows.
The groom went first.
Standard things. Nice things. Things you say when you're marrying someone safe.
I love you. I'll protect you. I'll be there for you.
Polite. Safe. Forgettable.
Then it was your turn.
You unfolded a piece of paper. Your hands were shaking.
And you began to read.
"I wrote these a long time ago."
Your voice was steady, but your eyes were not. They were bright — too bright. Like you were holding something back.
"I wrote them when I still believed in fairytales. When I thought love was enough to conquer anything."
The groom smiled. The guests aww-ed.
He stopped breathing.
"The first time I saw you, I thought you were going to break my heart. I didn't care. I still don't."
The groom laughed softly.
He didn't.
Because that wasn't for the groom.
That was for him.
"I promise to love you on the days you forget to love yourself."
He remembered that line. You'd written it at 2 AM, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your waist. You'd mumbled it against his skin, half-asleep, and he'd pretended not to hear.
He heard it now.
"I promise to stay even when staying is hard."
Another line from the journal. Another promise you'd meant to keep.
"I promise to remind you every single day that you're more than the strongest — you're human. You're kind. And, you're mine."
The groom didn't flinch.
He didn't know. He couldn't know.
You were looking at the groom when you said it.
But just before the last line — the closing line, the one you'd never told him, the one you'd kept secret for years — your eyes flickered.
To the back of the church.
To him.
And he saw it.
He saw everything.
The hurt. The confusion. The love. The love you'd never stopped feeling, even after he'd thrown you away.
You held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two.
Then you said the words you'd written just for him.
"I promise to love you," you said, "even when we're not in the same lifetime."
He felt his heart stop.
That was the line.
The one you'd never told him.
The one that meant forever without saying the word.
You were looking at him when you said it.
And then you looked away.
He didn't stay for the reception.
He waited until the ceremony was over. Until the applause had faded. Until the couple was walking back down the aisle — your hand in someone else's, your smile for someone else's eyes.
He watched you pass him.
Your dress brushed against his shoes.
You didn't look at him.
He turned. Walked out. Didn't look back.
The sun was setting outside. The sky was orange and pink — the kind of sunset you used to drag him outside to see. The kind you'd watch from your apartment window, your head on his shoulder, your fingers intertwined with his.
He stood in the parking lot for a long time.
Shoko found him there.
She didn't speak at first. She just stood beside him, quiet, her hands in her pockets.
"You should have told her," she said softly. Not accusing. Just sad.
"I know."
"You should have fought for her."
"I know."
"She would have stayed, Satoru."
He didn't answer.
She sighed. "She asked about you, you know. Before the wedding."
He looked at her.
"She called me. Three days before." Shoko's voice was quiet. "She asked if I thought you'd come. She said she didn't know if she wanted you to or not."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth." Shoko looked at him. "I told her you'd come. Because you've never been able to stay away from her."
He closed his eyes.
"Go home, Satoru."
He didn't move.
"Go home."
He got in his car.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, your voice still echoing in his head.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He started the car.
He drove home.
He never told anyone why he really came.
Years passed.
He never moved on. Not really.
He dated — once, twice. He told himself he was fine. He told himself he was happy for you. He told himself a lot of lies.
He kept the invitation in his drawer. Right next to your photo. Right next to the dried flower he'd saved from your first date — a white lily, pressed between the pages of a book you'd lent him.
He never looked at it.
But sometimes, late at night, he'd take out your journal.
He'd stolen it before you left. You never knew. He'd found it in your nightstand, hidden under a stack of books — your favorite books, the ones with the cracked spines and the underlined passages.
He'd told himself he'd give it back.
He never did.
He read your words. The vows you'd written. The promises you'd meant to keep.
He memorized every line.
He traced your handwriting with his finger — the way your loops curved, the way your dots hovered above your i's, the way you crossed your t's with a sharp line, like you were in a hurry to get to the next word.
He read the closing line over and over.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He wondered what you meant by it.
He wondered if you'd known — even then, even before he pushed you away — that you wouldn't get to spend your life with him.
He wondered if you'd written it as a goodbye.
He never stopped loving you.
He got the call on a Sunday.
The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The world was going on like nothing was wrong.
Shoko's voice was quiet. Careful. The way she got when she had to deliver news she didn't want to deliver.
"She's sick, Satoru."
He didn't ask what. He didn't ask how. He just listened.
"It's bad."
He hung up.
He stared at the wall.
He thought about going to see you. He thought about telling you the truth — that he'd never stopped loving you, that he'd pushed you away to protect you, that he'd regretted it every single day for years.
He thought about holding your hand. About telling you he was sorry. About asking for forgiveness he didn't deserve.
He didn't go.
He couldn't.
He didn't deserve to.
He sat in his apartment for three days. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just sat there, staring at your photo, your journal in his lap.
He read your vows over and over.
I promise to love you on the days you forget to love yourself.
He forgot to love himself a long time ago.
I promise to stay even when staying is hard.
He was the one who left.
I promise to love you, even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He wondered if you still meant it. If you'd even written it for him at all.
He knew you did.
That's what made it hurt.
He stood in the back.
Same church. Different flowers. Different occasion.
The flowers were white — your favorite. White lilies, the ones that smelled like spring even in winter. He'd bought you those multiple times, and bought you a massive bouquet of them for your birthday. You'd cried. You said no one had ever bought you flowers before.
He watched your husband — the man you'd married, the man who wasn't him — stand at the front, holding your child's hand.
A little girl.
She had your eyes.
She was crying.
He wondered if you'd ever told her about him. If you'd ever shown her his photo. If you'd ever whispered his name in the dark, when no one else was listening.
He wondered if you'd ever thought about him at all.
The service started. Words he didn't hear. Memories he didn't share. Songs he didn't know.
He stood in the back, alone, his hands in his pockets, his sunglasses on.
He didn't cry.
He didn't make a sound.
He just stood there — the strongest sorcerer alive — and watched them lower you into the ground.
Shoko found him after the service.
She didn't speak at first. She just stood beside him, quiet, her hands in her pockets.
"You should have come sooner," she said softly. Not accusing. Just sad.
"I know."
"You should have told her."
"I know."
"She never stopped loving you, Satoru."
He looked at her.
"She kept your photo in her drawer." Shoko's voice was quiet. "I saw it once. When I helped her move. She tried to hide it, but… I saw."
His throat tightened.
"She used to talk about you," Shoko continued. "When she was sick. At the end. She asked me if I thought you were happy."
"What did you say?"
"I told her the truth. I told her you weren't. I told her you'd never been happy a day since she left."
He closed his eyes.
"She didn't know why you left," Shoko said. "She thought it was her fault. She thought she wasn't enough."
"I was protecting her."
"I know." Shoko's voice was barely a whisper. "But she didn't, Satoru. She died not knowing. She died thinking you didn't love her."
He couldn't breathe.
"She's gone," Shoko said.
He looked at the front of the church. At your photo. At your smile.
"I know."
Shoko touched his arm — brief, gentle.
"Say goodbye," she said. "For real this time."
She walked away.
He stood there for a long moment.
Then he walked to the front of the church.
He stood in front of your photo.
You were smiling. The same smile you'd given him a thousand times. The same smile he'd thrown away.
He reached out. His fingers touched the frame.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The photo didn't answer.
"I'm so sorry."
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out your journal — the one he'd kept for years, the one he'd read a hundred times, the one full of promises you'd meant to keep.
He set it beside your photo.
He opened it to the last page. The page with the closing line.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
"I never stopped loving you," he said.
He took off his blindfold.
He wanted you to see his eyes. Just once. Even if you couldn't see him back.
"I never stopped."
He turned.
Walked away.
This time, he looked back.
Just once.
Then he left.
He made it home.
Barely.
The apartment was dark. Cold. Empty. Just like every other night for the past several years.
He closed the door. Locked it. Leaned his forehead against the wood.
He didn't move.
He stood there for a long time — minutes, hours, he couldn't tell — with his eyes closed, his hands pressed flat against the door, his breathing shallow.
Then his knees gave out.
He slid down to the floor. His back against the door. His legs stretched out in front of him.
He didn't cry at first. He just sat there, staring at the wall, his hands limp in his lap.
Then he thought about your laugh.
The way you used to throw your head back when something was really funny. The way your nose crinkled. The way your eyes squeezed shut. The way he could never help but smile when he heard it — even on his worst days, even when the world was falling apart.
He'd never hear it again.
He thought about your hands. The way they felt in his. Small and warm and safe. The way you'd trace his knuckles with your thumb when you were falling asleep. The way you'd hold on tighter when you had a nightmare.
He'd never hold them again.
He thought about the last time he saw you. The wedding. Your dress. Your eyes. The way you looked at him when you said that last line — even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He'd never see you look at him like that again.
He thought about the last time he'd touched you. The last time he'd kissed you. The last time he'd said "I love you" and meant it.
He couldn't remember when that was.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd held you.
He couldn't remember what your skin felt like.
He couldn't remember the sound of your voice when you said his name.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
His shoulders started shaking.
The first sob was quiet — barely a sound. Just a sharp exhale, a crack in his chest.
The second was louder.
The third was worse.
He curled in on himself, his forehead touching his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He cried like he hadn't cried in years — ugly and raw and desperate, the kind of crying that left you hollow and empty and gasping for air.
He didn't try to stop it.
There was no one to hear him. No one to see. No one to pretend for.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the dark. "I'm so sorry."
The apartment didn't answer.
He cried until there was nothing left.
And then he sat there, hollow and empty, staring at the wall.
He didn't move.
He didn't know how.
Your journal was still at the church. He'd left it there. He'd left the last piece of you behind.
He had nothing left.
Six months later, he got another call.
Shoko's voice was quiet. Careful. The same tone she'd used when she told you about you.
"It's him, Satoru. Your husband. He... he couldn't do it without her."
He didn't ask what. He didn't ask how.
He already knew.
"He stopped eating," Shoko said. "Stopped sleeping. Stopped taking care of himself. He just... gave up."
He hung up.
He stared at the wall.
He thought about the man you'd married. The man who wasn't him. The man who'd held your hand at the end. The man who'd watched you die.
He thought about what it would take to lose you.
He already knew.
He went to the funeral.
He stood in the back — same church, different flowers, different coffin.
He watched your daughter — your little girl, with your eyes, your hair, your smile — stand at the front, holding a stranger's hand.
She was seven years old.
She'd lost both her parents.
He didn't cry.
He didn't make a sound.
He just stood there.
He thought about what you would say.
"Take care of her, Satoru. Please."
He didn't know if he could.
He didn't know if he deserved to.
He walked to the front of the church after the service. He knelt down in front of your daughter.
"Hey," he said softly. "I knew your mom. A long time ago."
She looked at him with your eyes.
"She loved me," he said. "And I loved her. And I'm so sorry I wasn't there for her."
The little girl didn't say anything.
He held out his hand.
"You're not alone," he said. "You're never going to be alone. I promise."
She took his hand.
And for the first time in years, he felt something other than grief.
He felt responsibility.
He felt purpose.
He felt you, standing beside him, saying "thank you."
The apartment was different now.
It wasn't empty anymore.
There were toys on the floor. Drawings on the fridge. A child's laughter echoing through the halls.
Your daughter — his daughter now, in every way that mattered — was sleeping in the room down the hall.
He sat on the couch, your journal in his hands.
He still read it sometimes. On the hard nights. On the nights he couldn't remember your face.
He heard a small voice from the hallway.
"Satoru?"
He looked up.
Your daughter was standing there, rubbing her eyes. She had your hair. Your nose. Your way of tilting her head when she was curious.
"Can't sleep?"
She shook her head.
He opened his arms. She climbed onto the couch, curling into his side.
"Tell me about my mom," she said.
He froze.
It wasn't the first time she'd asked. It wouldn't be the last.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
He took a breath.
"Your mom," he said, "was the bravest person I ever knew."
She looked up at him with your eyes.
"She was funny," he continued. "She laughed with her whole body. She snored — don't tell anyone I told you that."
Your daughter giggled.
"She loved flowers. White lilies. She said they made her feel like spring even in winter."
"Like the ones at her funeral?"
His throat tightened.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Like those."
"She loved you?"
He hesitated.
"Yeah," he said. "She did. And I loved her. More than anything. More than I knew how to say."
"Then why did she marry someone else?"
He closed his eyes.
"Because I was stupid," he whispered. "Because I was scared. Because I thought I was protecting her, but I was really just hurting her. And by the time I realized, it was too late."
Your daughter was quiet for a moment.
"Do you still love her?"
He opened his eyes.
"Every single day," he said.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Me too."
He wrapped his arm around her.
He thought about what you would say.
"You're doing okay, Satoru. She's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
He didn't know if he believed it.
But for the first time in years — he wanted to try.
He drove to the bridge where you had your first kiss.
It was 3 AM. The city was asleep. The stars were out — the ones you used to point at, the ones you'd name even though you always got them wrong.
He stood at the edge.
He looked down at the water.
He thought about how easy it would be. One step. That's all it would take. One step, and he wouldn't have to feel any of this anymore.
He thought about you.
He thought about the vows.
He thought about the line you'd written — the one you'd never told him, the one you'd said at your wedding, the one you'd meant for him.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He wondered if you were waiting for him. If there was something after this. If he'd get to see you again.
He wondered if you'd forgive him.
He closed his eyes.
He leaned forward.
Just a little.
Just enough to feel the wind against his face.
And then—
He thought about your daughter.
Her eyes. Your eyes. The way she'd cried at both funerals.
He thought about what it would do to her. Losing him. The only parent she had left. The man who wasn't her father, but the man who'd raised her. The man who'd held her hand when she was scared. The man who loved her because she was yours.
He thought about what it would do to Shoko. Finding out this way.
He thought about what you would say.
"Satoru. Don't you dare."
He could hear your voice. So clearly. Like you were standing right next to him.
"Don't you dare leave like this. Don't you dare take the easy way out."
"She needs you. I need you to be there for her."
"I didn't fight to love you for you to throw it away."
He opened his eyes.
He stepped back.
He sat down on the cold concrete. His back against the railing. His legs stretched out in front of him.
He watched the stars fade as the sun started to rise.
The sky turned orange and pink — the kind of sunrise you used to drag him outside to see.
He thought about the last time he'd watched a sunrise with you. You'd made coffee. You'd wrapped a blanket around both of you. You'd leaned your head on his shoulder and said, "I want to watch every sunrise with you. For the rest of my life."
He'd said okay.
He'd meant it.
He broke that promise too.
He sat there until the sun was fully up.
Then he stood.
He drove home.
Your daughter was waiting.
He still goes to the bridge sometimes.
Not as often now. But sometimes.
On the hard days. On the days he can't remember your face. On the days he can't remember the sound of your laugh.
He sits on the cold concrete. He watches the sunrise. He pretends you're sitting next to him.
He talks to you.
"I dropped your daughter off at her university earlier," he says. "She's tall now. She has your eyes. She laughed at something her friend said. She sounded just like you."
The wind answers.
"She's in college now. She's studying art. Just like you wanted." He smiles — a small, sad smile. "She's so much like you, sweetheart. It breaks my heart every day."
The wind answers.
"Your husband — he was a good man. He loved you the way I should have. The way I couldn't. The way I was too scared to."
The wind answers.
"She calls me Dad now. The first time she did, I cried. I cried for three hours. I didn't tell her that. I told her I had allergies."
The wind answers.
"I read your journal again. I have a copy now. I made it before I left yours at the church. I couldn't let it go. I'm sorry. I know I should have let you go. I can't."
The wind answers.
"She asked me about you yesterday. She asked if you were proud of her. I said yes. I said you were always proud of her. I said you were watching. I didn't know if I was lying or not."
The wind doesn't answer.
It never does.
He stays until the sun is fully up.
Then he stands. Brushes off his pants. Puts his hands in his pockets.
He walks back to his car.
He drives back to the university.
Your daughter — his daughter — is waiting.
He was the strongest.
But he couldn't save himself from losing you.
And everyone else gets to heal.
Everyone else gets to move on.
Everyone else gets to forget.
He doesn't.
He can't.
He never will.
But now he has something to live for.
Not for himself.
For her.
For you.
For the promise he made at your funeral — the one he never told anyone about.
"I'll take care of her. I'll love her. I'll be there for her. For you. For both of you."
He does.
Every single day.
Because the strongest sorcerer alive still doesn't know how to let go of the only person who ever made him feel human.
But he learned how to carry the weight.
A/N. cred goes to @cursed-carmine for the beige div!! :D i hope you guys enjoyed this fic as much as i did <3
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
ᴀ/ɴ: this was lowkey an excuse to play with the fonts on my keyboard, also my first time writing angst soo ( ․ ⤙ ․)
SUMMARY: A captain's mission to find the two things he's held dear in these five centuries.
ᴛᴀɢs: natlan aq spoilers, established relationship, husband!thrain, wife!reader, pregnancy, angst, violence, mourning, bittersweet ending
ᴡᴄ: 4.7k
Before you could get a few feet away from the couch, your husband's voice was heard from behind followed by his arms wrapping around your midsection. "I told you to call me when you need anything," he mumbles through your hair.
You roll your eyes but gently place your hands over his anyway. "If I knew you would be this fussy just a few weeks in," you turn around to face him, "then I would've bought those parenting books yesterday."
"I'm just following your doctor's advice... Besides, it's only right to have manners. I imagine your situation is far from easy." Thrain coaxes you back to the couch while you place a pillow to your side.
A few weeks in and your child was already giving you small inconveniences such as joint pains and the peculiar cravings. You pull your head back to see Thrain's attire - the Khaenri'ahn uniform for knights, though he hasn't put of the sharp accessories to avoid scratching you.
"What time will your friends arrive?" He asks.
"Don't worry yourself, hun. They'll be here before lunch. But you sir, are going to be late if you keep fussing." You pull him down to plant a kiss on his nose. Thrain sighs in acceptance and kisses your forehead.
"Then I'll be home before dinner, my love. Keep safe, both of you."
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
"And you're sure this won't get me in trouble with Dainsleif?" Thrain asks, though he keeps still while your hands glide over his long dark strands.
"Surely hairstyles can't violate the knightly conduct; and even if it does, you can tell him your wife was just celebrating the good news." You happily continue the 8th braid behind his ear. Thrain couldn't help but smile, both at you and about his recent promotion.
Sentinel Knight.
It was an honor, not just for his growing family but for himself. He who had his heart repaired from multiple battles and modified to absorb Ley Line memories and turn it into knowledge.
Recognition was long overdue. You and Thrain never lived the lavish life. But that never mattered. Still, his new post would demand more of his time, much to his displeasure. You were only a month into your pregnancy, yet you fully supported this new opportunity for him.
“You’ve earned this, love. Don’t go compromising your dreams for my sake. Besides, I’ll stay up as late as I can to welcome you home every night,” You had said the other day with a chuckle.
How stubborn… and how very lucky I am for that. For you. He thought to himself, recalling that day weeks ago.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It felt as if only yesterday you looked Thrain in the eyes and told him the happiest news of his life.
It was a miracle that you managed to keep your composure long enough for the grand reveal.
He had kissed your half-asleep form that morning as he headed to the palace. It was only after he left that a wave of nausea hit you like a stampede and sent you running to the bathroom.
You stared at the mirror after emptying what was left in your system. You tuned out the running water and the roads outside, getting busier by the morning.
After all this time… Oh, he's going to love this, you thought. Your heart was pounding, partially nervous yet all the more ecstatic. After pushing the idea of children aside for years because of finances and Thrain’s new position, you both were finally stable enough to welcome a new soul to your home.
Hours later, everything was set thanks to the help of your friends and the kind old lady next door. Right on time, the door clicked open with your husband removing his armor plates as you walked in to greet him with a kiss.
“Welcome home, dearest.” You take his hand and lightly tug him towards the kitchen. Thrain only laughed beneath his breath, “A surprise? Should I be worried?”
“Hopefully not,” you giggled. Before you stood the quaint dining table, set up with his favorite foods. A beat of silence passes as Thrain eyes you suspiciously, “Beloved, I know nothing important is coming up. What brought this on?”
“You'll find out, it's nothing bad I promise. I didn't break anything if that's your concern.” You say sarcastically, guiding him to his seat.
What followed was idle talk about both of your days while your knee was bouncing under the table, silently wishing he'd finish eating faster.
“So… when will you tell me what's on your mind Y/N?” Thrain asks. That makes you perk up, always so perceptive, you thought. “Finished with dinner? I wanted to let you eat first in case the news makes you forget,” you tease. In response, your husband just sighs with a smile. “Don't keep this poor man waiting,”
You stand up, reaching into your pocket while going through the motions in your head. Going behind him, you crouch so your chin is to his shoulder as you reveal a cleanly folded paper.
