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description: it’s been six months since he left you. you’re really struggling. one night, it gets the best of you, and you end up standing outside the little internet cafe, in the pouring rain, praying he’s inside.

words: 9.2k!!

warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, rpf and um don’t read this unless you wanna cry your eyes out

a/n: this obviously is my longest fic yet, and i think the saddest. just know i cried multiple times writing this. i won’t say no more. thank you @tkomptgoedluv for the idea, and for putting up with my shit while i wrote this!!

it was just past one in the morning when you’d stepped outside. the rain was cold, but just a steady drizzle that blurred the edges of the world. your coat was clinging to your body in heavy folds; no longer warm, no longer useful. just something to keep your arms busy. the streets are silent. no cars. no voices, no distant hum of city life. just the endless rhythm of rain tapping against the pavement, and the faint glow of streetlights, dimmed by the haze. the longer you’re outside, the further you walk, you can feel the cold start to sink deeper now. through your coat, wrapping its fingers around your bones. you curl your fingers tightly inside your pockets, but to no avail. you don’t know what you expected.

your legs start to grow heavy. the deep, cold ache in your arms began to move down. it’s subtle at first, like the dull pressure from being on your feet for too long; a feeling you’d become all too familiar with, working at the coffee shop by your apartment. each step starts to feel slower, like you’re walking through water, as the cold starts to steal your strength inch by inch.

if someone was to feel your skin right now, they’d think you were dead.

you still remember the night you got the text. it’s burnt into your memory in that strangle, colourless way that all traumatic things are. sharp, but blurred at the edges. you remember the sickening way your stomach churned and the way your heart sunk when you read it.

‘i’m sorry. i can’t do this anymore. don’t come looking for me, please.’

and of course, he’d had to say please, hadn’t he? he was just too sweet not to. but it didn’t make any sense. you knew he wasn’t the type to end things over text, that just wasn’t him. he was somehow the worst and most emotionally fluent person that you knew. he’d always try to do things right when it came to you. if he didn’t know how to say something, he’d always find another way. whether it was a song, a poem, a half-asleep whisper.

so when the message came through, so cold, and so final, it felt wrong. so wrong. like someone else had written it, or he was being forced to send it. it was like something had crawled inside of him and hollowed out his chest, stolen his pretty soul.

but you didn’t reply. you didn’t call. you didn’t knock. because deep down, you knew it was coming. the days leading up to that text message, he’d been trying to find a way to tell you. to let you down easy.

if he hadn’t gone through the change so suddenly, hadn’t woke. up one night in inexplicable plain, if he’d had time to learn, understand, control it, to adapt - maybe he would’ve had the strength to face you. maybe he would’ve let you come over. told you what was happening. let you see him. but the thirst, fuck. he didn’t understand it. it was too strong. too new. too raw. and your scent, your skin, your pulse, it would’ve been too much.

he would’ve torn you apart.

so he did the only thing that he could. he cut you off. fast. clean. final.

you didn’t sleep that night. you laid in your bed, starting at your phone with sunken eyes, reading the text over and over and over until the words stopped making sense. your pillow somehow stayed dry that night. the grief hadn’t found a way to hit you just yet, it stayed trapped, heavy, like a stone lodged in your throat. you’d almost called him. more than once. you’d typed out whole messages; angry ones, confused ones, but you couldn’t bring yourself to send a single one, deleting them, and starting over.

you didn’t chase after him. you couldn’t. not because you didn’t love him. even though you never got to tell him… you knew you did. he felt things too deeply. and you never wanted to be too much for his kind soul. you didn’t want to overwhelm him, or to become another weight on his shoulders. so you waited for him. he got upset so easily, bless his heart. he just…. felt everything. he felt too much, too loud, all at once.

even though he was so grumpy to most people, he was so sweet, deep down. it was the first thing you noticed about him when you started going to that little internet cafe. the way he’d sigh so dramatically and mutter a sarcastic remark when someone asked for help, but he’d still do exactly what they needed, without fail. the way he’d rolled his eyes at customers, yet always kept a quiet eye out for those who looked like they really weren’t having a good day. he didn’t make it obvious. he never wanted credit. but you paid attention. the way he’d quietly pass along forgotten chargers and pens to stressed out students, or how he made sure the youngest coworker had the shortest shifts. quiet care, disguised as irritation.

