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His love language is acts of service.
He read that somewhere—some stupid quiz you made him take一and he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.
See?
See??
He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.
He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.
You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.
"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do you—"
"Just water, baby."
Baby.
His knees almost buckle.
Focus.
Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him go一such a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.
He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.
Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter because—
He have to be patient.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it.
Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.
"Thank you, love."
Oh.
The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.
He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of coke—
Cute isn't he?
No.
No, he's not cute.
He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.
And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.
Always hard.
Always.
You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.
You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.
What a loser, right?
His dick twitches.
Jesus Christ.
He's hard again.
Weirdo.
Disgusting.
Pervert.
He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.
Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?
Oh god oh god oh god.
You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the point—
"Such a good boy."
Huh?
Good boy??
Him???
He freezes.
Did you just一did those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.
Good. Boy.
And you're smiling.
You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him forever—
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
He's so hard he could die on spot.
"Um... excuse me."
The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.
He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.
You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has to—
no no no no no NO!!!
Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???
If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.
OH!!!
Okay that's better. He gets it now.
Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimes一throws up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himself—
Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Deep breath.
Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's not—he's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be true—
Shut. Up.
Focus.
His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
First—first, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.
He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.
Your panties.
The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.
The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.
Fuuuck.
The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.
He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.
You'd hate him if you knew.
He hopes you never know.
He hopes you find out.
He hopes you walk in right now and see him—cock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his face—and he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.
Your good boy.
Yours.
He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.
But it's fine.
Everything's fine.
He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.
He looks normal.
He is normal.
He's a good boy.
Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.
"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.
And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.
Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.
"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.
You stroke his hair.
He almost gets hard again.
He's so fucked up.
But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.
-when his anger is taken out on the wrong place in the wrong time- angst
You heard the door slam before you saw him.
Heavy, rushed steps. Keys tossed onto the console. His bag hitting the floor with a thud that echoed down the hallway.
He didn’t even say hello.
You were already in the kitchen, apron still on, a dish towel over your shoulder and his favorite food still hot on the stove. You had candles lit — just two, small ones, nothing dramatic. You just… wanted to make him smile. You missed his smile.
So when he walked in, stiff-shouldered and scowling, you tried anyway.
“Hey, baby,” you said, gentle, trying to meet him where he was. “Rough day?”
He didn’t answer.
You took a step closer, hands still in the dish towel. “I made—”
“Why is it so fucking dark in here?” he snapped, voice sharp like glass. “I can’t even see anything—can you turn a goddamn light on for once?”
You froze, blinking.
“I— I just thought the candles would be—”
He scoffed, brushing past you, hand running through his hair, exasperated. “Jesus. I come home to this after the shit I’ve been through?”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know it would be this bad. I thought maybe—maybe it’d help. I made your favorite.”
You lifted the dish — still warm, perfectly plated, just the way he liked it. Your hands were trembling.
And maybe it was the wrong moment, or maybe he didn’t mean it at all, but he looked at it — looked at you — and said,
“I don’t need you hovering over me. I need space. Just—fuck. Stop trying so hard.”
Silence.
Your fingers shook.
Something in your chest cracked. Not loud — soft. Like the quiet break of something that had been held together too long.
“I was just trying to make you happy,” you whispered.
The dish clattered — not shattered, just dropped onto the counter as your hands fell away. Your breath hitched. The tears came faster than you could stop them.
And then he reached for you.
“Shit—wait, wait—baby, I didn’t mean—”
You flinched.
Like he’d slapped you. Like his voice alone had scorched the space between you.
his eyes widened. His hand froze midair.
You were already turning away — stumbling, shoulder brushing his as you ran past, up the stairs, into the bedroom, the soft sound of a door clicking shut behind you like a final period at the end of a sentence you didn’t want to write.
Downstairs, he stood in the kitchen. Staring at the plate you made. The food untouched. The candles still flickering softly. Pushing back the hair out his eyes
He just brings home your favorite drink without asking.