Thrain takes it and begins to unfold and read it while you embrace him from behind.
Less than seconds, his eyes found the signature of the local doctor, along with her handwriting with the words:
“Diagnosis: Pregnancy in the first trimester, Recommendations: Avoid strenuous activity and follow dietary plan in the following page”
His eyes widened and he couldn't tell if his vision blurred from tears or from the pounding of his modified heart. His hand holds onto one of yours clinging to his chest. Your eyes meet and he basks in your gentle expression, before his instincts take over and he quickly stands up and encases you in his arms.
The next thing you realize, your forehead is pressed against his as he lifts you to his level, your toes barely grazing the floor.
“This… this is real?” He murmurs, kissing anywhere on your face he could reach. “Yes, dearest. I'm sure… we've waited so long,” you say through teary-eyed vision. “You have no idea… haha-... You, you are perfect. Both of you.” He says with a breathy laugh, almost
“So perfect, you have no idea. Thank you, my love.” Muffled by your hair, his voice wavers as he whispers “thank you's”, “I love you's” in between kisses with tears of joy. You can only giggle when he effortlessly sways you in his arms.
“You're going to be an amazing father, dearest.”
“And it wouldn't be possible without our little one's beautiful mother.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The door lock clicks open as Thrain steps into the cozy atmosphere of home. He takes off his boots before daring to go down the hallway and risk another scolding from you.
The lamps are still lit. She must have fallen asleep in the living room again, he thought. His theory was quickly proven right when he peered through the doorway and saw you settled into the couch with a blanket gifted by your relatives.
Cute... but you'll be very uncomfortable tomorrow if you stay here the whole night.
Thrain kneels to your level and kisses your cheek before effortlessly hoisting you in his arms bridal style. Just a few rooms over was your bedroom, where he was now taking you. He takes a moment to admire the growing bump on your stomach before easing you into bed.
Your face lightly scrunches at the movement as your eyes squint open. "Hmm... Dearest? Welcome home."
Thrain hushed you softly, "Yes, my loves. I'm home. No need to get up." Seeing your sleepy smile compelled him to brush away the strands of hair clinging to your face.
He starts undoing the remaining armor plates in his elbows while you fight the urge to go back to sleep. He notices this and asks, "How long were you waiting for me, Y/N?"
You give a hum before answering, "It doesn't matter…” a yawn, “I fell asleep thinking of names for them anyway."
He smiles before he can look back at you. "And have you decided on any?"
"I don't think so... Besides, I want your suggestions too."
"I do have some that we can discuss tomorrow, or rather later. It's already early the next day, my love." Thrain says, taking the spot next to you in bed with his arms engulfing you like second nature. His one hand glides under your shirt and rests on your stomach while he pulls you into this little safe haven.
"Y’know… the name also depends on if you'll be teaching our little one how to wield a sword-"
"My love, please, you need sleep."
"Just think about it, or maybe even taking them to Auntie-"
You're cut off by – of all things – your baby moving about. Thrain chuckles, "Oh look," he gently rubs your womb to ease the discomfort.
"Even our little one wants mama to rest."
"Ha... Teaming up already you two, though I can't complain. Alright... Tomorrow then, good night, dearest." You giggle.
"Mm... Sweet dreams, my loves."
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The horrors of the Khaenri'ah cataclysm resulted in unspeakable tragedies: lands and seas permanently altered, abyssal creatures set loose across Teyvat, and thousands of lives lost, unable to return home or pursue the life they could have had.
It was said that all life began with the Ley Lines and, in turn, would return to the Ley Lines at their epilogue. Souls, when departed from the mortal world, would be reborn in the new cycle — but that was only assuming the Ley Lines would open for them.
Even 500 years after Khaenri'ah's demise, because of the irreparable damage done to Natlan's Ley Lines, many of the fallen souls were left to wander, waiting for the world to forget them—nothing but ghosts that were destined to disappear.
To harbor such phantoms to one day return them home, the voices would prevent one from sleeping, and their sorrows would bleed through one's body and erode one's memory.
Though for some reason, the First Fatui Harbinger would never voice discomfort at such voices. There was always one among the cacophony of whispers that brought him comfort. He knew it all too well, because it once belonged to someone so dear to him.
"ꪑᨶꫀ᭙ꪮꪶꫀ-ꪑꫀꫝꪮ"
How long has it been? He almost couldn’t tell. But even if he lived for millions of years, he would forever know that voice, regardless of whether or not it made sense in the common language. “Yes,” he whispers to himself, or rather, to her.
“I hear you, beloved… don't worry. It’s only a matter of time.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
No one was convinced.
It had been another day of protocols, reports, and patrols; on paper, nothing was cause for concern.
However, not a single person was convinced.
That morning, some guards on break caught wind of the Vinster king summoning Vederfolnir to the palace. At first, Thrain didn't question it. Verderfolnir was the royal Visionary; it was normal for him to be at the king's beck and call. It became odd when Vederfolnir was nowhere to be seen after he entered the throne room.
One thing was sure: Thrain couldn't deny the uncomfortable tension that grew not just within his sector, but within the entire palace.
That night, a final report was being done with Thrain's unit, when a commotion came from the palace foyer. Immediately, every guard came down to see the Twilight Sword and three other individuals trying to reach the King.
“Captain Dainsleif, what are you doing?” Thrain demands, keeping a hand to the hilt of his sword. “Thrain, step aside,” Dainsleif murmurs, “I can't have been the only one to notice, but our king has betrayed Khaenri'ah.”
One of his companions stepped forward; he seemed to be missing some limbs, replaced with prosthetics and he was streaked with scars. “He's long abandoned us to our fate. That strange power has been his only infatuation. So let him be tried by duel. I'm just itching for a fight.”
From behind Thrain, Guthred curses under his breath. “Storming the palace for an audience with the king… ridiculous.”
“Guthred…” Thrain warned. Whether or not he agreed with the Twilight Sword, he needed to understand the full picture first. He thought of Vederfolnir, how no one had seen him ever since the King had called for him. Did the King do something? Was Dainsleif there for his brother or for revenge?
Right now, I can't let either side do anything irrational, he thought. “Captain Dainsleif, I understand you must be worried and angry, but we cannot turn our blades against each other.”
Before anyone could reply, a distant boom was heard, its origin being the Universitas Magistrorum. The two other people behind Dainsleif – a well-put-together young man, and a woman with blonde hair and matching golden eyes – looked at each other. They appeared to have an idea on what was happening.
Were they a part of the Universitas? Now wasn't the time to think as more explosions originated from the Capital plaza and the other nearby towns.
“Guthred, send out the messengers to scout ahead. We leave as soon as they finish surveying the area.” Thrain orders, before another sound was heard from the Hall.
Guthred wasted no time in heading for the watch towers. Meanwhile, the ruckus down the Hall was now discernable to the knights.
Growling.
Rifthounds dashed through the Hall and into the foyer. Dainsleif cursed, taking a stance ready to attack. The golden eyed woman hums, “What's this? I thought I was rid of them. And yet…” Thrain follows her gaze to the unique purple essence that the hounds were imbued with.
He'd never seen anything like it.
“That power, it's corrosive,” warned Dainsleif. Strangely enough, his companions expressed no urgency. The hounds were quickly dealt with, but the woman examined the corrosive matter with unnerving curiosity. Meanwhile, the other man who seemed to be a member of the Universitas, watched everything wordlessly.
Dainsleif scowls and mutters under his breath, “Those explosions, these monsters… that tyrant's gone mad and done something.” Thrain nods in agreement.
“Whatever the case, our priority is the people's safety.”
With a silent understanding between the two knights, they take off running for the kingdom's center town, failing to notice that their companions Hroptatyr and Rhinedottir did not follow them.
Chaos was rampant at just about every part of Khaenria'h. The nearest town square to the palace was completely overrun with Abyssal monsters. Townspeople were trying to flee, the few animals that could survive underground were being corrupted, and the nation's soldiers were being locked in battle after battle.
Thrain weaves through the waves of monsters, creating a path for civilians to run.
Finishing off another monster, Dainsleif looked ahead as another knight was running to them.
“Halfdan…”
“Sir, the outskirts of the city are already engulfed in that abyssal abomination.”
Dainsleif curses, his eyes darting back to the palace where his brother was held. “Inform all Black Serpent Knights to protect the people of Khaenri'ah at all cost.” Halfdan nods, followed by a “Yes, Sir,”. Dainsleif turns his attention to Thrain.
“Sir Thrain, I suppose this is where we part.”
“So it is, Captain.” The two exchange a quick salute before one takes off to the city, while the other turns back to the palace.
The day felt endless, just as how the wave of monsters poured at every entrance of the city. As Thrain makes quick work of another creature thrice the size of any normal person, he could feel the ache forming in his arms. Just that moment of pause allowed one of the Abyss mages to send his helmet off his head.
I'm getting careless… Thrain thought. He took care of the small horde gathered around him and ran to an isolated alley to catch his breath.
The sounds of steel against growls were noticeably lessening, making him assume that the nearby swordsmen were also reaching their limit. That wouldn't do.
The outer divisions were gone…, Thrain thought back to Halfdan's report. Y/N…
His shared home with you rested near the trading sector not far from the city borders. He had to get to you quick.
As soon as he left the alley, an Abyssal rift opened from across the road. Trading hits with a monster partially made of smoke, all of a sudden, Thrain's vision was clouded in red. At first he thought he was critically hurt or covered in blood. But when he looked up, he saw what it was.
The sky tainted in crimson and descending from the land above, a young lady covered in black and red.
Rubble was scattered in every direction and the sounds of monsters growling and screaming echoed through the night.
Through the mayhem, Thrain had found Guthred and a handful of his comrades. He instructed them to go to different areas to rescue as many civilians as possible – leaving only him to take care of the trading sector.
Amidst the clash of weapons and war against the Abyss, a resounding boom came from the distance. Right in the direction Thrain was headed for.
The sound was enough to rattle a person's ears, but the ringing in Thrain's came from sheer horror. Regardless, he ran.
For a soldier who served a godless nation, all he could do was pray. Pray as he ran through the rubble of neighboring homes. Pray he would at least hold you one more time. Whether a deity was merciful enough to listen to a nonbeliever, it didn't matter. Desperation clawed at his lungs, infecting every shallow breath with searing dread.
Please. Please gods. Don't take her, please. Anything else, anyone else, just not my family. Just not my best friend.
If I have to abandon the pride of my nation and be a slave to the heavens, so be it.
Just let me make it to her in time.
The street that was once familiar to him as he walked home after a tiring day was gone. White dust from buildings contrasted the red that was dripping through the ruins.
There where a humble house stood, were shattered windows and that corrosive sludge staining the ground.
Just as Thrain was about to rush inside, he caught sight of a trail of blood. Originating from inside and leading off to the back of the house.
Perhaps you had managed to escape the monsters and hide, or even run into the neighbors and headed to safety.
“Y/N!” Thrain called. He was out of breath, but kept following the trail.
“My love, please it's me. It's Thrain… just make a sound so I know you're there. Please be alright.”
What felt like hours searching finally came to a stop when he caught sight of someone. Looking ahead through the low visibility, there was a person at the end of the bloody trail leaning her side against a pile of stone. Her face was covered by the same head of hair that Thrain woke up to every morning.
He approached her in seconds before his knees gave out beneath him. He managed a shaky whisper of your name before realization and horror gave way to nausea.
Your free hand – as the other barely clung to the debris – rested on your lap, limp from covering the gaping puncture made on your stomach.
“My love-” Thrain reached his hand to your face, before gathering you in his arms. “Y/N… It's me, wake up… “ An unnatural lump made its way to his throat, enhancing his panic further.
“I-It's me, Y/N, it's Thrain… I… I'm home…” A gentle palm cradled your face as its thumb brushed your cheek, reminiscent of a slow morning.
“No no no… Please don't- Don't leave me. Not like this please… Wake up! My love, please if not for me then for…” Thrain couldn't bear to look at the wound. Looking meant facing the truth – a truth he couldn't live with.
Tell me I'm home late again, tell me to sleep in the living room, tell me to sit down to braid my hair, He begged internally, shutting his eyes as he clung to your remaining warmth.
He wanted nothing more than to spend whatever left of his years here in the rubble holding what was left of his family.
It is only later, when the red sky crumbled down with the weight of an agonizing curse, that he would learn – there would be nothing that would grant him death.
Not for a very, very long time.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The sky was once again stained crimson. A golden haired traveler ran up the broken steps of Ochkanatlan with Citlali and Paimon just behind him. The eyes in the sky ripped a tear in the carefully deceiving firmament, watching all that move below.
The pyro archon turned in Citlali's direction. The Traveler looked at her carefully – the way her face barely made a change, like she knew he and Citlali would come find her.
It was harrowing, the way Mavuika calmly explained how she made a bargain with this goddess in the sky, and how she was ready to give up her life to extend the Lord of the Night's. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from commenting.
“Future pyro archons will continue to seek new sources of fire. As long as Natlan's legacy endures, the Night Kingdom will survive.”
But it still changes nothing, the Traveler thought. Impulse was something he normally could push aside; his journey through Teyvat taught him to choose when to act, but this… how could he keep quiet?
“That-... that doesn't solve anything.” He interrupted. “So you offer your life to the Lord of the Night… That can only buy Natlan a few hundred years against the Abyss. And then what? It just becomes a cycle of future archons fueling the Sacred Flame just enough to survive.”
Mavuika gave him a complicated look. She looked like she wanted to argue, but it was objectively true.
The golden traveler inhaled sharply. Is this really it? As he opened his mouth to object, he felt a chill run down his spine. Similar to the eerie cold of the Chasm's plummet – only this time, it was a very real icy chill that froze the air.
Moments later, the Lord of the Night seemed to sense that same presence and hummed in acknowledgement.
“There is another who wishes to take part in the ceremony, and I cannot disregard their intentions.”
“Thank you for showing me the way.” Came a voice from behind. Paimon spun around so quickly in surprise and when the Traveler did the same, he saw Ororon and the Captain, the latter somehow looked much more imposing than all the other times they'd met.
“The Captain?!”
Mavuika's eyes widened, “The other individual you mentioned… It was him?” She asked the angel, to which she gave confirmation.
The Captain turned to them, “Mavuika, I understand how you feel, and if I were an ordinary mortal, I would have no reason to stop you.”
“But like you, I've been waiting for this day for too long, and I can offer a better solution.”
Something in the way he carried himself up until now had obscured anything that could be used to read him. It was only now that Aether observed how his steps were heavy with determination, how his manner of speech was close to bargaining, and how his tone was lethargic… and angry.
“Death is the end I have been trying to reach all along.I have come this far to use my death to open the gates of the Ley Lines to my people.”
“Your… people?” Paimon mumbled. “The ones I saw in my dream…” Aether added.
“That's right. They have been with me for the past five hundred years.” The Captain replied. He gave a curt nod and gently placed a palm to his heart.
“The people of Khaenri'ah committed grave sins, and for that, were cursed to suffer physical torment, cursed to witness the demise of everything we held dear.” He said, voice rising in emotion.
“But… most of us were innocent! Most of us knew nothing of the Five Sinners’ exploitation of Abyssal power… myself included.” The Captain lifted his gaze to the piercing stare of the sky, no doubt matching her glare with absolute hatred.
“If I sacrifice my life to the Lord of the Night, you get the death you desire. But at the same time, the curse of immortality would negate the very death you seek. Left unresolved, that paradox would uproot the natural order of this world.”
“Even you, great Ruler of Death, lack the capacity to bear the consequences of that outcome. This is my challenge to you.” He scoffed in spite.
“Forsake one of your rules, or allow me to trigger the paradox.”
Aether could only watch in disbelief as the Ruler of Death was backed into a corner by her own rules. He thought back to the malice Dainsleif held every time he mentioned the cataclysm and the gods. He couldn't help but understand the two knights.
Paimon has said something, but he didn't hear. “He didn't say it out loud, but this is about more than just the Ley Lines…” Aether said under his breath. He looked towards his other companions. Ororon, Mavuika, and Citlali all shared his melancholy.
This Khaenri'ahn soldier has been searching for death all these years, to free his people, and to reunite with those he's lost.
The Captain walked up the worn down stone steps, seemingly relieved for achieving his ultimate goal. Every step he took, a piece of his heavy burden was lifted off, finally allowing him peace.
Step. The chief of the Masters of the Night Wind who was the one who welcomed his platoon when they had lost their homeland.
Step. The Khaenri'ahn guard who had always invited him to the tavern after their shifts stood at his right.
Step. A Fatui soldier who gave his life defending a caravan during the Abyssal war in Natlan bows his head.
Step. A fellow knight, the one who was always assigned to patrol their home division, put his fist to his chest in salute, “Well fought, my lord.”
Step. Guthred. The Captain's second-in-command. The field doctor who used medicine on himself as a test subject. Thrain's best man at his wedding, who complemented the his honor with strictness.
In front of the ancient throne, Thrain met his friend's eyes and the words unsaid were shared in silence. As he lowered himself to sit on the throne for eternity, Guthred looked on in the distance and murmured, “She's waiting… Her and the little one… never stopped once in these five hundred years.”
Beneath his helmet, Thrain smiled as it finally dawned on him.
“ꪑᨶꫀ᭙ꪮꪶꫀ-ꪑꫀꫝꪮ”
His beloved's voice that has been his only remnant of her.
"᭙ꫀꪶᨶꪮꪑꫀ-ꫝꪮꪑꫀ"
“Welcome home… my dearest.”
“My Thrain…”
Ochkanatlan's throne froze over, its surroundings propagated blue and black pillars of unmelting ice, bathing the land in an eternal cold.
But the eyes covered in the helmet's darkness shed tears, as a familiar warm embrace led the man's soul home to the Ley Lines.
After surviving the unsurvivable, Simon is brutally executed at the hands of Consolidation of Iron, rather than granted his freedom. He awakes in a morgue—memories shattered in two—and fundamentally changed in a way nobody is prepared for. Simon must battle his deteriorating psyche, a traumatic past seeping through the cracks, and something eldritch pulling at the edges of his reality, as he re-learns a story everyone seems to know but himself.
Hiii! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR WORK, YOUR WRITING IS JUST SO DELICIOUS 🤌🤌🤌
Also, can I request Jing Yuan, Xiao, Mydei, Sunday and Anaxa with reader who always has been there for them?
Like, they’ve known each other for ages, reader always tried to reach out, spend some time together and a lot of times there was just “Im sorry, I don’t have time” or “once Im done with something…” and this “once im done” never happened? And they still helped, when char needed help, they listened and gave advices. Reader understands that everyone is busy, and still sometimes it still hurts. They’re in love with char this whole time, but don’t try to do anything, because they believe they don’t deserve it, because they don’t want to choose and for one time in their life they want to be chosen.
They don’t try to tell about their struggles, because don’t want to be a burden, because “they must overcome any obstacles by themselves, because someday there won’t be anyone to save them”. They only tell about their problems once they’ve found a solution.
Reader is this kind of person, who has a lot of acquaintances, but never friends. They’re outgoing, sociable, but still lonely. They’re trying to downplay any problems they have with jokes and laughter. They didn’t have any relationship or even haven’t been loved by anyone, and they didn’t try. Like this type of person who “wasn’t even second option, I was never an option at all”. They kinda accepted that they’ll eventually die alone, but deep down they still hope that char would like to be with them…
I’m sorry if this is messy, English isn’t my first language. Have a nice day 💞
“Always Here, Never Chosen”
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Xiao x Reader, Hurt/Comfort (Implied), Unrequited Love/Mutual Pining (Unspoken), Emotional Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Slow Burn (Implied), Loyalty & Devotion, Long-Term Relationship (Non-Romantic), Found Family (Faint Undertones), Subtle Romantic Tension, Quiet Yearning.
Warnings: Emotional Neglect (Unintentional), Unrequited/Unspoken Feelings, Themes of Loneliness and Isolation, Minor Injury (Non-Graphic), Death Mention (Past Events) War/Battle References (Non-Graphic), Angst with No Concrete Resolution.
A/N: FIRST OF ALL, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! 🥹🥹‼️‼️ Second of all, your English is way better than mine, don't worry about it!! 😭🙏
The first time you saw Mydei, he was already a legend in motion — golden eyes glinting beneath the weight of prophecy, black and red cape snapping in the wind. You’d known him long before the world began calling him the Last Prince, back when his name was just a name and not a story whispered around firelight.
You were there the first time he left Kremnos, and the second, and every time after. Always there — not in his inner circle of warriors, not written into his glorious retellings, but somewhere on the fringe. The one who listened when he spoke, who noticed when his voice dipped under the weight of loss.