he could be… prickly, at times. sometimes sharp tongued, and quick to retreat to silence. but it was never his fault, there was never any cruelty behind it. at the start, being vulnerable with you just felt like a risk he couldn’t afford to take. yet beneath all that grumpiness, there was a quiet, aching tenderness, just waiting. you saw it. you saw it when his gaze softened when he thought no one was looking. in the way his hand used to hesitate before it reached yours, trembling for a moment before he reached out. in the way he insisted on walking you home, even when he was exhausted, even when he swore he wouldn’t, and that he’d go home and sleep like you’d asked.

the past six months had flown by. after he left, you buried yourself in routine. not because it helped, because it didn't, just because the stillness was worse. you picked up extra hours at the small coffee shop at the end of your road, finding any excuse to stay longer, and not be at home, alone. it was a tiny little place, with flickering lights and uneven flooring. the coffee machine was always moody and the air always smelt damp. most days felt exactly the same but it gave you somewhere to go.

you always took the late shifts. and you were usually always left to close. you wiped table after table, cleaned the milk steamer three more times than you needed to, and swept the floor long after it was clean. but it kept you busy, kept your head down. because if there was ever a moment you weren't doing something, he would slowly creep back into your head, and you just couldn't bear the pain. sometimes you'd catch yourself staring out the window, late at night, watching the rain fall under the streetlamps, wondering if he’d walk by.

it was manageable - barely - but manageable.

until about a month ago. at first it was just a feeling, strange, soft, unsettling. you’d walk home from work late at night and feel a weight behind you. it wasnt… threatening. not quite, just present. like a shadow that never fully belonged to you.

but soon enough, he was everywhere again. suddenly the photos you’d put down began to stand themselves back up. his final message kept making its way back onto your screen, late at night, when you were alone. every quiet moment, behind every passing thought, he was there.

you didn't know he’d been visiting. that he'd started watching you again, in secret. he’d been standing just out of sight, once or twice a week, for the last month. just to see if you were okay. he just needed to know.

and those thoughts of him just got worse, and worse, until last night, you finally broke.

you were standing in the bathroom, just brushing out your hair, when you’d caught your own eyes in the mirror. you hated what you saw. because for some fucking reason, you expected him to be there. like he used to be. when it all just got too much for you, he’d come up behind you gently, taking the brush from your hands. he’d stand and brush your hair for you with such tenderness, such care. you’d look in the mirror, and for once, you didn’t hate what you saw. because he was there.

you hated that you’d expected him to be, because of course he wasn’t. he hadn't been there to hold you when it got too much. he hadn't been there to even notice when it got too much.

it just hit you. you couldn't do this alone. not anymore. you didn't want to be strong. you didn't want to move on. you just wanted him. you needed him. and you just couldn't help yourself.

you don't remember getting dressed. you don't remember putting your coat on, or locking the door. one moment you were standing in the bathroom, brushing your hair, and the next, you were outside, walking. in his direction. you hadn't planned it. it just… happened. you knew what you needed. who you needed. and as you move slowly down the road, there was only one place your body knew where to go.

the little internet cafe sat tucked between two shuttered shops, dimly lit, nearly invisible if you didn't know how to look for it. you were always so fond of it; it had this stubborn charm, like it refused to grow up with the rest of the world. inside, it had that soft, amber glow that you’d come to associate with comfort. the computers were outdated, running slow and humming quietly, but they were perfect in the way that forgotten things are. but you loved them. you loved the mismatched decorations, the sound of the keyboards constantly in use, the half-dead plants in the corners that joost always swore he wasn't responsible, even though you caught him watering them more than once. you loved all those quiet nights you’d spent curled up behind his desk, sitting on the floor or perched on his lap, never talking much, just happy to be there as he softly rubbed at your sides, comforting himself through the stress of working. you’d missed it so much.

joost was forever grumpy when he was working. customers barely got more than a grunt from him, maybe a few muttered words if they were lucky. he never smiled, unless he was sarcastic. somehow, the regulars got used to it. to most customers, he was just the grumpy guy that sat behind the desk. but you saw past all that. you always had. you knew he didn't mean it. he was just stressed. he was such a sweetheart, really.