He buys the ugly little pink plushie you pointed at one time three weeks ago and tosses it on the bed like it's no big deal. Doesn’t even look at you. Just mutters,
“Figured you’d like it. Don’t make it a thing.”
It is a thing. Your chest is full.
You once complained offhandedly about your favorite ramen spot being closed for the day.
The next day he made you ramen. From scratch. With a scowl on his face and flour on his nose.
When you get cold, he doesn’t ask. Just grumbles,
“Come here,”
and throws a blanket over both of you. arm around your waist, hand rubbing your hip under the fabric.
When you’re sick, he doesn’t say a word.
Just disappears and comes back with four bags of medicine, three different kinds of soup, and a plushie shaped like a strawberry cow.
The cashier asked if it was for his kid.
He said, “No. For my wife.”
And then made direct eye contact until the guy stopped smiling.
He doesn’t show his love loudly.
He just gives you the last bite of his food without asking.
He puts himself between you and the street when you walk.
He silently kneels to help you tie your shoe if you’re struggling with the laces.
He gets irrationally angry if your socks are wet.
“Why didn’t you tell me your feet were cold? What am I here for then?”
And when you tell him you love him? He freezes for a second, ears going red.
Then mutters, voice low,
"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."
There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.
"Who we peepin’?"
Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."
Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."
"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."
Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."
Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"
Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"
Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."
Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."
"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"
Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."
Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"
Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."
Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"
Rod huffed. "Fuck no."
“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”
Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."
Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.
"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"
Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.
Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.
Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”
In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.
"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."
Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.
He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.
Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.
So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector.
Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.
He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.
Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.
You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body.
Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.
That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.
Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you.
They could still offer what they were made for.
Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.
Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.
Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled.
Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.
Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.
Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.
Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself.
Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.
Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.
They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands.
They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back.
They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there.
You open the door slower than you mean to.
That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed.
And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.
You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.
He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much.
And for a moment, all you can do is stare.
God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond.
He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.
Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.
"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."
You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."
He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."
You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.
He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.
Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."
You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but.
‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."
You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar.
He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."
He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack.
His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.
A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.
That’s all he needs.
"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."
He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.
From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.
But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.
Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.
You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.
"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."
For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.
Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.
"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."
You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.
You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.
Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.
"Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."
"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"
You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"
As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.
The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief.
That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.
He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.
His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth.
The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.
From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.
You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.
That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers.
And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back.
Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head.
"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."
Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses.
A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.
He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.
His grip tightens, just slightly.
CRACK.
A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.
From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent.
The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.
On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.
Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves.
Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.
Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire.
The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.
"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."
He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.
Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.
"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still."
—H.
Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.
"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me."
—H.
His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
Of course. You already had someone else.
You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.
Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.
"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you."
—H.
This one, Iseul crumples.
Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.
Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.
The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use.
A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.
But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.
His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"
He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”
Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.
Interesting.
With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.
So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen.
Noted.
He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.
Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.
“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”
Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”
Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.
“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”
“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”
Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”
The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.
"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.
Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."
"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.
"No."
Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."
Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.
" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."
Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."
You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.
"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."
"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."
You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.
"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."
Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."
Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."
The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.
"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."
By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.
"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."
Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.
He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.
His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.
Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.
Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.
His jaw shifts.
In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.
H.
His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him.
"Iseul…?"
He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.
"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."
You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here.
You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them."
You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.
You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.
After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin.
Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.
Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.
You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.
A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.
Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.
You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.
Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.
It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.
You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.
He glances over the rim of his mug at you.
"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?"
He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.
A slow step forward.
“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.
He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."
Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.
Then the window slams open.
BANG.
A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.
"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.
You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.
Right on his head.
He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor.
Silence follows.
You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.
And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.
Iseul hears it.
“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”
His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.
You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.
Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.
“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”
“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”
He leans in. Sneering.
Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.
"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."
His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.
"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"
The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.
The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.
"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"
SNAP.
The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.
A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.
Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.
Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.
You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.
He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.
Iseul’s head snaps upward.
His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers.
From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.
Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.
It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.
"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"
The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.
From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.
Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.
Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.