“Once this campaign is over,” he’d said once, adjusting the strap of his gauntlet before disappearing into another battlefield, “I’ll have time to share a drink.”
It never happened.
You knew it wouldn’t.
Still, when his detachment returned bloodied and weary, you were there — pomegranate juice and goat’s milk in hand, pretending it was nothing. Pretending you hadn’t been waiting weeks for just one conversation.
He didn’t notice the ache in your smile, and you didn’t let him. Humor was easier.
“You’re going to owe me a whole orchard at this rate, Prince,” you’d tease, sliding the drink into his hand.
He’d chuckle, the sound rich but fleeting. “Add it to my ledger.”
Years passed like that. He carried the fate of Amphoreus; you carried the quiet truth that you would never be chosen, not when the Coreflame of Strife still burned ahead of him. You were always “once I’m done…” away from mattering.
And yet, when his army camp was almost breached one night, you were the one who reached him first, hauling him to his feet after a black tide creature slammed him to the ground. You didn’t think — you just acted.
Later, sitting by the fire, his gaze lingered longer than usual.
“You’ve always been there,” he said quietly, almost as if the words surprised him.
You shrugged, a half-smile masking the thundering in your chest. “Somebody has to make sure the Lone Lion doesn’t get eaten.”
His mouth curved in the barest ghost of a smile, but his eyes… his eyes seemed to see something new. And still — he said nothing more.
When he rode out at dawn, you told yourself you weren’t waiting. But you were.
With Anaxa, it was always the same rhythm: you’d find him hunched over some forbidden text, strands of pale green hair slipping loose from his ponytail, lips moving silently as if he were arguing with the book. You’d announce yourself, and he’d look up with that flicker of recognition — followed immediately by, “I’m sorry, I can’t right now. Once I finish this…”
Once. Always once.
The work never ended, and you never expected it to. You knew how his mind worked: a relentless storm, chasing truth even when it burned him. You admired it, feared it, loved it.
So you stayed. Not in the center of his orbit, but near enough that when the world turned on him — branding him heretic, blasphemer, fool — you were still there, standing in the ash.
“Why do you bother?” he asked once, after you’d helped him hide pages from the Grove’s purges. “I’ve given you nothing but scraps of time.”
You laughed, though it felt thin. “Scraps can keep a person alive.”
He stared at you then, long and hard, as if trying to decide whether you were joking. You were — and you weren’t.
Your love for him was stitched in silence. You didn’t ask him to choose you; you knew he wouldn’t. Knowledge was his great love, and you wouldn’t compete with it. You didn’t tell him about the nights you lay awake, wondering if he’d even notice if you vanished.
The only time you spoke of your own struggles was after you’d solved them — half a story, dulled by hindsight. He never saw the raw edges. That was the rule you lived by.
When his final experiment nearly cost him his life, you were the one dragging him back from the brink, your hands shaking as you held his. His single open eye — searched yours with an expression you couldn’t name.
“You’ve always been here,” he murmured, the words fragile.
“Yeah,” you said, trying to make it sound like a joke. “Guess I’m stubborn.”
But when you left him to rest, you felt his gaze follow you — as if he’d finally realized the truth, too late or maybe just in time.
Jing Yuan had a way of making you feel like you’d been heard, even when the truth was you’d been deferred. Always polite, always warm, always… busy.
You’d known him since before the title Divine Foresight stuck, back when he was just another promising Cloud Knight with a smile sharp enough to hide his weariness. You were the one who brought him tea after long drills, the one who found him in the archives when he pretended to “study” but really napped.
“I’ll make time for you once this campaign is settled,” he’d say, leaning lazily against a railing, golden eyes softened by that easy charm.
The campaign always had another battle.
And you told yourself it was fine — that his peacekeeping weighed more than your quiet longing. You made jokes about it, masking the sting. “One day, I’ll schedule myself as a military crisis so I make it onto your calendar.”
He’d laugh, low and amused. “I’d still try to reschedule you.”
Still, when political tensions flared on the Luofu and a confrontation nearly turned deadly, you were there — steady at his side, guiding him out before blades could be drawn. He’d thanked you in passing, as if you’d simply done what anyone would.
That night, in the quiet of his strategy room, you caught him looking at you differently. Less like the convenient constant in his world, and more like someone whose presence meant something.
“You always show up,” he said, almost to himself.
You smiled. “Somebody has to keep the Dozing General awake.”
He chuckled, but didn’t look away. For a moment, the silence between you was heavy with everything you didn’t dare ask for.
When the summons bell rang, he turned toward the door — but his hand brushed yours before he left. Not a promise, not yet. But maybe.
With Xiao, you’d long ago learned that closeness was measured differently. He wasn’t one for idle talk or easy laughter; he carried centuries like chains, and you’d never expected to be anything but a fleeting mortal in his endless vigil.
Still, you’d been there since the first time you crossed paths at Wangshu Inn. Always there — bringing him almond tofu on festival nights, listening when he spoke in rare, halting admissions.
“I don’t have time for this,” he’d say when you tried to linger. “Maybe once the danger passes.”
The danger never passed.
You didn’t mind — or at least, you told yourself you didn’t. You joked about it, masking the way it hollowed you out. “Careful, if you keep avoiding me, I might start haunting you.”
He’d frown at that, as if he wasn’t sure whether you were teasing.
You never told him how lonely it was, loving someone you knew would never choose you. You never told him you’d accepted the thought of dying alone, except for that small, stubborn hope that maybe — just maybe — he’d see you.
When a night hunt nearly ended with you in the path of a demon’s blade, Xiao was there in an instant, striking it down before it touched you. His hands, usually so careful about distance, gripped your shoulders with trembling force.
“You… you can’t…” His voice was tight, eyes darting over you as if to confirm you were whole.
“I’m fine,” you lied, the humor in your voice cracked and thin. “Guess I should leave the heroics to you.”
He didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered, something raw flickering in the gold.
“You’ve always been here,” he said finally, the words almost reluctant.
“Guess I’m stubborn,” you echoed, the same answer you’d given so many others.
But when he stepped back into the shadows, you could still feel the echo of his grip, and for the first time you wondered if maybe, in some far-off moment, he might reach back.
Genre: Dark Romance, Slow Burn, Yandere, Forbidden Love, Angst
Warnings: Yandere, patient x nurse forbidden relationship, psych ward/mental health facility setting, violence and physical assault on medical staff, masturbation, psychological manipulation, bittersweet ending.
Yokohama Psychiatric Care Facility had a reputation.
Not a good one, necessarily, but a specific one: it was where they sent the difficult cases. The patients who'd been through three other facilities and had been rejected from all of them. The ones with files as thick as novels and
histories that made even seasoned psychiatrists pause before accepting the referral.
You'd been working there for two years.
Two years of learning that "difficult" was often just code for "hurt in ways we don't know how to fix." Two years of overnight shifts and patients who screamed at shadows and medication schedules that had to be followed with military precision. Two years of learning that kindness, more than credentials, was what these people needed most.
You were good at kindness. Maybe too good, your supervisor Dr. Mori had said more than once, always with that particular look that suggested he wasn't entirely sure if he was complimenting you or warning you.
"You care too much," he'd told you during your last evaluation. "It's admirable. But in this field, you need boundaries. Clear, firm boundaries. Or patients will take advantage."
You'd nodded. Agreed, even. You knew he was right.
You just hadn't learned yet how to stop caring when someone needed it.
The morning of March 15th started like most mornings: harried, understaffed, and running twenty minutes behind schedule on medication rounds.
You were in the staff room, checking the overnight notes, when Dr. Mori called you into his office.
"We have a new admission," he said without preamble. "Arrived via police escort at 4 AM. Twenty-two years old, male, history of severe depression, multiple suicide attempts, previous institutionalizations at three other facilities." He looked at you over his glasses. "They all discharged him for being... disruptive."
"Disruptive how?"
"Violent outbursts. Refusal to take medication. Manipulation of staff. According to his file—" Mori tapped the folder on his desk, which was indeed thick "—he has a pattern of forming inappropriate attachments to female staff members and becoming hostile when those attachments aren't reciprocated."
Your stomach sank slightly. "And you're assigning him to me?"
"You specifically requested to work with difficult patients when you started here. This is what that looks like." His expression softened slightly. "You're one of our best nurses. Patient and professional. If anyone can handle him, it's you. But—" he held up a finger "—I want you to be extremely careful about boundaries. No personal conversations. No off-schedule interactions. Strictly professional at all times. Understood?"
"Understood," you said.
"Good. He's in isolation room 047. I need you to do his initial assessment and get him started on his medication schedule."
You took the file and left his office, already reading as you walked.
Patient: Dazai Osamu
Age: 22
Diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder, Suicidal Ideation (chronic), Possible Borderline Personality Disorder (unconfirmed)
Admission Reason: Suicide attempt via drowning, rescued by police.
The file went on. And on. Pages of incident reports from previous facilities. Notes about refusal of treatment. A psychiatrist's comment: Highly intelligent. Uses charm and manipulation to avoid genuine therapeutic engagement. Potentially dangerous if attachment forms to staff member.
You stopped outside room 047 and took a breath.
Just another patient, you told yourself. Just someone who needs help.
You knocked twice—you always knocked, even though technically you didn't have to—and unlocked the door.
The isolation rooms were small, sparse: a bed, a desk, a chair, a window with bars. No sharp objects, no hanging fixtures, nothing that could be weaponized or used for self-harm. The walls were painted a pale institutional green that was supposed to be calming but mostly just looked sad.
Dazai Osamu was sitting on the bed.
He looked up when you entered, and for a moment you forgot everything Dr. Mori had just told you.
He was beautiful.
Not in a conventional way—his face was too sharp for that, his dark hair messy and unkempt, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. But there was something arresting about him. Something that made you look twice without meaning to.
He was watching you with an expression that was impossible to read. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... assessing.
"Good morning," you said, keeping your voice gentle and professional. "I'm one of the nurses here. I'll be helping with your care during your stay."
He didn't respond. Just kept watching you with those dark, intense eyes.
You moved further into the room, keeping a respectful distance, and pulled out your tablet for the assessment. "I need to ask you some questions and do a basic physical check. Is that okay?"
Still nothing.
You'd worked with nonverbal patients before. It wasn't unusual, especially in the first days after admission. Trauma, medication, shock—any number of things could make someone shut down.
"I'm going to sit here," you said, indicating the chair by the desk. "And I'll go through the questions. You don't have to answer out loud if you don't want to. You can nod or shake your head. Or write answers if you prefer." You set a notepad and pen on the desk. "Whatever feels most comfortable."
You sat down and went through the standard intake questions. Name, age, medical history, current medications, allergies. He didn't respond to any of them, but his eyes tracked your every movement with an intensity that was slightly unnerving.
After twenty minutes, you closed the tablet and looked at him directly.
"I know this is scary," you said quietly. "New places always are. But I want you to know that everyone here wants to help you. We're not going to hurt you. We're not going to force you to do anything you're not ready for. But we do need you to work with us a little bit, okay?"
For the first time, his expression changed. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something else you couldn't name.
Then he spoke.
"What's your name?" His voice was quiet, rough from disuse, but there was something musical about it.
You hesitated. Dr. Mori's warning echoed: No personal conversations.
But giving your name wasn't personal. It was basic respect.
"I'm Nurse Y/N," you said.
"Just Nurse Y/N?" A ghost of something that might have been a smile. "No first name?"
"We use professional titles here."
"That's not a real answer."
"It's the answer I'm giving you." You stood, collecting your tablet. "I'll be back this afternoon with your medication. If you need anything before then, press the call button by your bed. Someone will come."
You moved toward the door.
"Wait."
You stopped, hand on the doorknob, and looked back.
He was still sitting on the bed, but his posture had changed—less guarded, more... focused. His dark eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
"Will it be you?" he asked. "When I press the button. Will you come?"
"If I'm available, yes."
"And if you're not available?"
"Then another nurse will come. Everyone here is trained to help you."
Something in his expression closed off. "I see."
You should have left then. Should have walked out and reported the interaction to Dr. Mori and moved on to your next patient.
Instead, you heard yourself say: "Why does it matter?"
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, so quietly you almost didn't hear it: "Because you're the first person in three facilities who's knocked before coming into my room."
Your throat felt tight.
"I'll try to be the one who answers," you said. "When you call. I'll try."
You left before he could respond, and you definitely didn't let yourself think about why your hands were shaking as you locked the door behind you.
Over the next week, you learned several things about Dazai Osamu:
One: He was brilliant. His intelligence was evident in everything—the way he spoke when he chose to speak, the books he requested from the facility library (philosophy, poetry, dense literary fiction), the way he could dissect any question you asked and find the assumption underneath it.
Two: He was difficult. He refused medication. He refused therapy sessions. He was polite about it—always polite, in that detached, almost mocking way—but firm. Dr. Mori had to authorize sedation twice in the first five days just to get him to take his antidepressants.
Three: He was becoming obsessed with you.
It started small. Requests that you specifically be the one to bring his meals. Questions about your shift schedule. Comments about how you were the only nurse who didn't look at him like he was broken.
"The others look at me like I'm a problem to be solved," he said one afternoon while you were checking his vitals. "You look at me like I'm a person."
"You are a person," you said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm.
"Am I?" He watched you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Or am I just a collection of symptoms and incident reports?"
"You're a person who has symptoms," you said carefully. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" He was quiet while you took the reading, then: "What do you think my symptoms are? Professional opinion."
"I'm a nurse, not a psychiatrist. I don't make diagnoses."
"But you have opinions."
You removed the cuff and made a note on your tablet. "I think you're in pain. I think you've been in pain for a long time. And I think you've learned to hide it so well that even you forget it's there sometimes."
He went very still. "That's... a dangerously perceptive thing to say to a patient."
"Is it wrong?"
"No." His voice was quiet. "It's not wrong."
You should have left it there. Should have finished your vitals check and moved on.
Instead you said: "The medication helps with pain. That's all it is—a tool to make the pain manageable enough that you can work on healing. It's not about fixing you. You're not broken."
He looked at you for a long moment, and you saw something in his expression crack—just slightly, just for a second.
"You actually believe that," he said, like he was surprised.
"I do."
"Then you're either the kindest person I've ever met," he said softly, "or the most naive."
By the second week, his behavior shifted.
He started taking his medication—but only from you. If any other nurse tried to administer it, he'd refuse. Flat out, no negotiation.
"It has to be her," he'd tell them, his voice pleasant but immovable. "Nurse Y/N. I'll take it from her."
This caused problems. You couldn't be available for every single medication time—you had other patients, other responsibilities. But Dazai didn't care about logistics.
The first time Nurse Tanaka tried to give him his evening dose and he refused, she'd reported it to Dr. Mori.
"He's forming an attachment," Mori had told you in his office. "This is exactly what I was worried about."
"I haven't done anything to encourage it," you said. "I've been completely professional."
"I know. That's not the issue. The issue is that he's decided you're... different. Special. And that's a problem."
"So what do you want me to do? Refuse to interact with him at all?"
"No. That would likely make things worse—he'd see it as rejection and could become volatile." Mori sighed. "Just... maintain boundaries. Don't validate the attachment. Make it clear that other nurses are equally capable of providing his care."
You'd tried. You really had.
"Nurse Tanaka is very experienced," you told Dazai the next time he refused medication from someone else. "She's perfectly qualified to help you."
"I don't want her help," he said. "I want yours."
"I can't always be here—"
"Then I'll wait."
"Dazai—"
"It's not negotiable." His voice was still pleasant, but there was steel underneath it. "Either you give me the medication, or I don't take it. Your choice."
And because you were kind—because you were too kind, just like Mori said—you gave in.
You started adjusting your schedule to be available for his medication times. Started checking in on him even when it wasn't technically necessary. Started spending a few extra minutes in his room, talking about nothing important, because he seemed calmer when you did.
You told yourself it was professional. That you were just doing your job, helping a patient who responded better to consistency and familiar faces.
You didn't let yourself examine why your heart beat faster when you unlocked his door. Why you looked forward to those conversations. Why his rare smiles felt like small victories.
You definitely didn't let yourself think about the way he looked at you—like you were the only real thing in his world.
In early April, you got assigned to a series of night shifts.
The facility was different at night. Quieter, darker, with only a skeleton crew of staff and most patients sedated for sleep. It was peaceful in a way the chaotic daytime shifts never were, and you'd always found something meditative about the long, still hours between midnight and dawn.
Your first night, you were doing hourly rounds—checking on each patient, making sure no one was in distress—when you reached Dazai's room.
You looked through the small window in the door before entering, like you always did.
He was lying in bed, facing the wall. Asleep, or at least appearing to be.
You unlocked the door as quietly as possible and slipped inside for the quick visual check that was protocol. Make sure he was breathing. Make sure there was no evidence of self-harm. Make sure—
He wasn't asleep.
You realized it the moment you stepped into the room—something about the tension in his shoulders, the deliberate stillness that was different from the loose relaxation of actual sleep.
"Sorry," you whispered. "Just doing rounds. Go back to sleep."
"I wasn't asleep."
His voice was quiet but clear. He rolled over to face you, and in the dim light from the hallway, his eyes were very dark and very focused.
"Can't sleep?" you asked, keeping your voice low.
"Not really." He sat up slowly. "I don't sleep well. Never have."
"Have you told Dr. Kojima? We can adjust your medication—"
"I don't want to sleep." He was watching you with that focused intensity again. "Sleep means dreams. Dreams mean... other things."
You understood what he wasn't saying. Nightmares. Memories. All the things that were quieter during the day when he could control his thoughts.
"I have to finish rounds," you said. "But I can come back after, if you want. Bring you some tea. Sit with you for a bit."
"You'd do that?"
"If it helps."
Something in his expression softened. "It would help."
You finished the rest of your rounds and made chamomile tea in the staff kitchen—one cup for him, one for yourself. When you returned to his room, he was still sitting up in bed, waiting.
You handed him the tea and pulled the chair closer to the bed—close enough for conversation but not too close. Professional distance.
"Thank you," he said, wrapping both hands around the warm cup. His fingers were long and elegant, you noticed. Artist's hands.
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, both sipping tea. Outside the window, the facility grounds were dark except for the paths lined with small lights.
"Can I ask you something?" he said eventually.
"Depends on the question."
"Why do you do this? Work here, I mean. You could probably work anywhere—easier places, places with better pay, places where patients don't..." He trailed off.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make things difficult."
You considered the question. "Because I think everyone deserves kindness. Especially people who are hurting. Maybe especially people who make it hard to be kind to them—those are usually the ones who need it most."
He was quiet for a long time, studying you in the dim light.
"You mean that," he said softly. "You really mean that."
"I do."
"Even for someone like me? Someone who's manipulative and difficult and refuses to take their medication half the time?"
"Especially for someone like you."
His hands tightened around the cup. "Why?"
"Because underneath all that—the manipulation, the refusal, the walls you've built—you're just scared. And being scared doesn't make you bad. It makes you human."
The silence that followed was different from before. Heavier. More charged.
"I don't know what to do with you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what to do with someone who's actually kind. It doesn't fit anywhere in my worldview. It doesn't make sense."
"Maybe it doesn't have to make sense."
"Everything has to make sense. That's the only way to survive."
"Or," you said gently, "maybe that's just what you've had to tell yourself. Because the world's been unkind enough times that expecting kindness feels dangerous."
He set down his tea cup with shaking hands.
"I need you to leave now," he said, his voice strained.
You stood immediately, concerned. "Did I say something wrong—"
"No. The opposite." He wouldn't look at you. "You said exactly the right thing and I don't—I can't—" He took a shaky breath. "Please just go."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to stay and make sure he was okay.
But you could recognize a boundary when someone set one, even if they were setting it against themselves.
"Okay," you said softly. "I'll go. But I'll be back for the next round in an hour. If you need anything before then—"
"I know. Press the button. You'll come." Finally he looked at you, and his eyes were bright with something that might have been tears. "You always come."
You left before you could do something stupid like reach for him. What you didn't know—what you couldn't have known—was that Dazai didn't sleep after you left.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your words echoing in his head.
Being scared doesn't make you bad. It makes you human.
You're just scared.
Everyone deserves kindness.
No one had ever said those things to him before. No one had ever looked past the manipulation and the difficulty and the walls to see what was underneath.
No one except you.
Around 2 AM, he heard your footsteps in the hallway—he'd already memorized the sound of your footsteps, could distinguish them from any other staff member. Lighter than the male nurses. More deliberate than the cleaning staff. With a particular rhythm that was uniquely yours.
You were doing rounds again. He tracked your progress: the soft opening and closing of doors, the brief pause in each room, moving steadily closer.
When you opened his door, he pretended to be asleep.
He heard you step inside, quiet as always, considerate even now. Heard the soft sound of your breathing as you checked on him. The rustle of your scrubs as you moved.