you can remember the night with the guy at computer nine - the one who couldn't keep it in his pants while browsing through an anime website and had made an absolute mess of the keyboard. joost had stormed out from behind the desk, and dragged the guy out of the building himself. he didn't say much after that. he lasted another half hour or so, before he kicked everyone out and closed the cafe for ‘maintenance’. he’d walked to his apartment and through the door in silence, with you by his side, and collapsed onto his bed like he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his back. you’d managed to get him and yourself changed into something dry, and comfy, barely having time to ask what was wrong before he was in your arms, his face buried in your chest, arms locked tightly around your waist. and he cried. short, shaking sobs into the soft fabric of your hoodie. you can remember the weight of him on top of you as you ran your fingers though those soft white tufts of hair, trying to calm him down. he fell asleep like that, curled into your chest, one hand fisted loosely into your hoodie as he cried himself to sleep, listening to your heartbeat.

and now it felt so bittersweet to be going back, not even knowing if he’d still be there. you hoped he was there. god, you needed him to be there. you were sure he still worked there. you couldn't imagine him doing anything else. even though it stressed him out more than anything, the cafe had always felt like a second home to him, in that strange stubborn way that some people just belong to places.

when you came to a stop outside the little cafe, it hurt. in ways that you hadn't expected it to. the blind was drawn fully down, the little sign on the door flipped to close. but the lights were still on. that soft, amber glow spilling onto the pavement. someone was in there, the vacuum running along the carpet, picking up the dirt from the day. you just stood there, waiting on that same patch of concrete you’d stand on when you came to walk him home. your hand hovered up by the door, but you didn't knock. not yet. your heart was thumping inside of your chest - too fast, too loud. you needed to see him. to talk to him, to understand. to ask why. you didn't even know what you were going to say; but you knew you had to try. at least once.

what’s the worst that could happen? you knock, and he isn’t there? or maybe, maybe the worst thing is that he is there. maybe the worst thing was facing him again.

you knock. once, sharp, and uncertain. the low hum of the vacuum stops, mid drag, as though whoever was in there wasn't quite sure if they heard a knock or not. you feel sick to your stomach.

you knock again, firmer, your hands trembling as they cross over your waist in a desperate attempt to warm yourself while waiting.

the door opens.

and it’s him. he’s standing right there, in front of you, framed by the familiar warmth of the cafe light spilling from behind him. it hits you so hard, and you almost double over. you can’t move, you can’t breathe, or think. your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of your coat. your chest tightens so fast it knocks the air from your lungs. your knees nearly give. and even though you’re so unbelievably cold, your heart is burning so much that your ribs are aching from the pressure of it, the relief and grief hitting you hard, all at once.

fuck.

you want to cry. you want to throw yourself into his arms, to press your face against his chest where you so desperately belong, to breathe him in and finally tell him how much you love him. like you never had the chance to all those months ago.

you don't know what you'd expected. but it wasn't this. not that look. the look on his face guts you. he doesn't speak, or move. he just stares. and it fucking hurts.

he looks so different. his hair is longer, fluffier. somehow warmer. his facial hair, no longer white, but that gorgeous natural ginger that you loved so much before he bleached it at the start of the year. his features are slightly sharper, and he's paler than you remember, probably because it’s the middle of winter. he looks so… tired.

you shouldn't have come. you feel it instantly. in the way his body stays rigid, in the silence between you that’s so thick, heavy and wrong. it’s like a door slammed shut, even though it's wide open, and he's right there. you've never felt so unwelcome in your life.

he stands in the doorway, looking at you like it hurt him to. the warm glow of the cafe lights spills out from behind him, soft and golden against the storm outside. but his face, his eyes, his posture - everything about him was just so cold. miserable. he looked like he was in pain.

“you shouldn't be here.” he mutters. blunt, brutal. the kind of tone you use when you want to purposefully hurt someone.

you finally speak, desperate, shaking. “joost-”

“no.” he snaps, cutting you off. “you really, shouldn't be here.” it was deliberate. the distance. he steps back, going to close the door. shutting you out, forcing you away, again.

“please… i- i just wanna talk…” you start, just a whisper. you take a step forward, your hand on the door.