It steps forward once.
Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear.
The voice returns, softer now.
"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"
Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”
A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.
Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor.
Then, everything goes black.
You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.
Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.
The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry.
They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.
Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.
A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."
You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.
"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.
He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.
"Bro!"
You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.
You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards.
Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.
You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.
"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.
Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.
“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”
Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."
Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."
You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."
"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening.
"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.
Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."
“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.
“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”
“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”
You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.
Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.
You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.
Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."
You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"
"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."
You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."
"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."
"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"
"They’re already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."
You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."
Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."
Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."
From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.
"See? Even he agrees, babe."
thanks so much for the love you all showed! sorry i couldn't include everyone :( next chapter will, however, be full on comfort! each datable will have their own little scene with you! i will try my best to add a lotta them!
yup, it was a bad idea, you knew it but the idea seemed hilarious! you never really call him anything other than his name or love, honey or sweetheart. but bro? or even dude? yeah no, never.
he seemed genuinely offended, he was casually eating and savouring every bite of his favourite meal that you cooked and instead of intimately asking him "how's the food honey?" you go for "pass me the salt bro" ? criminal offense you should be jailed.
and he is so damn dramatic that he too refused to call you anything but bro. at first you passed it off as like him getting back at you but it's been 2 WEEKS FOR GOD'S SAKE! if pettiness was a human then it would be them, literally.
"okay fine! I'm sorry I shouldn't have called you bro even though it sounded silly!"
you cling to his arm, out of frustration, and touch-starved as creases between your brows and a frown adorns your face. you nuzzle your face and rub it on his biceps in an attempt to break down that wall. "please baby please?" you make puppy eyes at him. this one's gotta work...
he hesitates for a moment before sighing and dipping his head to place a soft kiss on your lips. "anything but bro dear... please... I would want nothing but endearments and my name falling from your lips" and another kiss.
Because he never made you feel like a burden. He never looked at the bruises on your arms and asked what you did to provoke it. He never sighed when you flinched at loud noises, never rolled his eyes when you cried, never told you to “just toughen up, he’s your father.”
He never said that.
But your mother did. She sat on the couch, cigarette burning down to the filter, and said, "He's your dad. What do you want me to do?" while you stood there with blood drying in your hair.
Your mother, who watched it happen for years and said nothing. Your mother, who once handed your father the belt because you'd forgotten to wash the dishes. Your mother, who looked at your split lip at the dinner table and asked you to pass the salt.
Your friends did. "Maybe if you didn't talk back so much..." one of them said once, and you learned to stop telling them things.
Everyone did.
Everyone but him.
He just looked at you. That first time. You were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, trying to stop your nose from bleeding with a crumpled napkin. He didn’t know you then. You were hiding from a house that hated you. He parked his truck, walked over, and crouched down right there on the dirty pavement. He didn’t ask what happened. He just handed you a clean handkerchief—soft white cotton, like something from an old movie—and said, “You okay doll?”
That was it. The first time you saw him.
He’s not that well off—he works at a garage on the edge of town, the one with the flickering sign and the pit bulls chained out back. His hands are always stained with grease, knuckles perpetually split, nails lined with a permanent crescent of black. He dropped out of school at sixteen to take care of his own shit, family stuff he never talks about except late at night when his voice goes hollow and distant.
But he always brought you the things you wanted. Things you never asked for, because you learned a long time ago that wanting things only led to pain. Wanting got you a fractured wrist. Wanting got you called a greedy, selfish, bitch just like your mother. So you stopped asking. You stopped looking. You stared at your shoes and never let your eyes linger on anything too long.
But he noticed.
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you. The way your breath catches. The way your fingers twitch toward something before you shove your hands in your pockets. The way your gaze drifted—just for a second, just a flicker—toward the white dress in the thrift shop window every single time you walked past it.
You never said a word. But he knew.
He knew the exact shade of white. The tiny lace trim at the collar. The way it would sit on your shoulders, the way it would twirl around your knees if you ever let yourself spin in it. You'd never spun in a dress before. You'd never been allowed to be that kind of girl.