He waited until you'd moved to leave, then opened his eyes just slightly.
You were silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. Your scrubs, your hair pulled back in that loose bun you always wore on night shifts, the gentle slope of your shoulders as you pulled the door closed behind you.
Something in his chest ached with an intensity that was almost painful.
He waited five minutes to make sure you'd moved on to other rooms. Then he got out of bed silently and moved to the door, looking through the small reinforced window.
He could see you at the nurses' station down the hall, illuminated by the desk lamp, making notes on your tablet. Your face was slightly shadowed, concentrated. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—a gesture he'd seen you do a hundred times and that he found inexplicably endearing.
His breath fogged the window slightly as he watched you.
You shifted in your chair, stretching your neck, and he saw the line of your throat, the curve of your jaw. You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with conventional attractiveness and everything to do with the quality of your presence. The gentleness. The kindness.
His hand pressed against the door, flat-palmed, as if he could reach through the reinforced glass and touch you.
His other hand moved without conscious decision.
He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. This was crossing a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
But you'd been so kind. So impossibly, dangerously kind to him. And he'd been alone for so long. Isolated in facilities and hospitals and his own head for years. And you were there, real and warm and gentle, and he wanted—
His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sleep pants.
He watched you through the window as his hand wrapped around himself, already half-hard just from thinking about you. Just from being near you.
He stroked himself slowly at first, his breathing carefully controlled so he wouldn't make noise. His eyes never left your figure at the nurses' station.
He imagined your hands instead of his own. Imagined those gentle, careful hands that checked his vitals and handed him medication touching him differently. Imagined your voice—that soft, patient voice—saying his name. Not "Patient 047" or "Dazai-san" but just Dazai, intimate and close.
He imagined you looking at him the way you'd looked at him tonight when you'd said he deserved kindness. Like he was worth something. Like he was worth everything.
His hand moved faster, his breath coming quicker now. He bit his lip to keep from making sound, his forehead pressing against the cool window.
At the nurses' station, you shifted again, and for a moment—just a moment—you looked up toward the isolation wing. He couldn't tell if you could see him through the darkened hallway, but the possibility that you might sent a thrill through him.
He came hard and silent, his free hand braced against the door, your name a whispered prayer in the darkness.
Y/N.
Afterward, he cleaned himself up with shaking hands, the reality of what he'd just done settling over him like a weight.
He'd crossed a line. He knew he'd crossed a line.
But as he climbed back into bed, his heart still pounding, he also knew with a certainty that was almost frightening that it wouldn't be the last time.
Because you were kind.
And he was obsessed.
And those two facts were about to collide in ways neither of you were prepared for.
The night shifts continued.
And so did Dazai's obsession.
Night Two.
You came for rounds at 2 AM again, like clockwork. Dazai was waiting.
He'd positioned himself in bed so he'd look asleep from the doorway, but the moment you stepped inside to do your check, he could watch you from beneath his lashes.
You moved so carefully. Always so careful not to wake patients, not to disturb. You checked the monitors, glanced at him to make sure he was breathing, made a note on your tablet.
Then you did something new.
You paused at the foot of his bed, and for just a moment, your hand reached out—not touching him, just hovering in the air above his blanket-covered foot. Like you wanted to offer comfort even in sleep. Like you cared even when you thought no one was watching.
Then you pulled your hand back and left.
Dazai waited exactly three minutes before going to the window.
You were at the nurses' station again, your head bent over paperwork. The lamp cast shadows under your eyes—you were tired, he could tell. He wanted to smooth those shadows away. Wanted to carry you to bed and watch over you the way you watched over him.
Wanted you in ways that were increasingly difficult to categorize as merely attachment.
His hand was already in his pants before he'd consciously decided.
He stroked himself while watching you yawn, watching you stretch, watching you exist. He imagined what it would be like to touch you. To have you touch him. Not as a nurse checking vitals but as something else. Someone else.
I love you, he thought as he came. I love you, I love you, I love you.
He was falling. Had already fallen. And he didn't care.
Night Three.
This time you came at 3 AM instead of 2. He'd been waiting, growing anxious when you were late, his mind spinning terrible scenarios. What if you were hurt? What if you'd left? What if—
Then he heard your footsteps and every anxiety evaporated into pure relief.
When you entered his room, he couldn't help himself—he let out a small breath, almost a sigh.
You froze. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry—"
"No," he said softly. "I was already awake."
You came closer, and in the dim light he could see concern on your face. "Are you okay? Do you need something for sleep?"
I need you, he thought. Only you.
"I'm okay," he lied. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About kindness." It wasn't entirely a lie. "About what you said. About deserving it."
You sat down in the chair without him asking, and his heart soared. You were staying. Even for just a moment, you were choosing to stay with him.
"Do you believe it yet?" you asked gently. "That you deserve kindness?"
"I'm starting to." He looked at you directly. "When you're here, I believe it. When you're not..." He trailed off.
"When I'm not?"
"When you're not, everything is dark again."
He watched something in your expression soften, watched your hand twitch like you wanted to reach for him but stopped yourself.
"I have to finish rounds," you said, but you didn't stand up immediately.
"I know."
"I'll come back. At the end of my shift. Before I leave. I'll come say goodbye."
The promise felt like a gift. Like something precious and fragile that he wanted to hold carefully.
"Okay," he whispered.
After you left, he went to the window again.
But this time was different. This time when he touched himself, he wasn't just imagining your body. He was imagining your heart. Imagining that soft expression you'd had when he said everything was dark without you. Imagining that you might care about him even half as much as he cared about you.
He came whispering your name, and afterward, he cried.
Silent tears that he wiped away quickly, but they kept coming. Because he was falling in love with someone he couldn't have. Because you were kind to him out of professional duty and he was drowning in feelings that were entirely inappropriate.
Because he wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
Night Four.
You kept your promise. At 6:45 AM, fifteen minutes before your shift ended, you came to his room.
"I said I'd come say goodbye," you said softly.
He was sitting up in bed—he'd been awake all night waiting—and the sight of you in the doorway made his chest ache.
"You remembered," he said.
"Of course I remembered." You stepped inside but left the door slightly ajar—maintaining protocol even now. "How are you feeling?"
"Better. Now that you're here." He saw you react to that, saw something flicker in your eyes. "Is that wrong to say?"
"It's..." You seemed to struggle for words. "It's honest."
"I'm trying to be honest with you. Always."
"I know." You looked at him, and god, the way you looked at him—like he mattered. Like he was worth this late-night visit and the gentle tone and the concern in your eyes. "Dazai, I—" You stopped. "I should go. My shift is ending."
"Will you be back tonight?"
"Yes. I'm on nights all this week."
"Good." The word came out too intense, too revealing, but he couldn't help it. "That's good."
After you left, he lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour.
Then he got up and went to the window and touched himself thinking about the way you'd said his name. Not "Patient 047." Just Dazai. Like he was a person. Like he was yours.
Night Five.
It was becoming a ritual.
You'd come for rounds. You'd check on him. You'd sometimes stay and talk for a few minutes if he was awake. You'd promise to come back.
And after you left, he'd watch you from his window and lose himself in fantasies that were becoming increasingly detailed.
Tonight he imagined what it would be like to kiss you. Your lips looked soft—he'd noticed that, had catalogued every detail of your face during the hours you spent in his room. He imagined kissing you slowly, carefully, the way you did everything. Imagined your hands in his hair. Imagined you saying his name the way you did when you were worried about him, but breathless now, wanting.
He imagined laying you down on his narrow facility bed. Imagined undressing you slowly, learning every inch of you. You'd be beautiful—he knew you would be. But more than that, you'd be kind. Even in intimacy, you'd be gentle and patient and you'd look at him like he was worth something.
His hand moved faster, his breathing ragged. He was close, so close—
At the nurses' station, you stood up to stretch, and your scrubs pulled tight across your body for just a moment.
He came so hard he had to bite his wrist to keep from crying out.
Afterward, he slid down the door and sat on the floor, his whole body shaking.
This was getting worse. More intense. More consuming.
He was completely obsessed with you.
And he didn't want to stop.
Night Six.
"You look tired," Dazai said when you came for rounds at 2 AM.
You smiled slightly. "Night shifts. They catch up with you."
"You should rest."
"I will. After my shift."
"No, I mean—" He gestured to the chair. "Sit. Just for a minute. Rest."
You shouldn't. You knew you shouldn't. You had other rounds to do.
But the chair looked comfortable and you were tired and he was looking at you with such genuine concern that you found yourself sitting down.
"Just for a minute," you said.
"Just for a minute," he agreed.
You both knew it was a lie.
You ended up staying for twenty minutes, talking about nothing important. Books he was reading. Flowers you wanted to plant if you ever had a garden. Small, inconsequential things that felt enormous in the quiet darkness of 2 AM.
When you finally stood to leave, he caught your hand.
Just for a second. Just your fingertips.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For staying."
"You're welcome," you whispered.
Your fingertips tingled where he'd touched them all the way back to the nurses' station.
That night, when Dazai touched himself, he focused on that moment. The feel of your fingers in his. The warmth of your skin. The way you'd looked at him when he'd thanked you—like maybe, possibly, you felt something too.
He came imagining holding your hand in public. Imagining having the right to touch you whenever he wanted. Imagining a world where you were his and he was yours and nothing else mattered.
Night Seven.
The last night of your night shift rotation.
You came to say goodbye at the end of your shift, like you'd been doing all week.
"I'm on day shifts starting tomorrow," you told him. "So I won't be doing night rounds anymore."
Something in his expression crumpled. "Oh."
"But I'll still see you. For medication rounds. For check-ins. I'm still your primary nurse."
"It's not the same." His voice was small. "The nights are—these nights have been—" He couldn't finish.
"I know," you said softly. And you did know. You'd felt it too—the particular intimacy of those 2 AM conversations. The way the darkness made honesty easier. "I'll miss them too."
His head snapped up. "You will?"
You shouldn't have said it. But it was true. "Yes. I will."
He looked at you with such naked hope and longing that it made your chest ache.
"Can I—" He stopped. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing. It's inappropriate."
"Tell me anyway."
He took a breath. "Can I have something of yours? To keep? So when I can't sleep, I can—" He gestured vaguely. "Something to hold onto."
You knew you should say no. Knew this was crossing every boundary you'd been taught to maintain.
But he looked so young and so vulnerable and you were so, so tired of maintaining boundaries.
You took off the hair tie you'd been wearing—a simple black elastic—and handed it to him.
"It's not much," you said.
"It's perfect." He took it with reverent hands. "Thank you."
That night, alone in his room, Dazai wrapped your hair tie around his wrist.
And when he touched himself—for the seventh night in a row, thinking of you—he brought his wrist to his face and breathed in. It smelled like your shampoo. Like you.
He came sobbing your name, tears streaming down his face, because he was so far gone it wasn't funny anymore.
He was completely, utterly, desperately in love with you.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
The violence started on a Tuesday.
You'd had the day off—your first in eight days, because the facility was chronically understaffed and you'd been covering extra shifts. You'd needed it desperately. Needed distance from the too-white walls and the medication schedules and the weight of other people's pain.
Needed distance from Dazai's dark eyes that followed you everywhere you went.
You came back Wednesday morning to chaos.
There was blood on the floor of the isolation wing. Not a lot, but enough that it had been hastily mopped and the smell of disinfectant was overwhelming.
Three incident reports were on your desk.
You read them with shaking hands.
Incident Report #1 - Patient 047 (Dazai, O.)
Date: March 29
Time: 08:30
Patient refused breakfast. When asked why, became verbally agitated. Stated: "Where is she? I need to know where she is." When informed that Nurse Y/N was not scheduled today, patient refused to eat. Repeatedly asked if Nurse Y/N was sick, injured, or had quit. Attempts to reassure him were unsuccessful.
Incident Report #2 - Patient 047 (Dazai, O.)
Date: March 29
Time: 11:00
Nurse Watanabe attempted to administer morning medication. Patient refused, stating he would only take medication from Nurse Y/N. When Nurse Watanabe explained this was not possible and attempted to approach with medication, patient became hostile.
Direct quote: "I don't want you. I don't want any of you. Get away from me. GET AWAY."
Medication not administered. Patient increasingly agitated.
Incident Report #3 - Patient 047 (Dazai, O.)
Date: March 29
Time: 14:15
Reporting Staff: Dr. Yamamoto, H.
Attempted afternoon evaluation with Patient 047. Patient refused to engage. When informed this was mandatory and that his cooperation was required for continued care, patient became physically violent.
Patient stood abruptly and grabbed this provider by the shirt collar, shoving me against the wall with significant force. Patient was shouting incoherently—primary phrases included "Where is she?", "What did you do with her?", and "I need to see her."
When I attempted to free myself, patient struck me across the face with closed fist. I fell, striking my head on the corner of the desk. Patient appeared shocked by his own actions and backed away immediately.
Security called. Patient restrained. Required six stitches for head laceration. Minor concussion. Patient sedated and placed in full restraints.
You read that last report three times, your hands trembling so badly the paper shook.
Required six stitches.
Minor concussion.
Because you'd had a day off.
Because he didn't know where you were.
"We need to talk."
You looked up to find Dr. Mori in your doorway, his expression grave.
"I saw the reports," you said, your voice barely steady.
"Then you understand the severity of the situation." He came in and closed the door. "He put a doctor in the hospital because you weren't here. One day, Y/N. You were gone for one day, and he became violent enough to cause serious injury."
"I'll talk to him—"
"That's exactly what we can't do. If we give in every time he demands you, we're reinforcing the behavior. Teaching him that violence gets results." Mori sat down across from you. "This has gone too far. His attachment to you has become dangerous."
"Let me see him first. Let me explain—"
"He's sedated and restrained. You can see him, but only with security present. And Y/N—" Mori's voice was firm. "This is your last warning. If there's one more violent incident, I'm pulling you off his case permanently. No discussion."
Your throat felt tight. "I understand."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you're too emotionally involved to see this clearly. He assaulted a colleague. Drew blood. And I think part of you is more worried about his feelings than about Dr. Yamamoto's concussion."
You couldn't argue because he was right.
"One more chance," you said quietly. "Please."
Mori sighed heavily. "One more. But Y/N? If you care about him at all—really care about him—you'll set firmer boundaries. Because this path leads nowhere good. For either of you."
They'd sedated Dazai heavily by the time you were allowed to see him.
He was in his bed, wrists zip-tied to the bed rails, two security guards stationed inside the room. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused from the drugs, but the moment you walked in, something changed in his expression.
Relief. Desperate, overwhelming relief.
"You came," he slurred slightly. "I knew—I knew you'd come. I told them. Told them you'd come for me."
Your heart was breaking. "Dazai—"
"Where were you?" His voice cracked. "I woke up and you weren't here and nobody would tell me where you were and I thought—" Tears were starting to stream down his face. "I thought maybe you'd left. That you'd decided I wasn't worth it and you'd just—just left without saying goodbye."
"I had a day off. That's all. Just a normal day off."
"But nobody told me!" His voice rose, anguished. "Nobody said 'she's coming back tomorrow' or 'she's just resting' or—" He was crying harder now, his whole body shaking against the restraints. "I didn't know. And not knowing was worse than anything. Worse than—"
"Worse than hurting someone?" you asked quietly.
He went still. "I didn't mean to hurt him."
"You gave him a concussion. Six stitches. There was blood on the floor, Dazai."
"I know." His voice was small now, broken. "I know and I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt him. I just wanted him to bring you. To tell me you were okay. To—" More tears. "I can't think straight when you're not here. Everything gets loud and scary and wrong and I just—I needed you."
One of the security guards shifted uncomfortably.
You moved closer to the bed, ignoring Mori's warnings about boundaries, and sat down carefully.
"Look at me," you said gently.
He did, his eyes red-rimmed and glazed with sedation and tears.
"I'm here now. I'm okay. I didn't leave. I didn't abandon you. I just had one day off." You kept your voice steady even though your own eyes were burning. "But Dazai, you have to understand—this can't happen again. If you hurt anyone else, they won't let me be your nurse anymore. They'll take me away from you completely. Is that what you want?"
"No." It came out as a sob. "No, please, don't—don't leave me. I'll be good. I'll be so good. I'll do whatever they want. Just don't leave. Please don't leave me alone here."
"Then you need to cooperate. With everyone. Not just me. You need to take your medication from whoever brings it. You need to talk to Dr. Kojima. You need to control yourself."
"I can't." He was crying so hard now he could barely breathe. "I can't control it. When you're not here, I can't—everything falls apart. You're the only thing holding me together. Don't you understand that? You're everything. You're the only reason I'm still—" He choked on a sob. "The only reason I'm still trying."
Your own tears were falling now. You couldn't stop them. "Dazai—"
"I love you." The words tumbled out, desperate and broken. "I love you. I'm in love with you. And I know I'm not supposed to say that, I know it's wrong and inappropriate and I'm just a patient and you're just doing your job but I can't—I can't keep pretending anymore. I love you so much it's killing me. Every minute you're not here is killing me."
The security guards were definitely uncomfortable now, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.
"You don't love me," you said, but your voice was shaking. "You're attached. It's transference. It's—"
"Don't." His voice was fierce despite the tears. "Don't tell me what I feel. I know what love is. And I know what obsession is. And I know this is both. I'm obsessed with you. I think about you every second of every day. When I wake up, when I eat, when I'm supposed to be in therapy—all I think about is you. Your voice. Your hands. The way you look at me like I'm actually worth something."
"Stop—"
"I can't stop. That's the problem. I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wanting you. Can't stop needing you." He pulled against the restraints, and you saw the zip-ties dig into his wrists. "And I know it's not fair to you. I know I'm putting you in an impossible position. But I can't lie anymore. I can't pretend this is just—just normal patient-nurse interaction. I love you. And I don't know what to do with that except tell you."
You were crying openly now, and you saw one of the security guards reach for his radio—probably to report that the situation was getting out of hand.
"I have to go," you said, standing up quickly.
"No—wait—please—"
"I can't do this right now. I can't—" Your voice broke completely. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You fled the room before he could say anything else, before the security guards could stop you, before you could do something stupid like tell him you felt the same way.
Because you did. God help you, you did.
You made it to the staff bathroom before the sobs came in earnest. You locked yourself in a stall and cried until you couldn't breathe, until your chest ached, until there were no more tears left.
I love you.
He'd said it. Out loud. With tears streaming down his face and his voice breaking and such raw, desperate honesty that there was no room to doubt he meant it.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that you wanted to say it back.
The next few days were a careful, tense dance.
Dazai cooperated. He took his medication from whoever brought it. He attended his therapy sessions. He followed every rule.
But it felt hollow. Performative.
"He's doing this for you," Dr. Kojima told you after a session. "Every single thing he does, he does because he thinks it'll keep you in his life. He's not actually engaging with his issues. He's just... checking boxes."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know. But this isn't sustainable."
You knew he was right. But you didn't know how to fix it.
During your visits, Dazai was different. More controlled. More careful.
But you could see the desperation underneath.
"I haven't said it again," he told you one afternoon while you were checking his blood pressure. "The thing I said. When I was sedated. I'm not going to say it again unless you want me to."
"Dazai—"
"But I need you to know it's still true. Every day. Every minute. It's true." He looked at you with those dark, intense eyes. "And I think—I hope—maybe you feel something too. Even if it's not the same. Even if it's just—" He searched for words. "Even if you just care a little bit. That would be enough."
You finished taking the blood pressure reading in silence.
"You're important to me," you said finally, carefully. "As a patient. As someone I want to see get better."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's all I can give you right now."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay, I can work with that. 'Important to me' is—that's something. That's more than nothing."
The hope in his voice made your chest ache.
Two weeks after the violence, things seemed to stabilize.
Dazai was cooperative. No more incidents. No more outbursts.
Dr. Mori was cautiously optimistic.
You tried to convince yourself this was progress.
But then came the night shift incident.
You weren't supposed to be on nights anymore. But someone had called in sick, and you'd volunteered to cover because you were too kind, too willing to help, too unable to say no.
You were doing rounds at 2 AM—the time that used to be yours and Dazai's—when you realized he was awake and watching for you.
"You're on nights again," he said when you entered for your check.
"Just tonight. Covering for someone."
"I've missed this. The nights. When it was just us."
"Dazai—"
"I know. I know we can't—that this isn't—" He stopped. "Can you just sit with me? For a minute? Please? I promise I won't say anything inappropriate. I just—I miss talking to you. Really talking to you. Not the professional stuff. Just... talking."
You knew you shouldn't. Knew this was exactly what Mori had warned you about.
But he looked so lonely. So young and vulnerable in the dim light.
"Five minutes," you said, sitting down in the chair.