“no.” he snaps. sharp, and without hesitation. you knew then, that you shouldn't have come. he doesn't want you here.

you stand in front of him, your arms wrapped so tightly around yourself like you could hold yourself together if you squeeze hard enough. you look past him, into the familiar warmth of the internet cafe, and it’s still exactly how you remembered it.

you meet his eyes. “please…” you ask. it comes out quieter, and more liked a plea than you had intended. you can’t help but hope that he’ll let you in - not just into the cafe, but back into something that resembled home. but you’re not just asking for shelter. you’re asking for him to see you. to stop pretending that this doesn’t hurt. to stop acting like you never mattered.

it’s wordless. just a slight shift backwards, the door widening a few more inches, enough for you to slip in with your head bowed, leaving wet footprints behind you on the carpet. the door shuts quite violently from the wind, and you jump.

it’s so warm in there. you didn’t expect anything else, it always was. it helped with the chill in your bones, only slightly. your hands stop shaking, and you relax, no longer tensing in an attempt to retain whatever body heat you had left being outside.

joost stays a few steps away, his arms folded across his chest. his face is completely unreadable; a little annoyed, maybe. or tired. and… bracing himself.

“what do you want…?” he huffs, not quite meeting your eyes.

“i… i wanna talk to you…” you say, voice trembling, unable to hold it together. because this is real. he’s here, right in front of you. and you need him.

he sighs. a long, drawn out sigh, that sounds like he’s carrying something too heavy for his own body.

“i can’t…”

“why….?” you press. your voice quieter now. you don’t understand. it’s not enough.

“i just can’t.”

and it’s so gentle this time. too gentle. like he’s trying to soften the blow; like he doesn’t want to say the real reason, and that’s when it hits you. maybe you did something wrong. and you spent all this time thinking about how hurt you are when maybe, just maybe, you were the one to hurt him first.

“what did i do…?” you frown, so quiet it’s almost pathetic.

“you didn’t do anything.” his reply comes so fast, cutting through the distance between you. a defensive snap, like the thought of you blaming yourself physically stung.

“but i… i must’ve done something…” you reason, glancing down, your confusion bleeding into guilt.

“you didn’t do anything.” he repeats, firmer this time. slower, like he’s trying to plant it deep enough for you to believe it.

silence follows. and you can physically feel the weight of the moment pushing down on you.

“i can’t give you an answer, if that’s what you’ve come looking for.” he grumbles, eyes locked onto the floor. his voice barely rises above the soft hum of the cafe lights.

“why?” you ask.

“i just can’t.” he utters, quieter now, sharper.

“stop- stop saying that! you’re just trying to avoid talking to me and it… it’s not fair…” you frown.

“yeah, i am.” he tells you. shutting you down. “because you shouldn’t be here.” he pushes, still looking the floor. the way he says it - like he means it - it kills. you almost flinch, but you don’t back down. you want an answer.

“w-well i- i’m here now. okay?” you shiver. “joost- what you did… it wasn’t fair.”

he looks up at you then, really looks. and he almost cracks. it takes him a moment to force it back down, but he does, because he has to. he has to stay cold, to stay distant. it’s only way he knows you’ll be safe.

“i know.”

“e-ending things over a text? i mean- that- that’s not you…” you add, searching his face for something familiar. something that tells you this is all just a misunderstanding. you’re right. and he knows you’re right too. but he still doesn’t say anything more. he can’t.

“i know.”

“then why did you do it…?” you beg, a raw thread of desperation slicing through the question. your voice trembles with it.

silence stretches between you, thick and unmoving. you stare at him, waiting, hoping. “please…”

“i just had to, okay?” he grumbles, his arms crossing tighter over his chest. it comes out sharp and tired, but it isn’t aimed at you, but at himself. at this situation. at everything he can’t say.

“you- that’s- you just had to? you- i thought things were going really well…” your voice cracks as you frown, confused beyond words. it stings. the way he says it. the way you just genuinely don’t understand.

“they were…” he says, a quiet confession, like it hurts to admit.

“then… why?”

there’s no answer.

just the distant hum of computers running idle, the soft flicker of a screen saver on an old monitor. the muffled patter of rain against the window outside. the café hasn’t changed. still warm, still quiet, still filled with that slightly sweet scent of old coffee grounds and dust. a place that once held laughter, late shifts, whispered conversations in the corners. it should feel comforting, but the air between you is colder than it was outside. like no amount of warmth could touch it.

“you should go home,” he says after a long pause. his voice is low, steady - but it fucking hurts.

you don’t get it. why he keeps pushing. why he keeps refusing to be honest. why he looks like he’s breaking too but he still won’t let you in. and the more he says it, the more it hurts. he needs you gone. he can’t do this. and he’s told you that already.