He got it for you.
He got it. For you.
He worked extra shifts. He skipped meals. You didn't know that then. One night, after another beating, he showed up at your door with a crumpled paper bag in his hand.
"It's not wrapped or anything," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know how to do that fancy shit."
His voice was rough, almost embarrassed, like he was the one who should be grateful.
You wore it the next day and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon. No one had ever looked at you like that before.
Before him, you never saw the sea.
Your parents never took you anywhere. Vacations were for other families, the ones whose fathers didn't drink through their paychecks and whose mothers didn't disappear into their bedrooms for days.
Your friends would plan trips—bus tickets, shared hostel rooms—and you'd watch them go from your bedroom window, forehead still throbbing from the night before. They'd come back with sunburns and blurry photos and stories you weren't part of.
"Sorry, we just don't want you to be... uncomfortable. You know, with money and stuff. We didn't think your parents would let you."
Uncomfortable.
Right.
They meant they didn't want you to make them uncomfortable. With your bruises. Your empty wallet. Your nervous habit of saying sorry for existing.
Guess who took you there?
Him.
You mentioned it to him once, months later, in the truck with the windows down and the radio playing static between stations. A joke that wasn't really a joke. You do that sometimes—say things with a laugh tacked on at the end so no one feels obligated to care.
"You know, I've never seen the sea."
"Let's go then."
Just like that. He pulled over at the next gas station, checked the oil, bought you a pack of those gummy worms you like, and pointed the truck east.
It was a long way. Seven hours. The seats were cracked vinyl and the air conditioning was broken, so you drove with the windows down and the hot wind whipping your hair into knots. You fell asleep somewhere around hour four, your cheek pressed against the seatbelt, the vibration of the road humming through your bones.
You drifted in and out, and in that half conscious haze, you felt it—the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Just... there. Heavy. Calloused thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of your knee, barely moving, like he was trying not to wake you. You kept your eyes closed and didn't move. Your heart was pounding. You didn't know if it was fear or something else. You still don't.
When you finally stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in, you started shaking. You had spent your whole life in a cage, and this man had simply... unlocked the door. He stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
"You see?" he murmured into your ear. "There's a whole world out there. And I'm gonna show you all of it. Just you and me."
Just you and him.
That was the best day of your life.
He's the best thing that has ever happened in your life.
You always wanted to try alcohol and cigarettes. Normal teenage curiosities, the kind other kids explored at parties and bonfires, the kind your father beat out of you when you stole one of his beers. You were fifteen. He cracked your head open on the kitchen counter and told you he'd do worse if you ever touched his stuff again. Your mother held a dish towel to the wound and whispered, "Why do you always make him mad?"
But he let you try it. The first time, he sat you down on the back of his truck bed, legs dangling, the night sky smeared with stars. He handed you a bottle—something cheap, bitter—and watched you wince at the taste.
"It's okay if it's with me," he said, taking the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours. "But you shouldn't do it with other people. They will take advantage of you. Bad things happen."
Then he took a slow drag of his cigarette, leaned in, and kissed you. Smoke curled between your tongues. The taste was bitter and acrid and absolutely nothing like you'd imagined your first kiss to be.
You loved it. You loved it because it was him. Because he was giving you something your father tried to beat out of you.
He pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes. "You shouldn't do this with anyone else. Only me. Promise me."
"I promise."
You promised. You'd promise him anything.
He never lets you drink with anyone else. He's always there—leaning against the wall at the party you didn't really want to go, watching from the truck when your "friends" invite you out, texting you to check in, to remind you he's waiting, to ask if you're okay, if you need him, if anyone's bothering you.
Your friends don't like him.
They say he's broke. They say he's creepy, the way he just there, the way he never talks to them. They say he's too old for you—what does a grown man want with a girl like you? They say he didn't finish his education, that he's going nowhere, that he's dragging you down with him.
"Oh my god, why is he always there? It's suffocating."