"Five minutes," he agreed.
You talked for twenty.
About nothing important. About everything. About the books he was reading and the flowers you wanted to plant someday and whether the moon looked bigger in spring or fall.
Normal conversation. Easy conversation. The kind of conversation you might have with a friend or—
Or someone you were falling in love with.
When you finally stood to leave, he caught your hand. Just briefly. Just your fingers, like that first time.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For staying. For being here. For—" His voice cracked slightly. "For not giving up on me even though I'm difficult."
"You're not difficult," you said softly. "You're just hurting."
"Same thing."
"No. It's really not."
You left before either of you could say anything else.
But that night, as you sat at the nurses' station finishing your paperwork, you found yourself touching your fingers where he'd held them. Found yourself smiling slightly despite everything.
Found yourself thinking: Maybe. Maybe somehow we could—
You stopped that thought before it could finish.
But it was too late. The seed was planted.
It happened on a Monday morning.
You'd called in sick—legitimately sick this time, influenza that had you feverish and bedridden. You'd texted your supervisor, asked someone to tell your regular patients you'd be out for a few days.
You didn't think to specifically request that someone tell Dazai.
That was a mistake.
According to the incident reports you read three days later when you returned, feverish and still shaky but unable to stay away any longer:
08:00 AM - Dazai asked Nurse Watanabe where you were. Was told you were sick. Asked what kind of sick. Told they didn't have details but you'd be back in a few days.
08:30 AM - Dazai refused breakfast.
10:00 AM - Dr. Kojima attempted morning evaluation. Dazai wouldn't engage, kept asking about you. "Is she okay? Is she in the hospital? Did something happen to her?"
11:00 AM - Nurse Tanaka attempted medication. Dazai took it without incident but asked again about you. Was told again you'd be back in a few days.
11:30 AM - Dazai's agitation increased. Began pacing his room. Demanded to speak to Dr. Mori. Was told Mori was unavailable.
12:00 PM - Dazai refused lunch. When asked why, stated: "What if she doesn't come back? What if she's really sick? What if something happens to her and I never—" Became too distressed to continue speaking.
14:00 PM - Dr. Yamamoto (now recovered from previous incident) attempted evaluation.
And this is where it went wrong.
14:15 PM - Patient became increasingly agitated during evaluation. Stood abruptly and approached Dr. Yamamoto, demanding information about Nurse Y/N's condition and expected return date.
When Dr. Yamamoto attempted to redirect the conversation to therapeutic topics, patient grabbed doctor by the shoulders and shook him, shouting: "TELL ME WHERE SHE IS! TELL ME IF SHE'S OKAY! WHY WON'T ANYONE TELL ME ANYTHING?"
Dr. Yamamoto attempted to free himself. Patient shoved him away with significant force. Dr. Yamamoto fell backward over a chair, landing awkwardly.
Patient immediately dropped to his knees beside doctor, appearing shocked and horrified by his own actions. Direct quote: "Oh god. Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I just needed to know—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Patient was crying when security arrived. Did not resist restraint. Kept repeating: "I'm sorry. I just love her. I just love her so much. I can't—I can't do this without her."
Dr. Yamamoto suffered sprained wrist and bruised ribs. Declined to press charges due to patient's obvious mental distress.
Patient sedated and placed in isolation with full restraints.
You read the report three times, tears streaming down your face.
He'd hurt someone again. Because of you. Because he couldn't handle three days without seeing you.
I just love her. I just love her so much.
"Y/N."
You looked up to find Dr. Mori in your doorway. His expression was no longer cautiously optimistic. It was grim.
"You're off his case," he said without preamble. "Effective immediately. This is non-negotiable."
"Dr. Mori, please—"
"He put Dr. Yamamoto in the medical wing. Again. Because you were sick for three days. Three days, Y/N." Mori came into your office. "This is beyond attachment. This is beyond anything I've seen in twenty years of psychiatric medicine. He's obsessed to the point of violence. And you—" he looked at you carefully. "You're not innocent in this anymore."
"I haven't encouraged—"
"Haven't you?" His voice was quiet but firm. "The late night conversations? The twenty-minute 'checks' that should take two minutes? The personal items exchanged?" He gestured to your wrist—you were wearing the hair tie Dazai had returned to you, washed and folded with a note that said thank you for letting me borrow this.
You pulled your sleeve down over it.
"You care about him," Mori continued. "Really care about him. And he knows it. Can feel it. And it's making everything worse because there's hope now. Hope that maybe, somehow, this could be something more than patient and nurse. And that hope is destroying him."
"So what do you want me to do?" Your voice was thick with tears.
"I want you to end this. Cleanly. Finally. Tell him you're being reassigned. Tell him he'll be working with other staff. Don't promise to come back. Don't give him anything to hold onto. Just—" Mori's voice softened. "Just let him go. For both your sakes."
"Can I at least say goodbye? Explain why?"
Mori hesitated. "One conversation. Supervised. And then no more contact. Ever. Do you understand?"
You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
"And Y/N? I'm sorry. I know this is hard. But it's necessary."
After he left, you sat at your desk and cried until your whole body ached.
You'd known this was coming. Had seen it building for weeks.
But knowing something and experiencing it were very different things.
You were losing him.
And it hurt more than you'd thought possible.
They let you see him that evening.
He was in restraints again—wrists secured to the bed rails, though more loosely this time. Not punishment, just precaution. Two security guards stood by the door.
He looked up when you entered, and the hope that flooded his face was like a knife to your chest.
"You came," he breathed. "You're okay. You're—" His eyes scanned you frantically, looking for signs of illness or injury. "Are you okay? They said you were sick. I was so worried. I couldn't—" His voice cracked. "I couldn't stop thinking about all the things that could have gone wrong."
"I'm okay," you said, your own voice unsteady. "It was just the flu. I'm better now."
"Good. That's—that's good." He was smiling, actually smiling, and it made what you had to do so much worse. "When do you start back on my case? Tomorrow? I've missed you. It's been three days and I—"
"Dazai." You had to stop him. Had to say it before you lost your nerve. "I'm not coming back to your case."
The smile died immediately. "What?"
"Dr. Mori has reassigned me. You'll be working with Nurse Takahashi and Dr. Kojima from now on. I'm—" Your voice was shaking. "I'm not going to be your primary nurse anymore."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then: "No."
Just that one word, but it was filled with such complete devastation that you felt tears start to burn in your eyes.
"I don't have a choice—"
"Yes you do!" His voice rose, desperate. "You have a choice. You can tell them no. You can tell them I need you. That I—" He pulled against the restraints, and you saw his wrists immediately start to redden. "Please. Please don't do this. I'll be better. I'll be so much better. I won't hurt anyone ever again. I'll take medication from everyone. I'll do everything they ask. Just don't—" His voice broke completely. "Just don't leave me."
"You hurt Dr. Yamamoto again," you said, trying to keep your voice steady and failing. "Because I was gone for three days. Three days, Dazai. You can't—this isn't healthy. For either of us."
"I don't care about healthy!" Tears were streaming down his face now. "I don't care about appropriate or professional or any of it. I care about you. I love you. And you—" He looked at you with such raw pain it was almost unbearable. "You care about me too. I know you do. I can see it. So why are you doing this? Why are you leaving?"
"Because I have to." Your own tears were falling now, and you saw the security guards shift uncomfortably. "Because if I don't, you're never going to get better. You're going to stay stuck in this—this obsession—and you're going to keep hurting people and hurting yourself and—"
"I'd rather be stuck and have you than be 'better' and lose you!"
"That's not a real choice!"
"Why not?" His voice was anguished, desperate. "Why can't I choose you? Why can't I choose to be broken and obsessed and completely fucking in love with you if that's what makes me feel alive? Everyone keeps telling me I need to get better, I need to heal, I need to move on—but better from what? From the only person who's ever made me feel like I'm worth something? From the only thing that makes sense in my entire fucked up world?"
You were crying harder now, and you moved closer to the bed without thinking. "Dazai, please—"
"No. You don't get to 'Dazai please' me. Not when you're about to rip my heart out." He was sobbing now, his whole body shaking. "You're all I have. You're the only good thing that's happened to me in three years of hospitals and facilities and people who look at me like I'm a problem that needs solving. You're the first person who saw me as a person. And now you're leaving and you're telling me it's for my own good like that makes it hurt less—"
"It does hurt less!" You were almost shouting now, through your tears. "It hurts less than watching you destroy yourself over someone you can't have! It hurts less than seeing you assault people because you can't handle being away from me for a few days! It hurts less than—" Your voice cracked completely. "Than loving you and knowing it's wrong and not being able to do anything about it!"
The room went silent.
Even the security guards froze.
"What did you just say?" Dazai's voice was barely a whisper.
You realized what you'd said. Realized there was no taking it back.
"Nothing. I didn't—"
"You said loving me." His eyes were wide, disbelieving, desperate with hope. "You said loving me. Not caring about. Not being attached to. Loving."
You couldn't speak. Could only cry and nod.
"Say it again." His voice was shaking. "Please. I need to hear you say it again."
"I love you." The words came out broken, choked with sobs. "I love you and it's wrong and it's inappropriate and I shouldn't but I do. I love you so much it's killing me. And that's why I have to leave. Because if I stay, we'll both—we'll both—"
"Come here." He was crying too, tears streaming down his face. "Please. Please come here. I need—I need to—"
You shouldn't. You knew you shouldn't.
But you were already moving, already sitting on the edge of his bed, and he was leaning forward as much as the restraints would allow and you were leaning in and—
Your foreheads touched.
Just that. Just your foreheads pressed together, both of you crying, both of you breathing the same air.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I know," you sobbed. "I know. I love you too."
"Then don't go. Please. We'll figure it out. We'll find a way. Just don't—"
"There is no way." You pulled back slightly to look at him, even though it hurt. Even though his face was wet with tears and broken with grief and you wanted nothing more than to make it stop. "You're a patient. I'm a nurse. You need help that I can't give you. Real help. Professional help. And I need to not be the reason you stay sick."
"You're not making me sick. You're the only thing keeping me alive."
"That's not love, Dazai. That's dependency. And it's killing both of us."
He closed his eyes, fresh tears squeezing out. "So what are you saying? That we can never—that there's no chance—"
"I'm saying—" You struggled to find the words through the tears. "I'm saying you need to get better. Really better. Not just cooperating to keep me around. Actually healing. Actually working on yourself. And I need to—I need to step back and let you do that."
"And then what? After I'm better?"
You wanted to promise. Wanted to tell him that if he got healthy, if he healed, if he could prove that what he felt was real and not just attachment born from trauma—then maybe. Maybe someday.
But you couldn't make a promise you weren't sure you could keep.
"I don't know," you whispered. "I just know that this—right now—isn't working. For either of us."
He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes red and swollen and full of a grief so deep it felt oceanic.
"Can I—" His voice broke. "Can I have one thing? Before you go? Please?"
"What?"
"Kiss me. Just once. So I have something to—so I know it was real. That you were real. That this was real."
You knew you shouldn't. Knew it was crossing every line, burning every bridge, destroying every boundary.
But you were already leaning in.
The kiss was soft and salt-flavored from tears. Brief and gentle and devastating. His lips were warm and trembling against yours, and you felt him sob against your mouth, and you were crying too, and for just a moment—just one perfect, terrible moment—nothing else existed except the two of you and the fact that you loved each other and it wasn't enough.
When you pulled away, you were both shaking.
"I have to go," you whispered.
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know." He closed his eyes. "Will you—can you tell me one more time? Please? I need to hear it one more time before you—"
"I love you." You touched his face gently, wiping away tears. "I love you, Dazai Osamu. And I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." His voice was wrecked but somehow steady. "Don't ever be sorry for being the best thing that ever happened to me."
You stood up, your legs unsteady, and walked toward the door.
"Y/N?"
You turned.
He was looking at you with an expression that was trying so hard to be brave and failing completely.
"Thank you," he said. "For everything. For being kind when nobody else was. For seeing me. For—" His voice cracked. "For loving me. Even if only for a little while."
You couldn't speak. Could only nod and flee before you changed your mind.
Behind you, you heard him start to sob—deep, broken sounds that followed you down the hallway and into the staff bathroom where you locked yourself in and cried until you couldn't breathe.
You'd done the right thing.
It didn't feel right.
It felt like your heart had been ripped out of your chest and left bleeding on the floor of room 047.
You quit Yokohama Psychiatric Care Facility two weeks later.
You couldn't stay. Couldn't work in the same building, knowing he was down the hall. Couldn't risk running into him during shift changes or seeing his name on patient lists or hearing updates about his progress.
Couldn't bear the weight of what you'd done—what you'd had to do.
Dr. Mori accepted your resignation with quiet understanding.
"You're a good nurse," he told you. "This doesn't change that. Sometimes the right choice is still painful."
You moved to a different city. Got a job at a general hospital with no psychiatric wing. Threw yourself into work and tried not to think about dark eyes and gentle hands and the taste of salt when you'd kissed him goodbye.
Tried not to wonder if he was okay.
(You failed. You wondered constantly.)
Dr. Kojima sent you updates, at your request. Always brief, always professional, always through personal email rather than official channels.
Month 1: Patient 047 non-responsive to treatment. Refusing to engage in therapy. Not eating regularly. Concerning but stable.
You'd cried reading that.
Month 2: Small improvement. Patient has begun cooperating with basic care routines. Still withdrawn but no longer completely isolated.
Month 3: Significant progress. Patient requested transfer to less restrictive facility. Engaging in therapy. Prognosis cautiously optimistic.
Month 4: Transfer approved. Patient moving to outpatient program. He asked about you. I told him you were doing well. He said "good. That's good. Tell her—" and then stopped. Wouldn't finish the sentence.
You'd held your phone and cried and wondered what he'd been about to say.
Month 6: Final update: Patient discharged from outpatient program. Deemed stable. Low risk. He's requested your contact information. I told him I'd ask your permission first.
Let me know.
You stared at that email for three days.
He'd done it. He'd gotten better. Healed himself. Proved that he could.
And now he was asking for you.
Your finger hovered over the reply button.
You could say yes. Could give permission. Could see where this led now that the patient-caregiver dynamic was gone, now that you were both free, now that the impossible thing might finally be possible.
You could have what you'd wanted.
But would it be real? Or would it always be shadowed by the facility, by the restraints, by the desperate "I love you"s sobbed through tears?
Would he still love you in the real world, away from the isolation and the trauma and the forced proximity?
Would you still love him?
(You knew the answer. You'd never stopped. Probably never would.)
But that didn't mean it was right.
It was a Wednesday in September when you saw him again.
You were in a bookstore in your new city—a place you'd started frequenting because it reminded you of him. The poetry section, the philosophy books, the quiet corners where you could sit and read and pretend for a moment that things were different.
You were browsing the classic literature section when you heard it.
A voice you'd recognize anywhere.
"Excuse me, do you have anything by Osamu Dazai? The author, I mean. Not—" A self-deprecating laugh. "Not me."
Your heart stopped.
You turned slowly, and there he was.
Dazai Osamu. Standing three aisles over, talking to a bookstore employee.
He was dressed in normal clothes—dark jeans, a tan coat that looked soft and expensive, a cream-colored sweater underneath. His hair was still slightly messy but in a deliberate, styled way now rather than the unkempt neglect of the facility.
He looked healthy.
Really, genuinely healthy.
His face had filled out—the hollow, gaunt look was gone. His eyes were clear and bright, not shadowed with exhaustion or drugged with sedatives. His skin had color. He was smiling at something the employee said—a real smile, warm and genuine, the kind of smile you'd only seen glimpses of when he was at his best.
He looked like someone who was healing.
Someone who was going to be okay.
Your chest ached with something that was joy and grief in equal measure.
He was beautiful. He'd always been beautiful, but this was different. This was the person he could be when he wasn't drowning. When he wasn't desperate and obsessed and clinging to you like a lifeline.
This was Dazai Osamu free.
And you realized, standing there frozen in the classic literature section, that you had to let him stay that way.
You watched as the employee pointed him toward the Japanese literature section. Watched him thank them with easy grace. Watched him start to browse, his fingers trailing along spines, occasionally pulling out a book to read the back cover.
He looked content. Peaceful, even.
He looked like someone who had learned to be okay without you.
And that was what you'd wanted, wasn't it? For him to heal. To find himself outside of the obsession. To build a life that wasn't centered entirely around another person.
He'd done it. He'd done exactly what you'd asked him to do.
And now you had to do the hardest thing you'd ever done.
You had to walk away.
Because approaching him now—reintroducing yourself into his life when he was finally, finally stable—would risk everything he'd worked for. Would risk pulling him back into the obsession. Would risk undoing all the progress he'd made.
He deserved better than that.
He deserved to keep healing.
Even if it meant you didn't get to be part of his healed life.
So you turned away from him. Tucked your book under your arm. Walked toward the exit with steady steps even though your hands were shaking.
"Miss, you didn't pay for that—"
You looked down. You were still holding the book. You'd been so focused on leaving that you'd forgotten to put it back.
"Sorry," you mumbled, returning it to the nearest shelf. "Sorry, I—I have to go."
You left the bookstore quickly, stepping out into the September afternoon, and you didn't let yourself look back.
If you'd looked back, you might have seen Dazai's head turn at the sound of your voice. Might have seen recognition flash across his face. Might have seen him take half a step toward the door before stopping himself.
But you didn't look back.
You just walked away, and let him stay free.
Your phone buzzed as you walked.
An email from Dr. Kojima, as if the universe had decided to twist the knife:
Final update - Patient 047 has been discharged from outpatient program. Deemed stable and low risk. He's requested your contact information. I told him I'd ask your permission before sharing it.
He said to tell you: "I did it. I got better. Like she asked. So if she wants—if there's any chance—tell her I'm ready. I'm finally ready."
What should I tell him?
You stopped walking. Leaned against a building. Stared at your phone.
He was ready.
He'd done everything you'd asked. Healed himself. Worked through his issues. Proved that what he felt was more than just attachment born from trauma.
And he was asking for a chance.
The same chance you'd been dreaming about for six months.
Your finger hovered over the reply button.
You thought about the man in the bookstore. Healthy and smiling and browsing books with easy grace. Building a life. Moving forward.
You thought about what would happen if you said yes. If you reached out. If you tried to build something with him now, in the real world, away from restraints and medication rounds and institutional walls.
Maybe it would work. Maybe the love you'd felt—that you still felt—would be enough. Maybe you could build something real and healthy and lasting.
Or maybe the shadow of the facility would always be there. Maybe every time you looked at him, you'd see the boy in restraints crying "don't leave me." Maybe every time he looked at you, he'd see the nurse who walked away. Maybe the trauma of how you met would poison anything you tried to build.
Maybe some love stories weren't meant to have happy endings. Maybe some people came into your life to change you, to break you open, to teach you something essential—and then they were supposed to leave.
Maybe that was okay.
Maybe that was even necessary.
You typed out your response slowly, carefully, each word a small death:
Dr. Kojima,
Thank you for the update. I'm so glad to hear he's doing well. Truly. It's what I hoped for.
Please don't share my contact information.
Tell him—tell him I'm proud of him. Tell him he did everything right. Tell him I hope he's happy, and that he builds a beautiful life, and that he finds someone who can love him the way he deserves in a way that's healthy and whole and not complicated by the past.
Tell him I think about him often. That I hope he's reading good books and drinking tea and finding reasons to smile.
Tell him—
You stopped. Deleted that last line. It was too much. Too revealing.
Started again:
Tell him thank you. For everything. For teaching me what it means to care so much it hurts. For being brave enough to get better even when it was hard. For letting me go when I needed to go.
Tell him I hope he's happy.
That's all.
Please don't contact me again with updates. I think—I think it's time to let this go. For both of us.
Take care,
Y/N
You sent the email before you could change your mind.
Then you turned off your phone and went home and cried for the last time.