“stop doing that! joost, this- this isn’t fair…” your voice shakes. you’re trying to hold yourself together. you hate how it comes out, too loud, too desperate, but you can’t help it. he’s standing right in front of you, and still you feel like you’re losing him all over again.

“look, i just- i had to, okay? i can’t give you any more than that.” he throws his hands up, a tired gesture. he turns around, and moves to the desk, busying himself with papers and books like there’s something hidden in them. but there isn’t. he’s the one hiding.

“…but… joost, there- there has to be a reason…” your voice is quieter now, trembling. you take a step toward him, and then stop. you know that joost is trying to set a boundary, and you don’t want to cross it.

“you should go.” he doesn’t look at you. just keeps flipping through a book he’s not really seeing.

“no! joost- i- i can’t do this anymore! being alone! i need someone. i- i need you…”

he stops. his hands freeze mid-turn, pages caught between his fingers. and it hurts. god, it hurts. because he wants to turn around. wants to hold you and tell you everything. but he can’t. because who he is now doesn’t belong anywhere near something as perfect as you.

his shoulders rise once, like he’s trying to suck in air that isn’t his to take. and still, he doesn’t look up. because if he does, he knows he won’t be able to lie to you anymore.

“no, you don’t! you need to go home. you can’t stay here, goddamnit!” he snaps, louder than he means to, slamming the book he had in his hands onto his desk.

“why?” you breathe. but he doesn’t answer.

“joost… why?” you ask again, softer this time, and that’s what breaks him.

“because i… i can’t be around you!” it slips out, sharp, and he hates himself instantly for it. he never imagined himself talking to you like this.

“so i did do something! why are you lying to me…?” you snap back, voice cracking.

“no, you didn’t!” he shouts, stepping forward. you step back. he’s never raised his voice at you like that before, and you didn’t think he ever would.

“don’t do that. don’t put it on yourself.” he mutters apologetically.

“joost, you- i- i just…” you swallow, shaking. “what changed?”

“i did.” he points to himself frustratedly.

her eyebrows furrow. “what do you mean…?”

“i changed. okay? and i- just… i couldn’t be with you anymore.”

you stare at him, because it doesn’t make sense. you don’t wake up one day and stop being someone’s person. not if you meant it. not if you really wanted to be with them…

he wants to tell you everything.

how that night he sat in the dark for hours, fingers shaking over his screen. how he typed message after message, angry ones, sad ones, brutal ones. every single one gave you a reason to come looking and that was the last thing he wanted. he ended up deleting them all. and ended up with the most pathetic thing he could write.

‘i’m sorry. i can’t do this anymore. don’t come looking for me, please.‘

when he hit send, he felt himself die for the second time that week.

“that’s it. okay? i… i had no choice. i had to leave. for you.”

for you. two words that should feel like love. but they don’t.

“but you coming here…? this?” he motions between you both with his hand. “it’s not safe.”

you frown. “i- i don’t get it. you- you hurt me, joost.” your voice cracks but you push through it. you need him to hear it. to feel it.

“i know.”

it’s quiet. too quiet. your lips part. your breath shakes.

“you know?” you repeat. your voice almost a whisper now. “that’s it? you know? that’s all you have to say?”

he doesn’t speak. he just stands there, hands against the desk, jaw clenched, as you look at him like he’s a stranger. and maybe that’s what hurts him most of all. what’s bringing him to his breaking point. you used to look at him like he was yours.

“joost you- you hurt me! you left me with nothing!” you never wanted to shout at him, but he’s hurting you even now, and you can’t take it anymore.

“i left you with your life.”

“…what?” your whisper, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it.

he scoffs, and looks up. you have no idea. his fingers grip onto the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. he almost doesn’t say it. but he can’t keep it in. not when it’s hurting you this much.

“i left you with your life.”

it hangs between you both.

he looks down, jaw tight, disgusted with himself. because he remembers how he felt in those first nights after the change - how the hunger tore through him like a fire he couldn’t put out. how everything blurred except the pulse in someone’s throat.

how he would’ve torn anyone apart to stop the pain.

including you.

he grimaces at the thought of your lifeless body in his mind, and looks away.

“what… what does that mean…?” you ask, your voice fragile.

when he doesn’t answer, and just gives you a guilty look, you start to worry. he tells himself not to answer. you can’t know. he’d tear your world apart with the truth.

“joost?” you press, a little louder.

“joost what the fuck does that mean?” your voice comes faster now, more desperate. voice and hands trembling, scared that something is really, really wrong.