Because he loves you.
That's why he's always around. That's why he waits outside your job at the diner to walk you home. That's why he knows your schedule better than you do. That's why he once followed a guy three blocks because he catcalled you and you never saw that guy again. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't want to know. You just felt safe.
People don't want to be around people they don't like, right? Your father never wanted to be around you. Your mother took extra shifts just to avoid the house. Your friends stopped inviting you places long before he came along.
"What do you mean he doesn't want you to drink with us? That's controlling."
Shut up.
You don't know shit.
You don't know anything.
Your so called friends are just a bunch of spoiled cunts who've never felt the weight of a grown man's fist. They've never hidden in a closet and prayed for the footsteps to pass. They've never learned to read the temperature of a room by the way a door slams. They don't understand what it means to be really alone, and they don't understand what it means to be saved.
He doesn't want you drinking with them because they don't know how to take care of you. They'd let you get sick. They'd let you wander off. They'd let someone slip something in your cup and then say "oh my god that's so crazy" the next morning while you piece yourself back together alone.
He would never let that happen.
So yeah. Controlling. Sure. If "controlling" means "would die before letting a single bad thing touch you ever again," then fine. Call the police.
They don't understand.
But he does.
He was the one who got rid of your dad's body after all.
You didn't mean it.
You really didn't mean it.
It wasn't even a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A flinch. A lifetime of fear exploding outward in one desperate motion. Your father was beating you again. With his belt. The iron buckle caught the light every time he raised his arm, and it came down on your back like a brand. It made your back bleed. You could feel the wetness soaking through your shirt, sticky and hot.
He had you by the hair. Ripping it out in chunks. Your scalp screamed. You couldn't see straight. You couldn't breathe. You never understood why he hated you this much. You still don't. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people are just born into the world already burning, and the flames have to go somewhere.
And you were so tired.
You'd had a headache all day. A migraine, probably, from stress and hunger and the fact that you hadn't slept more than three hours in two days. And he kept ripping your hair out, and the pain was everywhere, and your vision was going white—
So you pushed him.
Not hard. Just a shove. Just a desperate, flailing attempt to make it stop.
But he was drunk. He was always drunk. And he was standing at the top of the stairs. And his balance was gone.
And he fell.
He didn't even scream. Just a grunt of surprise, then the sound of his body hitting the steps one by one by one. Then silence.
He died.
Just like that.
The blood spread so fast. It painted the floorboards black in the dim hallway light. His neck was bent wrong, his eyes open and empty.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in and your hands wouldn't stop shaking and the blood was still spreading, creeping everywhere like a living thing.
So you called him.
You didn't even think. Your fingers dialed his number before your brain caught up. He answered on the first ring. He always does.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. He just said "I'm on my way." and hung up.
He came in through the back door. He saw the body. He saw you, trembling, still holding the phone. And he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just walked over, stepped carefully around the blood, and pulled you into his chest.
"Hey. Look at me. Look at me."
You couldn't. You were staring at the body. At what you'd done.
"No," he said, and his hands cupped your face, forced your eyes to his. "Don't look at him. Look at me. Only me. Okay?"
Okay.
"Good girl. Now listen. You're going to go upstairs and take a bath. Lock the door. Don't come down until I tell you. Can you do that?"
You nodded. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.
"Good. Go."
But your legs were giving out and your vision was blurring and he had to carry you.
He ran the bath himself. Checked the temperature with his elbow—gentle, so gentle—and helped you out of your ruined shirt. You were too numb to be embarrassed. He didn't look at you with pity or disgust. He looked at the gashes on your back, the old scars layered beneath the new ones, and his jaw tightened so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. But his hands were feather light when he cleaned the wounds, when he helped you into the warm water and told you to stay there until he came back.
"I'll take care of everything," he said, and kissed your forehead. "Everything's alright."
Then he went downstairs.
You heard things. Sounds. Thumps. The back door opening and closing. The truck engine starting, then fading into the night. And then nothing. Hours of nothing while you sat in the cooling water and shivered and prayed—to God, to the universe, to anything that might be listening.