I loved you in the only way I knew how—completely, desperately, inappropriately. And you loved me back by letting me go. By teaching me that sometimes love means walking away. That sometimes the person who saves you is the one you have to lose. Thank you for that lesson. Thank you for everything. I hope you're happy. That's all I've ever wanted. - Dazai Osamu
word count: 3.3k
summary: why does one wound those they love so deeply?
masterlist | taglist | wips
18+ MDNI. mentions of divorce, cheating/infidelity, awkward leon stuff, guilt, yearning, leon and reader have a child together — and i named her denise for whatever reason, getting stood up by a date, drunk texting, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, bittersweet ending(?) i guess.
a/n: old wip,, this was supposed to be super gut wrenching and angsty but for some reason, my brain didn’t want to cooperate and decided that this would be the ending. also, i’ve been contemplating whether to address this or not and even tho its not a big issue, PLEASE interact with my posts. it’s the only way i’m able to know that you guys actually like the stuff i write, and ever since i’ve started writing on here 7 months ago, i’ve been noticing a decrease in interactions. im honestly losing motivation to write because i truly don’t know if people actually read my shit and like it. anyway, enjoy my mediocre writing ^___^
leon regrets everything he’s done up to this point. running into ada on a mission, going to the bar with her afterwards, and the kiss. the stupid kiss that eventually led up to this.
the divorce.
it all felt wrong, so wrong. yet here he was, driving his car to your doorstep, his stomach in knots despite having done this several times before.
for the sake of your daughter, the two of you had decided that shared custody would be the best option.
he stands at the door, hesitating before knocking, his knuckles hovering anxiously. clearing his throat, he gently raps his knuckles against the door, hoping for an answer. he's already second-guessing himself, wondering if he should have texted or called first.
your door eventually opens, and he's met with a familiar face. you.
you greet him with a civil smile, pressing a kiss into your daughter’s hair before ushering her inside.
he fidgets, adjusting the brim of his leather jacket nervously as he takes in the sight of you.
you reach to shut the door, catching a glimpse of him awkwardly hovering over you porch.
“you okay?”
he tries to find his voice. "yeah, i just, uh... i was just thinking..”
he looks down at his feet, kicking the ground with the side of his scuffed boot, as if trying to buy some time or maybe just willing the floor to swallow him up. when he speaks, his voice is low and sheepish. “when i was— last night, i thought… uh, do- do you remember when.. shit. are you free this weekend?”
”what?” you muse at his question. “leon, i really don’t wanna have this conversation with you again,”
he winces at the rebuff, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as a defensive measure.
leon’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard, his ears burning at your words. he looks anywhere but at you, his eyes darting over the porch railing, the foliage, the sky — anywhere but your eyes. oh, those eyes he adored so much.
"no, wait, hear me out,”
"listen..." he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever fallout this might bring, knowing he's already on shaky ground. “i just wanna talk.. to you.”
he shifts his weight, glancing up at the roof of the house as if the heavens themselves could offer a solution. when he does meet your gaze again, his eyes are pleading, his jaw clenched with a mix of anxiety and something akin to desperation.
“i’m sorry, leon. i’m busy,”
he scoffs and his face scrunches up, a pained grimace contorting his features as he cuts you off. “c’mon, please?” he's standing too close now, invading the personal space he once knew so well. “i.. i know it isn’t what we do anymore but—“
“no, seriously. i literally can’t. i have something up.”
“oh.” he deflates slightly at your dismissal, shoulders slumping in defeat. a soft, regretful sigh escapes his parted lips, and his eyes drop, gaze wandering aimlessly. "can- can you can you cancel? is it really important? what about on sunday-? i’m sure we can..“
“leon.” it's not a question this time, you stare at him with the tiniest hint of pity. “i have a date.”
ouch. he freezes, his chest constricting as if he's been punched. a date? the words echo in his mind, each syllable like a dagger to his pride, his ego, his everything. a muscle in his jaw twitches, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. leon swallows hard, his throat suddenly parched.
"oh," he repeats, the sound barely above a whisper. he takes a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.
he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw working in agitation as he grapples with the blow of your words. a snarky retort rises in his throat, a cutting remark to deflect the sting, but it withers on his tongue, a futile attempt at salvaging pride he knows is misplaced.
leon swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally finds his voice, laced with a wry bitterness. “yeah, no worries.. guess that's that," a bitter, hollow chuckle escapes him as he shifts his weight. his tone is flippant, trying to mask the sting of rejection, but the defeat is palpable as he turns to leave. he starts down the porch steps, his boots thudding against the wooden slats.
you finally close the door on him, standing by the door, hand on the knob, unease prickling along you skin like a thousand tiny needles, each one stinging with the weight of guilt. you sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she tries to process her feelings. guilt, regret, a twinge longing — it's all so confusing, so messy.
the weight of his pleading eyes, the desperation in his tone — he had no right acting like a dejected puppy after he cheated on you.
you shake your head, face between your hands. he made his choices, just as you had, and now it was time to move on. you squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped away from the door, determined to let go of the ghost of what was and focus on the life you were building. for you, and your daughter.
but it’s not really easy.
not when you’re sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date that never bothered to show.
your phone buzzes and you hold your breath. hoping for some sort of confirmation, but it's quickly snuffed out.
‘hey, sorry i couldn’t make it. something important came up’ the simple text reads. the same stupid excuse. every. single. time. your heart sinks, a dull ache forming in the pit of your stomach.
a bitter, derisive chuckle escapes your lips. serves you right. you knew he was trouble from the start. yet, your heart aches, a dull throb of pain and disappointment. you feel so foolish, sitting there, waiting for someone who never shows. though, it isn't really new.
now you lay in your bed, having already kicked off your heels and changed out of the uncomfortably tight dress you wore.
you pull the blankets up to your chin, suddenly feeling cold. you toss and turn, brooding and wallowing in misery, and it seemed like you’ve been doing it for hours till you’re startled out of your fitful doze by the buzz of your phone.
it's a text from leon, of course it is. it’s another one of his ‘where are u? i miss u’ ‘can’t stop thinking about you. please let me c u’ meltdowns.
he's drunk again, you can tell by the sloppy caps and the desperate pleas. every time he has a rough night, he always thinks coming over will magically fix everything. and you always refuse, knowing he’s only drunk and alone. but tonight, you feel particularly lonely.
your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and before you know it, you're typing. ‘come over.’ you hesitate, then send the message.
by then, he’s already halfway out the door, stumbling out and nearly falling as he trips over his own feet in his haste. he takes the stairs two at a time, a goofy, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. when he reaches your door, he pounds on it with a fist. his breath comes out in short puffs as he waits, anticipation making his heart race.
click.
the door creaks open a fraction and his eyes lock onto you, looking all soft and domestic in a robe. leon's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drink you in.
he tumbles in, arms outstretched as if he's about to catch something. he's immediately in your space, arms around you in a tight, needy embrace. his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, breathless with relief and something else, something suspiciously like love.
“leon—“ he smashes his mouth against yours, tongue pushing past your lips, the taste of beer and regret in his breath. his hands roam, sliding up your back, gripping your hair, fingers splayed wide as if to assure himself you're real. a low, desperate sound escapes him, half-groan, half-moan as his body presses against yours. he's desperate, sloppy, but undeniably passionate. when he finally breaks for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glassy with drink and longing.
“missed you s’ much, baby,” he presses a kiss to your neck, tongue tracing the pulse point with a reverence that borders worship.
“let me make it up to you, please,” he looks up at you with those big, puppy-dog eyes, an expression so pathetic it’s comical. yet, the desperation behind them makes it anything but.
his hands skim down your sides to your hips, fingers digging in as if to keep you anchored to him. his face buried in the crook of your neck as his hands knead the meat of your ass, claws digging in through the fabric of your robe. his breath hitches as he nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply as if committing you to memory.
he trails a string of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to nibble on your collarbone before continuing his journey south. his hands never stop moving, roaming over your body with an insatiable hunger.
you let out a soft whimper, arching into his touch. "bedroom," you breathe out, and he happily obliges.
once inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and spins you around, backing you up against the bed. he begins to undo your robe with shaking fingers, your heavy breathing and the rustling of silk the only sounds in the charged silence between you. when the robe falls open, he pushes it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet.
the thin, sheer fabric of your nightgown offers little resistance as he practically rips it off you. a shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he reaches for you again, fingers grazing your skin as if he's not quite trusting his own touch.
he guides you to the bed, pushing you to sit on the edge. he immediately drops to his knees before you, face between your legs.
“these ‘re pretty,” he slurs out, before he fucking tears your underwear off.
“leon!”
he chuckles at your reaction, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “sorry,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. “gonna buy you new ones,”
his stubble scrapes against your sensitive skin as he slowly trails open-mouthed kisses up your thigh, savoring every inch of you that you’re willing to give him.
he buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking with a single-minded devotion that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back in your head. his scruffy cheeks hollow as he sucks a hickey into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.
god, it’s been so long. the feelings practically foreign.
his tongue begins to lash at your slit, long and flat, with a dexterity that belies his level of inebriation.
“you still mine?” he huffs. “‘course you are, ‘m the only one that can get ya this wet,”
slurp, smack, suck, repeat.
his tongue is relentless, probing your entrance, swirling around your clit with increasing fervor. he's sloppy, uncoordinated, but it only serves to heighten the intensity of it all. every time he pulls back, you can hear his heavy breathing, feel the vibrations of his moans against your most intimate flesh. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging him closer as your back arches off the bed. a keening whimper escapes you, the sound muffled by your clenched teeth as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control.
“fuck, leon—” your words trail off into incoherent mumbles as he drives you closer to the edge, tongue darting in and out with a pace that’ll make a grown woman go crazy. “d-denise, were gonna wake her up,”
a low growl rumbles in his chest as he responds to your whine. there's a hint of accusation in his gaze, but it quickly morphs into a look of raw, desperate need. “don’t matter,” he's relentless, persistent, refusing to back down even as you tremble and writhe beneath him.
he grunts, his attention snapping back to you, blue eyes squinting as he looks up from between your thighs. his tongue is a damn metronome, lapping and smacking with a relentless rhythm that has you chasing the edge of oblivion.
it's like every drunken fantasy he's ever had is being poured out onto you. messy, uncoordinated, desperate. and you’re eating it up. “gonna make you forget all about that stupid date," he mutters through slurred words. "’m the only man who can make you feel this good,"
he's not wrong. the way he's attacking you with his tongue, it's like he's trying to prove a fucking point.
"leon, please," you gasp out, and he takes it as an invitation to continue. your entire body is wound up tight, a taut string ready to snap. he slips a finger in, then two, curling them just right so that they’re pressing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.
your legs wrap around his head, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him in as close as humanly possible. his name is a chant on your lips, a prayer to the gods of pleasure. "leon, leon, leon,". denise could come in right now and catch you like this — legs splayed, back arched, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. he's that good. or maybe that bad. you dont know. and you don’t care to find out.
"yeah, just like that," he praises, voice a low, gravelly growl. "love my fingers in this greedy little cunt, don't you?"
your thighs clench around his head, heels digging into his back as you ride out the pleasure. "gonna cum, leon, please—“ yours words trail off into a wail, a keen of pure, unadulterated euphoria.
your back arches, toes curl, and your fingers dig into his hair, holding him to you as the wave crashes over you. he tugs you down to the edge of the bed, practically burying his face in your groin. he laps at your slit, in and out, in and out, until the last bit of resistance melts away.
he lifts his face from between your legs, eyes hazy and unfocused as he fumbles to unbuckle his pants. once he has it off, he's back, pushing your legs apart as he kneels between them. the thick of his length throbs against your lower belly, and you can feel his racing heartbeat through every inch of him that's in contact with you.
he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you feel the pressure, gathering your juices before giving a long, slow stroke up and down, coating himself in you. he's throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can practically taste the desperation in your mouth.
he presses in, just the tip at first, then a bit more. slow, shallow strokes, in and out. his hips rock against yours, the motion slow and languid. one of his hands cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your closed eyelids to check if he was dreaming. the other hand palms the small of your back, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as he slowly sinks into you.
he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, his heart racing in his chest as if he's trying to communicate something without using words. his hips move, the action slow and lazy, as if he's trying to spoon you into submission.
he pulls out, just to the tip, before pushing back in. the motion is slow, sensual, a deliberate teasing that has you whining and writhing beneath him.
sweat beads on his brow, tracing down the lines of his face, but he doesn't slow. if anything, he's driven by a desperate need to make up for lost time, to prove himself worthy of you. your back arches, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as he pistons in and out, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. he's not gentle, not soft, but rough and demanding, just like he always used to be when he was trying to stake his claim.
he nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he sooths it with his tongue. “fuck, feels so good,” he gasps out, his words punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. “can't believe i ever let you go.”
"leon," you whimper, the name a plea, a prayer. his lips find yours in a sloppy, frantic kiss. he's drinking you in, devouring your mouth, your moans, your gasps, trying to consume every ounce of you.
he's sweating, hair a mess, face scrunched up in concentration, but those blue eyes remain locked on yours.
you're lost in the sensation, every nerve ending on high alert, screaming for friction, for relief, for release. "leon, leon, gonna cum," you pant, your voice raw, your throat dry. "please, i—" but your pleas are swallowed by his next thrust, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls.
he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours, noses nearly touching. his hot breath mingles with yours, the scent of his beer-soaked breath and the musk of his arousal mingling together in the most intoxicating way. "love you," he suddenly whispers, the words a quiet, a desperate confession that hangs in the air between you.
“love you, love you, fuck—“
the way your walls squeeze him when you cum drags his own orgasm from him. for a long moment, he stays frozen, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours as he tries to catch his breath.
the heat of your body seeps into his skin, chasing away the chill of the night air. he collapses against you, a boneless heap of satisfied male. his cock throbs, pulses, and drips onto the bed between your legs as he tries to catch his breath. the room is silent, save for your joint heavy breathing, and the occasional groan as his softening length slips out of you. eventually, he rolls off, lying on his back beside you, one big hand coming to rest on your stomach, thumb stroking in a slow, idle pattern. his eyes are hazy, unfocused, but they find yours and hold. a small, sheepish smile tugs at his lips.
"sorry," he slurs out, the word garbled and slightly off-kilter. "i shoulda been better, should’ve tried harder, i... i‘m gonna make things right, i swear,"
he peppers your neck with soft kisses, his stubble rasping against your tender flesh. he's warm, solid, and comforting. gentle and tender, a stark contrast to the desperation that drove him mere moments ago.
he's not reaching for grand gestures or flowery declarations. he's asking for something simple, intimate, and achingly human. a chance to hold you, to sleep beside you, to maybe, begin to rebuild something from the rubble of what once was.
and for a moment, you let yourself believe that he’ll be different this time. that he's not just trying to relive past glories, but genuinely wants to make amends, to start anew.
synopsis : it’s been five years since remmick disappeared—right after he kissed you for the first time. no goodbye, no explanation. then one night, out of nowhere, he shows up at your door like he never left.
a/n : y’all, please bear with me. i don’t know how to write synopses. this is inspired by smoke & annie’s reunion 🫶🏾 also, reader was an adult when she met remmick. there’s mentions of reader living in her family’s home during the time she was with remmick, so i need to clarify that she was and still is an adult.
The kettle had just begun to whistle when you heard the knock.
It wasn’t loud. Barely a tap, really—like the wind brushing a loose shutter. But in the quiet hush of your cottage, nestled on the edge of a pine-wrapped clearing miles from town, it sounded louder than thunder. You stared at the door as the kettle screamed on behind you. For a moment, you wondered if you imagined it.
No one visited this late. Not in Winter. Not out here.
You slid the kettle from the stove’s flame and crossed the wooden floor with steady feet and a heart that betrayed you, thudding harder with every step. The lantern light cast long shadows behind you.
Who in their right mind would be so far out of town on a Winter night?
Your mind raced with millions of thoughts as to who could be outside of your door. A part of you said to keep from the door—whoever it was had to be out of their mind, and you wanted nothing to do with it.
But another part of you, the part deep inside, felt as if you already knew who was waiting outside that damned door. That part of you wanted so badly for reality to fall apart and rebuild itself so that he could be here.
You almost didn’t open it.
There was something in the knock—too soft, too patient—that stirred the back of your mind like a wind through old ash. The fire crackled low in the hearth, but it was your blood that warmed too quickly.
But when you did open the door, the cold evening air swept in—sharp and pine-scented. But what caught your mind wasn’t the intensity of the bite of the winter air, or the scent of the pine trees, it was the figure who stood just outside
He hadn’t changed. Not truly. Not in the way humans do. His coat was worn at the shoulders, his boots dusted with soil, his hair longer than it once was, curling slightly at the ends—but it was still him. Pale, proud, and silent as ever, standing beneath your porch light as if no time had passed.
You told yourself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He was gone. Long gone. Kissed you beneath the stars and left nothing behind but silence and memory and the aching ghost of his hands at your waist. You buried him with the rest of the dreams you no longer allowed yourself to feel.
The night curled behind him, but he made the darkness look softer. His figure was cut in shadow, lit only by the warm lantern glow behind you. And still—still, somehow—he stole your breath. Not because he was beautiful, though he was, achingly so, in that still, mournful way only he could be. But because it was him.
The him you used to imagine at your doorstep, soaked in guilt and rain, whispering your name.
The him you hated for leaving.
The him you loved anyway.
Your hands didn’t tremble, but they should’ve. You held the door like it might anchor you to this moment—because your heart was already slipping, pitching between fury and longing, sorrow and disbelief. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to cry into his coat. You wanted to ask him if he’d thought of you even once during the silence, if he’d known what it cost you to wake up alone each morning and not hate the sunrise.
He looked at you like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.
And you? You couldn’t even speak.
Because five years ago, you gave your first kiss to a man who didn’t age, didn’t die, and didn’t sttay. And now, standing in the doorway of your little cottage, heart caged in your throat, you were staring at the same man—unchanged, as if time itself bowed to him—while every inch of you trembled with the weight of the years he stole.
“Hey, baby.”
A breath escapes you before words can.
Your heart stops in your chest, and your eyes widen just slightly.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Remmick.”
But it didn’t sound the way you wanted it to. It cracked. Like your heart, that night you realized he wasn’t coming back.
Remmick didn’t answer. Not right away.
And you hated that he still looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Even after five years.
——
It was late when he took your hand and led you past the willow tree at the edge of the field.
The church bells had long stopped ringing. Most folks had gone home. The lanterns in town flickered low, their oil nearly spent, and the air had turned thick with the smell of dew and wildflowers—like the earth had just exhaled after a long, hot day. Crickets hummed somewhere in the tall grass. Your feet were bare. You’d slipped off your shoes hours ago, and now the cool, damp ground kissed your soles as Remmick walked just ahead, his grip gentle but certain.
You knew, somehow, that this would be the last night.
You knew it in the way he looked at you when he stepped onto your porch—like he was memorizing your laugh. You felt it when he lingered a little too long, standing there in the golden hush of your candlelight like a ghost waiting to be invited in. And now, under the blanket of stars, with only moonlight outlining the slope of his cheek and the quiet between you pulsing like a held breath—you knew.
You’d never see him like this again.
He stopped beside the fence. The old one by the churchyard, half-swallowed by ivy and time. You leaned against the post while he turned to face you, his features caught in fractured silver light.
“You don’t belong here,” you said quietly. Not because you wanted him gone. But because it was true.
He gave a slow nod. “I know.”
“Then why do you keep coming back?”
His jaw clenched slightly. Then softened. “Because you make me forget.”
Your heart ached. Not from hurt. From something deeper. Like he was saying goodbye in a thousand tiny ways before the words even left his lips.
“Remmick…”
He stepped forward. You didn’t move.
“I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But I want to.”
The space between you vanished.
His hand came to your cheek, the backs of his fingers cold, but they trembled. You’d never seen him falter before—not like this. Not Remmick, who never flinched when threatened by your father, who swore Remmick was the devil. Who never stepped back when others crossed the dark streets to avoid him. Who always stood like he’d already faced the end and survived it.
Now, he looked like a boy again. A boy on the edge of something vast and fragile.
He leaned in.
You didn’t close your eyes right away. You watched his—the way they darkened, the way they flickered down to your mouth and then back to your eyes like he was asking permission with every breath. Your lips parted, and just before he kissed you, he exhaled your name.
It felt like falling.
The kiss was soft at first. Barely a press. A question in the shape of a touch. And when you kissed him back—when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you rose on your toes to feel more—it deepened. Became real. Became everything.
His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you gently against him. His lips were cool but slow, reverent, as if he feared you might vanish if he held you too tightly. And you kissed him like you were afraid you’d never be allowed to again.
Because somewhere in the warmth, somewhere in the sweetness—you knew.
This was not a beginning.
This was a memory being made for the ache.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. His breath shuddered against your lips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
And you barely had time to ask why before he was gone.
No footsteps. No goodbye.
Just the wind in the trees, and the taste of him still on your mouth, and the echo of a kiss that felt like a promise he was always meant to break.
——
The memory clung to you like fog.
Even as you stared at him, standing just inside your doorway, your body still remembered the shape of that kiss. The way his lips moved like he was trying not to break something. The way he whispered I’m sorry like he knew he already had.
You wondered if he remembered it the same way.
You wondered if he’d kissed anyone else since then.
Your eyes drifted to his mouth before you could stop them, and your chest ached with something old and unfair. Five years had passed. Seasons had bloomed and withered and bloomed again. And you had learned to live without him—or, at the very least, learned how to quiet the part of yourself that still waited on the porch of your family’s home.