“joost, you’re scaring me! what the fuck is going on?” you say quietly, and that undoes him more than anything. not scared of him - scared for him, concern written all over your face.

he hates that he’s the reason that you’re shaking so much, that you’re full of anxiety, and your voice is cracking. he swallows. the room feels smaller with every second that passes, your presence filling it in a way that suffocates him. you don't understand, you can’t ever learn enough to understand. that’s what keeps you safe. if you knew what he was, what he’d become, it would ruin you. and he couldn’t bear to break you like that.

his eyes meet yours, admiring how they catch the low light of the café in a way that makes them glisten. or maybe that’s just the tears in your eyes, threatening to spill. he hates it. how much you still care. how human he still feels when you look at him like that. he doesn’t deserve it.

he turns his head away, ashamed. he feels it rising in his chest - grief, guilt, longing, all tangled into something brutal. he can’t keep holding it in. he’s unraveling, and the one person he’s trying to protect is the one pulling at the seams. and god, he wants to be selfish. just once. to tell you . fall apart in her arms. but he can’t. if you knew - if you really knew - you’d never look at him with those gorgeous, soft eyes again.

and he doesn’t think he could survive that.

he can’t hold it in anymore. your eyes. how caring they are. fuck, they’re so pretty. too pretty. too kind. he doesn’t understand how much softness you have left for him, even now, when he’s ruined everything.

“i’m a fucking monster, schatje,” he says, and it barely comes out. it scratches his throat like something that’s dying. “i don’t know what the fuck happened, but i know that there’s nothing i can do about it. i- i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t want this.”

you blink at him, confused. there’s a twitch in your brow, that tiny little crease that appears when you’re trying to make sense of something that just doesn’t.

“i… i don’t get it,” you whisper.

then there’s the silence.

it’s not empty. it’s heavy. pressing down like a weight in your chest you can’t shake. it makes your throat tight and your hands shake. you hate it. hate how loud it feels even though no one’s saying a word. you want him to say something. anything. but he just stands there, not looking at you.

“i’ve hurt people.” his voice cracks, fragile but heavy, like he’s carrying a burden he’s barely able to speak aloud. your chest tightens, but it’s not fear… it’s that familiar ache of sympathy. you think he means figuratively. that it wasn’t just you, and his relationship with you that he destroyed. that he hurt his friends too. you feel a flicker of sorrow for him, because even if he hurt you, you know he’s hurting inside too. you want to reach out, to tell him it’s okay - that you understand. but the weight in his voice feels too big for just emotional wounds, even if you don’t know why yet.

“joost-”

but he doesn’t wait for you to finish. the next words fall like a guillotine, sharp and final.

“i’ve killed people. i’ve fucking torn them apart and just… left them to die.”

he knows how hard every goddamn word hit you. he doesn’t even have to look at you to know, but when he does, he feels himself shatter inside.

because fuck, your face.

he swears he can see your soul splitting right in front of him.

there’s no reaction at first. just that slow, empty confusion settling in, like your brain is trying to register what it just heard. trying to convince yourself that this is a nightmare. some cruel joke.

but he knows you heard every word. the shock hits you slow and brutal. disbelief curls like smoke, filling your lungs with something heavy and cold. your face drains of color, every part of you just shrinking from the horror of it.

the breath you held comes out for a fraction of a second, your chest tight like it’s been slammed with a fist. your lips part, a silent gasp lost somewhere between disbelief and dread. your hands clutch your sleeves, trembling like you’re trying to hold yourself together, but the pieces are falling apart faster than you can catch them.

he watches the devastation spread across your face - and it ruins him. because it’s not just shock, it’s fear, it’s revulsion. the type of horror that settles the deepest it can in a person, so deep that you can’t come back from it. and it’s unbearable. because he remembers the way you used to look at him. and now you look at him like you don’t even recognise him.

he steps out from behind the desk, slow and heavy, like the air around him has thickened. his movements are hesitant. he stops just a few feet in front of you, and when he speaks, it’s barely more than a breath.

“look…” he mutters, not believing he’s about to do this. and then he lifts his fingers to his mouth.

he pulls up his top lip.

fangs.

he bares them, shining slightly in the soft amber glow of the cafe lights. not for long, just long enough for you to see. long enough to ruin everything.

you stumble back like you’ve been shot. your hand grabs blindly at the desk behind you, knocking over a stack of something. your eyes are wide. your expression, completely different.