Please don't let them find out.
Please don't let them take me away.
Please don't let him get caught.
Please.
Please.
Please.
When you came back downstairs, the body was gone. The floor was clean. The bleach smell was so strong it burned your nose, but there was no blood. Not a single drop. Your father had vanished from the world like he'd never existed.
Your mother asked you where your dad was and you said you don't know. She looked at you for a long moment—too long—and you felt your stomach drop, but then she just nodded and went back to her phone. She didn't ask again. Not the next day, and not the day after. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was just grateful. You never found out.
You couldn't sleep for days. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fall. The sound. The way his neck bent. So you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, praying to gods you didn't believe in.
And then one day, he came back. Like nothing had happened.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into the heat of his chest, pressed his lips to your hair.
"Look," he whispered.
You looked.
Huh?
"I got you the shoes you wanted."
That made you break down—heaving sobs that tore out of your throat like they'd been waiting years to escape. He held you. He didn't shush you. He just let you soak his clean shirt with tears and snot, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, careful to avoid the bandages.
"I've got you," he whispered against your hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. No one."
You believe him. Because he's the only person who's ever protected you.
Your friends still don't understand. They send you texts about "red flags" and "power imbalances." They don't know that he's the only reason you're still alive. That if he hadn't picked up the phone that night, you might have just lain down beside your father's body and let the cold take you too.
But he did pick up. He always picks up.
He's the only one who loves you like this. The kind of love that wraps around your throat like a warm scarf and you can't tell if it's keeping you safe or cutting off your air. But the truth is, you don't even care.
It's been two years now. Your father's case is still open, technically, but no one is looking very hard. The house got sold. Your mother moved away. You moved in with him, into that tiny studio with the broken ceiling fan and the mattress on the floor. It's not much. But it's yours.
You have a ring on your finger now. It's not a diamond—he couldn't afford that—but it's silver, tarnished, old. He found it at a pawn shop, he said. Something about the way he said it made you think maybe he didn't. Maybe it belonged to someone. Maybe he took it. You don't ask.
"I'll get you a real one someday," he promised, sliding it onto your finger with those grease stained hands. "When I've saved up. When things are settled."
You told him it was already real. You told him you didn't need anything else.
His smile almost reached his eyes that day.
He works during the day. You stay home. He says you don't need to work—he'll take care of everything. He's never been controlling about it, exactly. He just says it's safer this way. That the world is full of people like your father, people who will see your softness and try to crush it. He's protecting you.
You're not sure when "I love you" started to sound like "don't leave the apartment." You're not sure when "I'm the only one who understands you" started to feel less like comfort and more like a cage.
But maybe cages aren't so bad. Maybe safety is worth the bars.
Sometimes, when he's asleep, you think about leaving. You think about taking what little money you have and catching a bus to somewhere far away, somewhere you've never been, somewhere no one knows your name or what you did. You think about starting over. Being normal. Free.
But then he shifts in his sleep and reaches for you, even unconscious, his arm curling around your waist like you're something precious.
And you stay. You always stay.
Because you love him.
You love him so much it terrifies you.
Because if he ever left—if he ever decided you weren't worth the trouble—you would have nothing. Less than nothing. You would have the memory of what it felt like to be held, and the knowledge that you could never go back to the cold. He is your everything. And the most terrifying part, the thought that keeps you awake at night when he's not there, isn't that he might hurt you.
It's that you would let him.
If he wanted to. If he decided one day that you owed him more than gratitude. If his hands, which have only ever been gentle, turned into something else. You would let him. Because he's earned it. Because you owe him everything. Because after what you did, who else would ever want you? Who else could ever look at you and see anything but a murderer?
Only him.
Only ever him.
Your friends don't understand.
But it's okay.
You stopped talking to them months ago. With his help. He said it was better this way. He said they were toxic. He said they made you feel bad about yourself. He was right. He's always right.