Time passed, and you changed.
Remmick stepped forward, just slightly, enough to graze the threshold of the door.
“I thought about you every night,” he said.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with a hundred things you hadn’t said.
“I told myself I’d forget. That it was just a kiss. That I didn’t feel what I felt.”
“And did you?” you managed to say. “Forget?”
He shook his head. Slow. Tormented. “No.”
You turned away, because his eyes were too much—too open, too full of the man who once held you like you were fragile and holy and forbidden all at once.
“I waited for you,” you said, your eyes not meeting his. “Not forever. But long enough to hate myself for it.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.” Your eyes flitted back to his face, hard, steam from the kettle curling behind you like breath as it began to scream. “You kissed me like I was something to hold onto. Then you vanished. Not a word. Not a sign. I used to lie in bed and wonder if you’d died. If someone had got you. If I’d made it all up. Because how could anyone love me like that ‘n leave?”
Remmick closed his eyes. Exhaustion flickered across his face like lightning behind clouds.
“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” he said. “I left because I did.”
The air collapsed between you.
He stepped forward again, hands at his sides, like he could force himself through the threshold with enough pushing.
“Just let me in, darlin’. I promise to make this right—I-I’ll make it right.”
You looked at him. Really looked. He was older in the eyes now. Not physically, but in the weight of what he carried. The edges of him were more worn. Like he’d been running, but never from anything fast enough.
And still, your heart tugged toward him. Because he was Remmick. Because he was your first kiss. Your last kiss. Your undoing.
“No.”
Remmick’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh—his head shakes slightly as if he knew you’d say that.
“I can’t come in,” he finally said, his voice low, taut with restraint. “You know that.”
You did. Of course you did. You’d read the stories. Heard the whispered rules by the elderly women in your hometown. A vampire could never cross the threshold of a home uninvited. It was one of the last laws Remmick obeyed. Maybe the only one that mattered anymore.
You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
“I never told you to leave,” you murmured. “But you did anyway.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d expected this—but had hoped it would go differently. “I came back.”
“You left me in the dark.”
“I know.”
His tone sharpened, just barely, like a blade catching the edge of a stone. He stepped closer—still outside—close enough for the porch light to catch the hollow curve beneath his cheekbone, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes.
“I stood at that door for hours that night. I thought about knocking. About running. About throwing myself to the sun if it meant I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Your heart thudded, heavy and slow. But your lips stayed still.
“And now?” you asked, voice quiet.
“Now…” He clenched his fists briefly, then forced them to loosen. “Now I’m asking you to let me in. Not because i want something from you. Not because I think I deserve it. But because I can’t keep standing on the edge of your life hoping you’ll crack the door.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t move. Part of you hated him—truly, wholly, with every piece he’d carved out of you when he vanished. But another part, deeper and crueler, still ached to pull him into your arms and ask if he ever held someone the way he once held you.
Remmick’s jaw tightened again. His voice dipped low—quieter, but not gentler.
“This is gettin’ cruel,” he muttered. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to talk to me again. But either invite me in or shut the door.”
The words hit like ice.
You blinked, slowly.
It wasn’t that he was angry. Not truly. You could tell he was tired. Frustrated. Worn thin by guilt and hope and years of imagining this moment and how he would earn it—or fail. But something in you twisted at the audacity of it. That he could give ultimatums now.
“You don’t get to call me cruel,” you said softly. “You don’t get to stand there, after five years of nothing, and act like I owe you warmth.”
“I’m not asking for warmth,” he said. “I’m asking for a chance to explain. To exist in the same room. That’s it.”
You watched him, heart hammering, lips dry.
He took one more step toward the door—and stopped just shy of the threshold. The space between you felt sacred. A breath away. A chasm. His voice dropped again, hoarse this time.
“Please,” he said. “Let me in.”
The word please hung between you like incense.
You swore you could feel it on your skin. Heavy. Sorrowful. Like a prayer whispered too late.
But still, you didn’t speak.
You stared at him. At the man who had once kissed you like you were the last light he’d ever see. At the man who left without a goodbye. You hated how part of you still felt drawn to him—as if your soul remembered something your mind tried so hard to bury. But there he stood, outside your door, and every second you waited felt like a match burning low between your fingers.
He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, breath unsteady.
“Christ,” he muttered under it, almost to himself. “You really won’t make this easy, will ya?”
You didn’t flinch. “Did you expect I would?”
He let out a bitter sound—part laugh, part exhale. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something wild, something breaking.
Then his mouth twisted, his voice low and guttural, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Fuck. Let me in.”
Your name followed, low and wrecked. His tongue curled around it like it hurt to say it. As if you were Christ, and sharing such profanity in the same breath as your name was blasphemous. And it was—the way he said it, like it bled reverence and fury all at once. Like your name tasted like guilt and godhood.
You stared at him, heart a drumbeat in your ears.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered.
He stepped closer—still outside, still bound by the law he’d never dared break—and his voice dropped like a stone into water.
“I don’t need you to trust me. Not yet. I just need you to understand me.”
“I understand you,” you said, and you meant it. “But you’re not the same man I knew.”
Remmick’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked down—at his boots, at the floorboards, at the edge of the world he couldn’t step into.
When he looked back up, there was something raw in his eyes. Not the vampire. Not the centuries he carried like chains. Just the man from that autumn night. The one who kissed you like a confession and vanished before sunrise.
“I know I’m not him,” he said. “And I probably never will be. I just want you to understand why I did what I did.”
You didn’t speak.
The wind shifted behind him. Leaves scattered along the steps. Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried out.
And Remmick… he stood still. As if his entire eternity had come down to this moment. A doorframe. A silence. A woman deciding whether to let a ghost step inside.
You should’ve just said it.
The words hovered at the back of your throat, aching for air. Two syllables. Come in. That was all it would take—a breath, a tremble, a simple gesture of mercy. But they wouldn’t come.
Not because you wanted him to suffer.
But because you were still suffering.
The past pressed itself into the hollows of your ribs. You could still feel the version of yourself he’d left behind—the girl who had stayed up for days listening for footsteps that never came, who flinched every time the wind knocked gently on the windows. Who had kissed him under moonlight and then had to carry the weight of it alone.
She wasn’t gone.
She was you.
And that version of yourself stood now, arms crossed and voice hollow, watching the man who had hollowed her out beg for an opening.
“I used to wait,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, where the trees swayed in the cold. “Every night for weeks. I’d leave the window cracked open even when it rained. I thought maybe you’d come back like the stories said. Pale and sorry. With flowers, or a poem, or somethin’ stupid like that.”
Remmick flinched—barely. But you saw it. Felt the sting of it in the way his jaw shifted, how his hands curled slightly at his sides.
“I came back with nothing,” he said. “Just me. Nothing else made it through.”
A beat. The ache in your chest twisted crueler.
You looked at him again.
He wasn’t the same. He carried too much now. Too many sleepless years. Too many choices with no turning back. The man you kissed that night had disappeared—maybe the moment he stepped away from you. Maybe he’d died in the silence he left behind.
And yet… something of him remained. The way he looked at you now, like you were the only light he remembered. Like he was terrified of what you’d say next.
You shook your head. “You can’t just show up and expect to pick up where you left off.”
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I don’t expect anything. I just—I just wanted to see you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”
That did something to you.
Made something shift.
“You think I’d die before you?” you said, voice softer now. Almost bitter. “No. That’d be too easy.”
He looked at the ground again. His lips parted. But this time, he said nothing. Just stood there. So close. Yet still outside.
Your hand tightened on the doorframe.
You felt powerful and powerless all at once. He couldn’t cross unless you allowed him—and he knew it. But with every heartbeat, you realized this wasn’t just about ancient rules or myths or blood-soaked pacts.
This was about trust.
About whether you could let him near you again and survive it.
Your voice came quiet. Trembling. Unsteady.
“What if I let you in and you leave again?”
Remmick’s eyes met yours.
“I won’t,” he said.
“Promise?”
The word came out like a dare.
And his voice cracked as he answered. “Yes.”
Still—you hesitated.
The silence went on too long.
It curled around your ribs, stretched across the porch, filled every crack in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift. And he—Remmick—just stood there in it, waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t beg. His shoulders stayed tense, and his eyes, though tired, never left your face.
But you saw it now—in the tight line of his mouth, the slight tremble in his fingers.
He was afraid you wouldn’t.
And somehow, knowing that gave you back a little of your breath.
It was strange. You thought when this moment came—if it ever came—you’d slam the door in his face. Or scream. Or cry. But instead, you just felt tired. Like your heart had been holding its breath for five years and was only now remembering how to exhale.
You stepped back.
Not far. Just enough.
The invitation was wordless at first—a shift in posture, the gentlest yielding of space. But that wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he was.
He still couldn’t move.
Your mouth was dry. Your tongue felt too big in your mouth. But your voice came anyway, low and almost uncertain.
“Come in.”
The wind hushed outside, as if it had been waiting too.
Remmick moved before you could second-guess yourself. One step—and then another—and then he was inside. He passed the threshold like it hurt. Like the warmth of your little home singed him where the cold of the world had frozen in. His shoulders relaxed, just barely. And for a heartbeat, he looked almost human.
He stood there in the middle of your living room, eyes wide, as if he were trying to memorize everything—the low flame in the hearth, the scent of rosemary drying on the windowsill, the chipped mug you’d left on the table.
Then his gaze returned to you.
You didn’t know what he saw. Maybe the same girl from five years ago. Maybe someone new. Maybe both. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.
But it was enough, for now, that he was in.
He closed the door gently behind him.
The sound echoed like the end of a chapter.
You stood across from him, arms still crossed, unsure what to do with the ache in your chest or the ghosts in the room. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t ask for your hand. But his eyes—God, his eyes—still looked at you like he was waiting for the moment he could breathe again.
“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For letting me.”
You nodded once. “Don’t thank me yet.”
The kettle had gone quiet again.
You turned from him and went to the stove, reaching for it with hands steadier than they should’ve been. The heat kissed your knuckles as you moved the kettle, refilled the mug you’d left half full. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You weren’t ready for that.
Behind you, Remmick loitered—that was the only word for it—near the kitchen table. He didn’t sit. He hovered with his fingertips just barely grazing the back of one of the chairs, his shoulders rigid, his body angled like he still wasn’t sure if he belonged.
He didn’t know where to stand. Where to be.
You remembered that about him—even before he left. For all the quiet confidence he wore like armor, there was always something uneasy in him when he stepped too close to warmth. He didn’t know what to do with gentleness. Or with silence that wasn’t threatening.
You stirred honey into the tea. It gave you something to do with your hands. Something to focus on besides the way his presence filled the space like a second heartbeat.
“Are you going to sit?” you asked finally.
He blinked. “Should I?”
You turned, met his eyes. “You’re not just a shadow on the porch anymore.”
After a second, he pulled out the chair and sat—slowly, cautiously, like the wood might protest. His hands rested on the table, pale and long-fingered, one thumb absently rubbing over the knuckle of the other.
You set the mug down across from him. You didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter, arms folded again, the ache in your chest blooming slow.
And then you asked it.
The question that had been pressing against your lips since the moment you opened the door.
“Why you here, Remmick?”
Remmick didn’t answer.
Not right away.
His eyes flicked down to the grain of the table, then back to you. You saw the war inside him—the way his mouth opened and closed, the way he leaned forward like he was going to speak, then pulled back like the words were teeth.
You thought he might lie. Or say something vague. Something that would spare both of you.
But he didn’t.
“I came back for you.”
The room stopped moving.
His voice wasn’t soft, not really. It was low and certain—like a verdict handed down after years in silence. You stared at him, every part of you taut with disbelief and heat. And maybe—maybe—some part of you had longed to hear it. But it wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.
“Why’d it take you so long?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He flinched.
A sharp fang found its way into his bottom lip. You saw it clearly—the slight glint of enamel just before it bit down, hard enough that blood might’ve bloomed if he still bled like you. Then, with enough force to give even the undead a headache, he wrenched his head away from you, eyes turned to the wall like it had something safer to offer than your face.
“I told you,” he snapped. The words came through gritted teeth, sharp, strained—not angry, but barely held together. “I had to leave.”
He didn’t look at you.
Didn’t look at anything, really, except the knots in the old table where his palms pressed flat, white and firm. He leaned forward, using it to brace himself like the truth was too heavy to hold upright on his own.
And maybe it was.
But that didn’t soften anything in you.
Your feet moved before you realized it. Across the floor. Slow, quiet steps until you were close—close enough to feel the cold that came off his skin, close enough to see the fraying thread of guilt stretching between his shoulders.
“You ain’t utter those words to me,” you said, and the tightness in your voice surprised even you. “You didn’t say nothin’. Just… left.”
He didn’t move.
Your eyes traced the curve of his neck, the tension locked in his jaw. The scent of him rushed forward unbidden—dirt, pine, and that same death-like cold that always made you shiver, even before you knew what he was. It hit you like it always did—grounding, haunting, familiar.
You hated how much it still felt like home.
“You could’ve said something,” you whispered. “Anything.”
“I know,” he said.
But it didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like a man swallowing a knife just to prove he deserved it.
You were so close now. His body tensed with your nearness, but he still didn’t look at you. As if facing you fully would make this all too real. As if your eyes were the final punishment.
“You kissed me like you were going to stay,” you said, and it came out too soft, too bitter.
His hands curled tighter on the table.
“I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
The question landed like a stone.
Remmick let out a breath — quiet, but jagged. For a moment, the silence thickened again. His head still bowed, his fangs still peeking out slightly from where his teeth clenched. Then, finally, he looked at you.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he turned and looked down at the table, eyes flickering as if weighing whether to say what he hadn’t told anyone—maybe ever. His jaw shifted, but no words came.
You could feel something building in the silence, hot and wrong and old—not just guilt. Not just regret.
He was hiding something. Something big.
“Why’d you leave?” you pressed, your voice harder now, the hurt finally boiling over. “What were you even looking for?”
He still didn’t speak.
So you stepped closer.
Your voice dropped, sharp and low. “You said you came back for me. But that don’t mean much if you left in the first place to chase ghosts.”
That did it.
Remmick stood.
Abrupt. Tense. His chair scraped against the floor, and the sudden movement made the candlelight flicker in the glass. He walked to the other end of the table without looking at you, putting space between your bodies like he needed air—or maybe protection.
His side was to you now. One hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.
You didn’t let him off easy.
“Who did you need to find?” you asked. “What was more important than me?”
His shoulders tensed, his fingers curling tighter.
And then—suddenly, sharply—he turned.
“I had a mission long before I met you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like I was ever whole.”
You froze.
The words struck like thunder. They came from someplace deep—not just his chest, but his soul, what little of it was still tethered to this world.
“I’m not some romantic ghost story,” he said, voice thick with something between fury and despair. “I didn’t crawl out of the dark just to fall in love with a girl and settle down in some goddamn cottage. I’ve been alive for thirteen hundred years. Do you understand that? Thirteen. Hundred. Years.”
You stared at him.
His chest rose and fell—not from breath, not really. From emotion. From centuries unspoken.
“I was cut off,” he said, quieter now. “Spiritually. Whatever gave other people peace—prayer, bloodlines, death rites—it abandoned me. When I died, something severed. My people… they’re gone. And I can’t feel them. I can’t reach them.”
He looked down. His voice broke like something old inside him cracked loose.
“I had to go looking. I thought maybe, just maybe, there was someone—somewhere—who could help me reconnect. A seer, a walker-between-worlds, a blood priest who still remembered what it meant to be part of something older. I had to try.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.
Because for the first time, you saw it—really saw it—the full shape of his exile. Not from the world. But from his own legacy. His ancestors. His people. His place in the story of everything.
You watched him, chest burning.
And he said, softer now, “I needed to know if I could still belong to anything.”
The silence after was unbearable.
It wasn’t just pain in his voice now. It was loneliness so ancient it smelled of blood and salt and fire.
The room felt colder now.
Not from the night air—the door was shut tight, and the fire still flickered steady in the hearth, but from the quiet. From the way his words seemed to cling to the walls, to the wood grain beneath your bare feet. They filled the space like smoke.
You didn’t move. Not toward him. Not away.
Just stood there, arms limp at your sides, fingers twitching uselessly as if they were supposed to reach for something but didn’t remember how.
He didn’t turn back to look at you.
He stood by the table, spine drawn taut, as if afraid that facing you would undo what little dignity he had left. His hand pressed flat to the table like he needed something solid to keep from breaking.
You’d never seen him like this.
Not even back then—when he kissed you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted just because he wanted it. Back then, he was quiet, yes. Sad, sometimes. But this—this was different. This was something hollow and hurting and ancient.
You swallowed hard. Your voice didn’t come.
All you could hear was the wind outside, the slow pop of a log in the fire, and the quiet thud of your heartbeat behind your ribs.
He was thirteen hundred years old.
And for thirteen hundred years, he had walked in the skin of the forgotten—untethered, unseen, unclaimed by the very people he once bled for. That kind of grief didn’t pass. It settled in the bones. It made a home there.
And you hated him for leaving. You did.
But now, watching the rigid line of his back, hearing the strain in his voice, you realized something.
You weren’t the only thing he’d abandoned.
He’d been running from himself long before he ever touched your mouth with his.
And that was almost worse.
Your throat ached. But you said nothing.
You let the silence stretch—not as punishment, but as a kind of mourning. For what he’d lost. For what you never had a chance to hold. For what neither of you knew how to name.
And he just stood there, in the quiet, like a statue of a man still waiting for the gods to speak.
You took a breath.
Slow. Unsteady.
And then you took a step.
Just one, toward him. Toward the man who now stood by your window like he’d forgotten how to be a person. The man who had finally cracked open the vault of his silence and spilled centuries across your floor. You didn’t know what you were going to do. Touch his arm, maybe. Say his name. Sit beside him and share the weight of what he carried.
But before you could take another step, he spoke again.
“…I shouldn’t’ve said all that.”
His voice was quieter now. Tighter. A sharp turn inward.
You froze mid-step.
He shook his head, one hand dragging roughly through his hair, fingers catching at the strands like he wanted to tear the words back out of the air. “Christ. You didn’t ask for any of that. I shouldn’t’ve—” he broke off, breath catching, jaw tightening again.
“You think I came back noble and bruised with purpose, but I’m not. I’m just—” he laughed once, but it was brittle. Empty. “I’m just tired. Tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of trying to outrun what I am.”
He turned slightly, just enough for you to see his face in profile. His lips parted, his brows drawn in, the gleam of his fang still barely visible where it caught the candlelight. There was something hollow in the way he held himself now—like all the certainty he had just minutes before had collapsed beneath the weight of your silence.
“I shouldn’t’ve come here,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not after what I left you with. I-I didn’t mean to drag you back into my ruins.”
Your chest tightened.
It wasn’t that he was angry. Not really. It was shame. Pure and bitter. The kind that turns into a blade when it sits too long. You saw it in the way he curled slightly inward, like he was bracing for rejection before you could even offer it.
He thought he’d said too much. Thought you’d turn away now, disgusted, or maybe worse—pitying.
You hadn’t even opened your mouth yet, and already he was retreating.
It hit you then—a sharp, sudden ache.
He expected to be unloved.
Even now.
You took another slow step forward.
“Remmick,” you said.
And his name in your voice—spoken softly, with nothing but weight and warmth—made his shoulders flinch like a wound had reopened.
He still didn’t turn.
You moved again.
Quieter this time.
No words followed his name—not yet. You didn’t have the right ones. You didn’t know if there were right ones. But your body moved on instinct. On ache. On the pull that had never left you, not even when the pain was freshest.
The floor creaked softly beneath your weight.
He didn’t react. Not to the sound. Not to your footsteps. He stayed still, staring out the window like maybe he could find his ancestors in the dark beyond the trees—like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would hurt less.
You reached out.
Your hand trembled as it hovered for a breath above his arm—just above the worn leather of his coat. You hesitated. Not out of fear. But out of reverence.
Then you touched him.
Just a gentle press of your fingers to his forearm, near the bend of his elbow.
It was like touching stone that had once been warm. Cold, yes—always cold—but there was tension beneath the surface, something alive. Something trying not to fall apart. You felt him flinch, barely. A tightening of the muscle. A breath that never left his lungs.
“I don’t need perfect,” you said, quietly. “I never did.”
His head turned slightly, but still not all the way. His eyes shifted toward you, not quite meeting yours, as if afraid he’d see disappointment in them.
“You think you ruined me,” you whispered, thumb gently brushing the sleeve beneath your palm. “But the truth is, you didn’t break nothin’ that wasn’t already cracked.”
That made him go still.
You stepped closer—so close now, your chest nearly touched his arm. Your voice trembled, but you didn’t pull back.