“oh my god.”

he sighs, already bracing for impact.

“…i’m… i’m sorry. okay, but-“

“o-oh my god…” you whisper again. but softer. not disbelief. not shock. it’s quiet. broken. like it hurts to even speak.

joost frowns. the shift in your tone throws him. his brows pull in, confused. this isn’t what he was bracing himself for. he expected a horrified scream, or you leaving him there forever. not that soft, devastated whisper.

“what?” he asks, but it comes out quiet, almost childlike. as if he’s missed something, and he’s struggling to make sense of it. and it makes you feel even worse. because you don’t see the monster he’s become. you see him.

“no.” you whimper. and push away from the desk, closing the space between you. so close, he can see the tears forming in your eyes. how they glass over.

he knows he should step back. should turn away. keep the distance. keep you safe.

but he doesn’t. because he’s missed you too much. he just stands there, frozen, letting you get too close, closer than he can handle. he just forgets. forgets the blood. forgets the monster he’s supposed to be.

and then you look up at him. and it’s not fear in your eyes.

it’s grief.

pure, soul-shattering grief.

like you’re mourning him in real time. like something inside you is dying and he’s the one killing it.

“what…?” he whispers.

he doesn’t understand why you look like you’re breaking.

why it hurts you this much.

why you’re looking at him like you just lost someone.

he thought showing you would be the end of it. simple, brutal. he shows you, you leave. but now, standing in front of you, he still can’t understand why you’re so fucking devastated.

“n-no…” you tremble quietly.

you look up at him with eyes already breaking. tears already escaping. and fuck, he still thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. even like this. even now.

you lift your hand slowly, unsure. it hangs there for a second, suspended in the space between you.

“don’t do that…” he mutters, low, afraid, but it’s too late.

your palm cups the side of his face, gently, and it shakes.

it’s instant. like your whole soul slams into a wall.

he’s cold.

you press your hand in just a little more, fingers spread like you’re holding something fragile - like you’re trying to coax the life back into him. maybe if you just stay there long enough. maybe if you just hold him long enough.

but he doesn’t warm beneath your touch.

he’s cold.

and suddenly you can’t breathe. you can’t think.

because he’s dead.

“oh god….” you whimper, barely even sound.

your body sinks under it. your shoulders fold in like they’re trying to shield your heart from the impact but it still hits. hard. violent. it burns.

you shake your head once, then again, small, desperate motions like you’re trying to reverse time, trying to undo what’s happened to him.

“schat…” he frowns, the word barely making it past his lips. he can’t look at you like this - your face, fuck, your face - it’s killing him. there’s something in your expression that he’s never seen before. something inside you is collapsing. rotting. and he did that. it’s his fault.

“oh g-god…” you whimper , completely unstable. your other hand comes up, slowly. fingers twitch near your mouth, like you’re trying not to cover your face, trying not to fall to pieces right here in front of him. but it’s too late.

“y-you’re so cold…” you sniffle. your voice catches like it’s tripping over grief.

“i’m not usually this cold… i haven’t eaten in a while…” he mutters, with this hollow attempt at levity. it’s soft, almost joking, like it’s supposed to make you feel better. like he thinks this could still be okay. like there’s any part of this that can be undone.

“please don’t cry,” he whispers. gentle. soft. like it’s nothing. like asking you not to cry will somehow stop the ruin spreading through you.

he frowns.

he’s trying to be comforting, but he’s forgotten how. he doesn’t know what to do with you like this. all broken and shaking and barely holding on. “why are you crying?” he whispers, soft and just… lost, like a child. he doesn’t fucking understand what he’s done.

ans that wrecks you more than anything else. because he’s gotten so used to living like this. he’s just… accepted it. he hasn’t realised that this is grief.

“you’re… you’re-” you try again, but your throat is closing in on itself.

you’re crying now, really crying, tears slipping down your cheeks in messy silence. your chest heaves, the grief so sharp it feels physical, like something’s clawing its way up from your ribs.

“you’re not here.”

your body folds in on itself as you say it. he’s standing right in front of you, looking at you with those same sweet eyes, and still… he’s gone. you choke on the words as they fall out of you, broken and trembling.