“You came back to your ruins, you said. Well, you’re lookin’ at one. I ain’t been whole since the night you left. And I hate that. I hate that you still live in me like a ghost I can’t exorcise.”
A pause.
“But I still touched you.”
Remmick finally turned.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, tired movement of a man surrendering to gravity. His face tilted down toward yours, the candlelight catching his cheekbone, the sadness in his mouth, the storm in his eyes.
Your hand stayed on his arm.
He looked at it. Then at you.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t have to.
Because your touch was saying everything neither of you could voice just yet—that the wound was still there. That the pain was real. But so was the longing. So was the tether that no silence, no time, no centuries of grief could quite sever.
The silence held—but it shifted.
It thickened into something breathless. Something just barely tethered to the ground. Your hand still rested on his arm, but you weren’t sure when your fingers had curled slightly, holding him now, not just touching. And he wasn’t looking at the floor anymore.
He was looking at you.
Not just your eyes—but your mouth. Your breath. Your face like it was something he’d spent a century dreaming of and wasn’t sure was real even now. His gaze moved slowly, reverently, and your heart kicked in your chest so hard it hurt.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
And then, so gently it barely registered at first, Remmick leaned in.
His head tilted slightly, the space between your bodies trembling as he moved toward you with all the hesitation of a man who’d once had this—and lost it. His brow hovered near yours, and he didn’t touch you anywhere else. Not your cheek. Not your waist. Just that one arm beneath your hand, steady like a bridge between lifetimes.
His breath ghosted over your lips.
He stopped—not even an inch away. And when he looked at you, really looked at you, you saw it.
The question.
Not in words. But in his eyes. In the tremble of his mouth. In the way he waited.
It was everything you hadn’t been able to say since he walked back into your doorway. All of the pain, the longing, the ache you’d buried in your chest and tried to forget—it was in that look.
You didn’t speak.
You just nodded.
Slow. Barely.
But enough.
And then he kissed you.
There was no rush. No hunger. No sharp edges. Just a deep, aching softness that carried five years of silence and the heavy press of what might have been. His lips were cool, as they always had been, but they warmed quickly against yours, molding with a kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.
He kissed you like a man who hadn’t touched anything real in centuries.
And you kissed him back like someone who’d waited every night for a knock that never came.
The kiss deepened slowly—his hand finally, finally lifting to your waist, careful like you were made of glass and grief. You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw, and felt the shiver that ran through him at your touch.
It wasn’t just want.
It was remembrance.
And surrender.
And hope.
And the question that pulsed between both of your mouths as you breathed each other in:
Can this still be ours?
When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you wanted to part—just enough to draw breath. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His hand stayed at your waist.
The silence after the kiss wasn’t empty.
It buzzed.
Low and hot, like a wire pulled tight between your bodies. You could feel the echo of his mouth on yours, the cold of his lips warming against you, the tremor in his breath where it touched your cheek. And you knew—without words, without doubt—that he felt it too.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t ask.
But his hand stayed at your waist, and when his forehead slipped gently against yours again, the smallest sigh escaped him—something between relief and admiration.
Then he kissed you again.
Softer this time. Slower. A question with a fuller answer.
Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the stillness beneath. No heartbeat. No rise or fall of breath the way a human’s would move. But he felt alive all the same—alive in the way he touched you now, in the way his other hand slipped up along your spine, fingers splaying wide at the middle of your back to draw you closer.
You let him.
You melted into the cold of him like it had never left you. Like it had always been yours to return to.
He pulled you tighter, and his kiss deepened—not urgent, not rushed. Just full. Like a long drink after drought. Like he was afraid of overwhelming you but hungrier than he’d ever admit.
You didn’t realize you were moving until your back touched the edge of the kitchen table.
His body had pressed yours backward, his steps slow, deliberate, until the wood met your spine. You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—not from pain, but from the thrill of knowing he was still following you. Still wanting you. Still choosing this, after all the years lost.
Remmick’s hand slid down to your hip, firm but careful, like he still feared you might vanish if he held you too hard. His other hand brushed along your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your ear as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes flicked between yours and your mouth, lips parted, fangs just barely visible now.
“You’re still warm,” he whispered, voice rough with ache.
You swallowed, heart thudding. “You’re still cold.”
A flicker of something passed through his expression—pain, longing, devotion all tangled together.
But then you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down again.
And this time, when your mouths met, it wasn’t just a kiss.
It was reclamation.
It was every unfinished second. Every breathless night. Every aching dream you’d forced yourself to forget.
His hands roamed now—not frantic, not wild— just slow, admiring. He touched your waist, your ribs, the dip of your spine as if relearning a place he thought he’d never feel again. You clutched at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring him to you.
His hips pressed closer, and you felt it—the tension he carried, the restraint he held onto with every ounce of control he had. He could’ve taken more. But he didn’t. He waited.
Letting you decide how far this went.
His breath shuddered against your throat as he kissed along the edge of your jaw, your neck, pausing just above the pulse point, fangs hovering—not touching, not daring.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse, barely more than breath. “Tell me now, an’ I will.”
But you didn’t.
You tilted your head back, eyes closed, hands tightening around his shoulders, and your body answered for you.
You didn’t tell him to stop.
And that silence—that permission—made something shift in him.
He kissed you deeper now, fuller, his hand sliding beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the warmth of your waist like he was trying to map what had changed in five years… and what hadn’t. You weren’t sure when your breathing had quickened, only that it matched his now—uneven, shallow, as if the two of you were speaking in rhythm without words.
His coat rustled softly as your fingers pushed it from his shoulders, and he let it fall, never once breaking the kiss. The chill of his skin bled through his shirt, but you didn’t care. You wanted him closer. You pulled at him. Needed more of him, not just the memory, not just the ache.
His mouth left yours briefly, trailing along your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. He moved slow—as if he were reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That this was now. You felt the press of his lips where your pulse beat hard, and though his fangs hovered, they never broke the skin.
“I missed this,” he whispered into your neck. “I missed you.”
The way he said it—strained and quiet, almost broken—made your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. You guided his mouth back to yours, and this time the kiss was hungrier. Not rushed, but desperate in a way that only years of loneliness could explain.
Then he reached down.
His hands slid beneath your thighs.
Your breath caught.
And with a strength that made you feel small in the safest way, he lifted you.
You gasped softly into his mouth, hands clinging to his shoulders, and before you could say a word, your back met the cool wood of the kitchen table. His body stood between your legs, eyes hooded, breath shaking, the tension in him almost unbearable.
But he paused again.
Always waiting for you.
His hands pressed to your hips, thumbs brushing small circles there, grounding himself.
“Is this alright?” he asked, voice low, almost lost.
You looked at him and there was no monster before you. No ghost. No predator. Just Remmick. Cold and trembling and human in all the ways that mattered.
And you nodded.
“Yes,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”
He leaned forward again, and when his lips found yours this time, there was no more hesitation.
Only the steady unraveling of everything you’d both buried, finally rising to the surface—breath by breath, touch by touch.
His hands never rushed.
Even now, with your body perched on the edge of the kitchen table and your breath coming in soft, uneven bursts, Remmick touched you like you were still something holy. Like each part of you had to be reacquainted with his palms, his mouth, his memory. His fingers splayed wide along your hips, thumbs grazing bare skin, cool and steady as he stood between your legs.
You drew him closer with your thighs, wrapping around his waist without needing to ask. He came willingly—as if that was where he’d always belonged. His mouth found yours again, slower this time. No longer asking. Simply being.
The kiss was deeper now—mouths open, breath shared, the weight of his body pressing gently between your knees as he leaned in. You tilted your head to meet him, hands sliding beneath his shirt to find the skin of his back. Cold, yes—but firm, strong. Familiar. You mapped each line with your palms like a song you never forgot how to hum.
When he pressed forward, you arched to meet him.
Your bodies fit in a way that felt fated—not perfect, but true. Like two lives made jagged by time and grief finally finding alignment again.
Clothes slipped away slowly, piece by piece, not in a frenzy but with reverence. You felt his hesitation every step of the way—not from doubt, but from awe. As if he still couldn’t believe you were here. That you were letting him stay. Letting him have this.
And yet you were.
Because your fingers trembled as they undid the buttons of his shirt. Each one undone slowly, like he was afraid to rush the moment. Like he needed to memorize every inch of you he uncovered.
You watched him.
The way his eyes drank you in, like you were light after centuries in shadow. The way his lips parted with something like awe when your bare skin was revealed to him. And still, he moved carefully, never all at once. His hands slid up your ribs, along your waist, grounding himself in the warmth he could never possess fully, but still longed for.
And when he leaned down again, pressing kisses to your collarbone, to your sternum, to the top of your stomach, he sighed against your skin like he had finally found his way home.
You arched into him.
Not to provoke, but to be nearer. To give him more.
His hands curled beneath your thighs again, lifting you further onto the table, angling your hips with the slow precision of someone not rushing toward lust but toward remembrance. His forehead pressed to yours again, and his lips hovered over your mouth as your fingers pushed his shirt aside, revealing the cool, unchanging skin beneath.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, his hands gathering up your dress so that it hiked up to your waist.
It wasn’t lust that cracked his voice.
It was the weight of everything he was, everything he carried, terrified that this was just one more dream he would wake from.
You nodded. Slow. Sure.
And then his body met yours—fully, completely—a slow, reverent joining. Not fast. Not rough. But steady and aching and real. His lips found your mouth again, and this time there was no space between you.
The table creaked gently beneath the shift of bodies. Your breath mingled with his. His hands moved beneath your thighs and along your waist with worshipful care, every touch a vow. Every press of skin a memory rewritten. His fangs, now elongated and aching, ghosted over your flushed skin.
The rhythm built gradually—not frantic, but inevitable. Like tides returning to shore. His eyes stayed on yours, even as pleasure pulled at his features, even as your hand tangled in his hair and your hips met his with slow, desperate need. You felt the tremble in him. The restraint. The sorrow and relief wrapped around every motion.
It wasn’t about hunger.
It was about returning.
It was about touching someone who was gone for too long, and finding they still lived in the same rhythm as your heart.
You gasped his name once—broken, breathless—and he kissed the sound from your mouth like it was sacred.
And when it ended, you didn’t move right away.
You stayed wrapped in him, arms around his shoulders, his forehead pressed to your temple, both of you breathing the same air like it would keep the world from spinning too fast.
The world was still spinning when you exhaled.
Your body felt heavy and soft all at once, your skin flushed with the afterglow of everything he gave you—and everything you gave him in return. Remmick’s weight rested against you, not crushing but grounding, his chest pressed to yours, his arms still curled tightly around your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
You were still joined.
Still breathing him in.
And for a moment, everything felt… quiet.
Then you felt his mouth against your neck.
Not kissing. Not gentle.
Just resting there. Fangs pressing against your skin.
At first, you thought it was comfort. Some strange kind of closeness. But then his grip shifted—tighter. His breath warmed your throat. His jaw twitched.
And then he whispered.
“I’m not leaving without you again.”
The words made your breath catch.
“What…?” you murmured, dazed, unsure what he meant. Your fingers twitched against his shoulders , mind still hazy from the rush of it all.
Then you felt it.
A shift in his mouth.
A pressure.
His fangs, barely-there at first, began to press in.
Slow. Deliberate.
The pain didn’t come immediately. It was the realization first. The sickening clarity. The way your body tensed in warning before your mind could even process the threat.
“No,” you breathed.
You pushed at his chest.
He didn’t move.
“Remmick,” you said louder, urgency breaking through your haze. “No.”
But he growled.
Low. Deep. From somewhere far older than the man you knew. It vibrated through his chest, into your ribs. And his grip tightened.
Your spine arched slightly under the pressure as he pressed closer, mouth still hovering at your neck, fangs teasing the edge of skin. You felt the warm slide of drool—thick, inhuman—spill from his mouth onto the curve of your collarbone.
He wasn’t biting.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But he was on the edge.
You shoved harder against him, eyes wide. “Remmick—!”
You felt the tremor in his body—not weakness, but restraint beginning to fray.
He wasn’t speaking now. Just breathing—shallow, irregular, mouth still pressed to your neck like he could already feel your blood humming beneath the skin.
“Remmick,” you whispered again, this time not just with fear, but with sorrow.
And still, he didn’t move.
His arms locked tighter around your waist, not crushing, but binding. His chest rose and fell against yours, colder than it should be, but shaking like a man on the edge of breaking.
You tried again, pressing harder at his chest. “Let go.”
But his growl deepened.
It wasn’t rage.
It was need.
Low and guttural and mournful—like something ancient had cracked open in him and was spilling out.
His breath dragged heavily along your neck, lips trembling now as his fangs hovered just above your skin. Not plunging in. Just pressing. Threatening. Tasting what could be his.
And then—a whisper.
Hoarse. Barely spoken.
“I can’t lose you again.”
You froze.
He wasn’t talking to you like a lover now. He was talking to you like a man speaking to a god. Or a ghost. Or the last fragment of a life he never got to keep.
His grip trembled, but he didn’t let go.
“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You’ll die. You’ll leave me. You’ll vanish like the rest. And I-I can’t—”
His words broke apart.
And you realized then: he didn’t just want to taste you.
He wanted to turn you.
His desperation wasn’t about blood.
It was about keeping you. Binding you to him. Forever.
As one of his own.
As something that could never slip away in the passage of time.
His fangs pressed in again, slower this time. As if this act would save him. As if you could be his answer, his redemption, his final tether to something real.
You pushed harder, panic flaring, voice trembling. “Remmick—no. Not like this.”
But he didn’t pull away.
His jaw twitched.
His breath stuttered against your skin.
He was close.
So close.
And still, somewhere in his silence—you felt the war inside him.
Because he didn’t want to hurt you.
He wanted to keep you.
But keeping you meant crossing a line he had vowed never to cross. A line soaked in blood. A line he had watched destroy love before.
You were right there—body against his, heartbeat beneath his lips—and still, he hesitated.
Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to feel it. You knew he could—the way his body stayed pressed to yours, the way his mouth hovered at the pulse in your neck like it called to him. Your blood wasn’t just scent anymore—it was music, and he was being dragged into it note by note.
You felt it.
In his breath.
In the tremble of his lips.
In the restraint that was fracturing.
You were losing him.
Not Remmick the man. The lover. The ghost that came back through your door.
But Remmick the thing beneath.
And still—even through your fear—you knew this wasn’t cruelty.
It was longing. It was need. It was the desperate, cloying ache to keep you forever, wrapped in the only kind of permanence he understood. You weren’t dying—not yet—but you could, and that was unbearable to him.
So you did the only thing you could.
You reached up—slowly, deliberately—and you cupped his face.
Your hand shook.
But your touch was sure.
Your fingers pressed into his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, right where the fang pressed against his lip. “Look at me,” you whispered, voice thick. “Remmick, look at me.”
He stiffened.
Your voice cracked.
“Don’t do this. Please. Not like this.”
And for a moment—for a terrifying, suspended second, nothing happened.
Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp, Remmick ripped his head back.
A jagged sound tore from his throat—part growl, part cry, as if he hated himself for what he almost did. His chest heaved even though he didn’t need the air. His fangs glinted in the low firelight. His eyes glowed red—sharp and unnatural, too ancient for the face that had once looked at you like you were soft and holy.
But he didn’t run.
He stood there, trembling.
And then… slowly… he stepped forward again.
Not to take. Not to finish what he started.
But to ground himself.
he pressed his forehead to yours.
Your breath hitched, hands gripping the fabrics of your dress that you pushed back down over your knees.
You could still feel the heat where he had nearly sunk into you. Still feel the weight of his body, the tremble in his arms. And yet here he was now—no longer devouring, no longer pressing. Just holding. Just… there.
And for a moment, you were both still.
Two bodies suspended in silence.
Your hand found his jaw again, gently, thumb brushing across the cool skin beneath the gleam of his eye. The red began to fade. Slowly. Dimly. Like the storm had passed, but not far enough to forget.
“I can’t stay,” he whispered.
The words cracked open something in your chest.
They weren’t harsh. They weren’t cold.
They were broken.
He was broken.
You closed your eyes. Tears burned at the edges, rising fast—not just from fear, or heartbreak, but from the awful understanding of what he meant. Why he meant it.
He was still dangerous.
Still not safe.
Not for you. Not for anyone. Especially when he wanted so much to love you the right way—but didn’t always know how to stop himself when the old hunger rose.
Your breath shook as you nodded.
Slow. Barely.
But enough.
Remmick pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were glassy now, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. He reached up to wipe one with the back of his hand—his touch featherlight, reverent.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse.
You gave a tiny shake of your head. “I know.”
And though nothing else passed between you in that moment—not words, not promises—the ache that filled the space said everything.
He couldn’t stay.
But he didn’t want to go.
And you?
You would’ve let him in again, even knowing it would hurt like this.
Because it was Remmick.
Because he’d always been the wound you never wanted to heal.
The silence hadn’t left.
It stayed between you, softer now, but heavier somehow—like dust settling after a storm. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the kitchen walls. The kettle had gone cold.
You moved slowly, almost without thought, fingers trembling slightly as you tugged your dress down further and smoothed the wrinkles at your waist. Your legs still felt unsteady beneath you. You could feel where his hands had held you, where your bodies had fit together like they’d never stopped.
But all you could hear was the echo of his voice.
I can’t stay.
Remmick sat on the edge of a kitchen chair now, elbows on his knees, head bowed as he wiped his mouth and jaw with a clean rag you’d handed him. His shirt lay discarded beside him, crumpled and forgotten, its buttons undone, its sleeves twisted from where you’d pushed them aside in the heat of need.
Now, you lifted it with careful hands.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he.
You moved in front of him, the fabric trembling in your grip. He didn’t stop you when you stepped between his knees. He didn’t protest when you helped him slip his arms back through the sleeves, didn’t flinch as you began to rebutton the front of his shirt one small piece at a time.
Your fingers brushed his chest. Light. Steady.
Button by button.
And all the while, your mind wouldn’t stop echoing the same thing:
I can’t stay.
The words looped behind your ribs, behind your eyes, over the rhythm of your breath. You tried to swallow them down, to focus on the simple motion of fastening each button. But they came back, over and over again, louder in your bones than in the air.
I can’t stay.
He hadn’t said it like a man who wanted to go.
He’d said it like a man damning himself for having to.
Your fingers slowed near the middle of his chest. You lingered on the fourth button. Not because it was hard to fasten—but because your hands didn’t want to finish.
Didn’t want to reach the end of this moment.
Didn’t want to let it become past tense.
He looked up then.
His eyes weren’t glowing anymore. But the red still lingered at the edges, like the ghost of a fire that refused to die. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you.
And still, the words repeated in your head, cruel and unyielding.
I can’t stay.
You finished the last button.
And let your hand rest against his chest, just over where a heart would beat if it could.
You didn’t follow him to the door right away.
You stood in the kitchen, fingers still curled around the front of his shirt. He hadn’t moved since you’d finished dressing him—like he was waiting for the moment to change, for time to bend backward and offer something kinder.
But it didn’t.
So eventually, he stood.
His movements were slow, precise—like he feared if he moved too fast, something inside him might splinter. His coat was draped over the chair. He lifted it in silence, shaking the folds loose, slipping it back over his shoulders like armor.
You followed.
Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.
Outside, the wind had died down. The moon was low. The trees stood like sentinels, dark and unmoved, watching the threshold where you stood with him one final time.
He opened the door slowly.
The air outside was cold, but not cruel. It whispered through the open frame, brushing against your face like breath. And still, neither of you spoke.
He stepped out onto the porch, boots creaking on the worn wood.
Then he paused.
He turned—just slightly—his profile bathed in moonlight, casting his cheekbone and jaw in pale silver.
And he looked at you.
There was something sharp in his eyes, even now. Not hunger. Not danger.
Just grief.
You saw the way he hesitated—the way his body leaned slightly toward you, the way his mouth parted, and his gaze dropped once, just once, to your lips. You saw the way he almost stepped forward.
But then his shoulders pulled back.
And his eyes closed.
“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Gods, I want to.”
You didn’t speak. Your breath hitched.
“But if I do…” he opened his eyes again, gaze full of something raw, unnameable, “I won’t leave.”
A pause.
“And I have to.”
Your throat burned.
Your chest ached.
But you nodded.
Slow. Hollow.
Because you understood.
If he kissed you again, it would unmake him.
So instead, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing your face. Like he was taking your breath with him. Like he’d already begun to turn into a ghost again.
Then he stepped back into the night.
The wind pulled at the hem of his coat.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
And you didn’t move.
You stayed in the doorway long after he disappeared into the dark, eyes burning, breath held—listening for the sound of his footsteps in the leaves, already knowing you wouldn’t hear them.