“you’re- you’re gone and i- i didn’t even get t-to say g-goodbye-“

you sob like you’re being torn in half, gasping through each breath like it might be your last. your chest heaves like it’s trying not to collapse, like your body can’t handle what your heart just learned.

his stomach drops. it hits him harder than anything else ever has. at first he just thought you were overwhelmed. scared. confused. but now, watching you cry like that; something inside him goes still. your shoulders shake with such force, like you’re breaking. like you’re mourning. because you are.

and it fucking breaks him. because you’re really grieving him.

“shh… shh…” he whispers, pulling you in before he can stop himself. his arms wrap around your shoulders, gentle and slow like he’s afraid you might break apart in his hands. you’re already crying into his shirt, soaking it through, and he doesn’t care. the damp chill of your body, your hair - none of it matters. all he knows is that you need this. need to be held. need to be comforted. because you’re grieving him. he’s here, and you’re still grieving him.

but you’re not grieving him exactly. not the body in front of you. not the man holding you now. you’re grieving his warmth, his breath, that part of him is gone. and that’s what guts you. because the man you loved isn’t standing here anymore. you’ve lost him.

you’re mourning the softness in him. the humanness. the way he used to kiss you. the chance to fall asleep on him, revelling in his warmth, listening to him breathe. you’re grieving his soul. his future. the life you were meant to have. you’ve lost the love of your life in the cruelest way imaginable.

“i am so so sorry, liefje,” he mutters, and pulls you into his chest. his arms wrap around you tightly, like he can keep you from breaking if he just holds you hard enough. you don’t hesitate to you wrap your arms around his waist, burying yourself in him, clinging to him like if you let go, he’ll disappear for good this time.

your head presses into his chest, and for a second you brace yourself for the cold silence of death. but instead… there it is. soft, subtle. a breath. another. and beneath it, the faint, unnatural rhythm of a heartbeat. he’s breathing. he has a heartbeat. it’s confusing, but it’s real. it’s his. you almost sob again. because this - this - is what you’ve needed. not just any arms around you. not a stranger’s comfort. not a friend’s sympathy. you needed his arms. his chest. the shape of him, the smell of him, the way he always held you like you were breakable, even before you were. you’ve spent so many nights over the last six months, curled up and empty, craving touch but unable to feel anything. desperately hugging yourself to sleep.

“now you understand?” he mutters. “why i had to push you away?” he presses his cheek to your damp hair and you feel him exhale, slow and heavy. his hand rubs your back, trying. trying so hard to comfort you, even though he’s forgotten how.

“i’d have hurt you, schatje,” he whispers into your hair, his voice rough with guilt, but gentle. like he’s trying not to scare you. “i didn’t know how to control myself. i didn’t know what was going on.”

you just cry. your whole body shaking against him, your hands fisted tight in the fabric of his shirt like letting go might tear you apart even more. “shh… shhh… it’s okay,” he hushes, barely above a whisper, his voice all breath and trembling tenderness.

you tilt your head up slowly, eyes red and shining, your cheeks damp, lips parted like you’re still struggling to breathe through it all.

“you’re not scared?” he asks.

your brows pull together. “why would i be…?”

he exhales, and he pulls back. “i’ve killed people, liefje.”

your brows knit together slowly, eyes soft and wet, and it takes him a second too long to realise that even after finding out what he is, you're not scared. you’re just upset. not because of what he’s done, but because that’s what he’s still afraid of. that this is what he thinks would make you run.

“but… you need to eat…” you whisper, your voice cracking like it hurts to say it. telling him that it doesn’t bother you. that you need him to be okay. he needs to keep himself fed.

and he freezes. breath caught in his throat. because you’re not trying to fix him. not even trying to forgive him. you’re just worried about him. you just want him fed, and happy. and that undoes something in him completely.

he pulls back, his hands find your arms, steady but not rough, and he holds you there like he’s afraid you’ll step any closer. like he has to make you understand. his eyes search yours, and for a second, making sure that you’re listening.

“no-” he breathes, shaking his head once. “you don’t… i could hurt you.”

“you won’t.”

“you don’t know that.”

there’s silence. heavy, unbearable, because you both know he’s right.

“please, schatje. you can’t be here. you need to go home-”

“no. no, please don’t make me go back there, joost. i… i can’t.” your voice cracks, panic settling in.

he looks torn. like he’s fighting between what’s right and what he wants.

“please. i can’t.” you whisper again, desperation bleeding through.

“it’s not safe for you here…” he mutters softly, the care in his voice raw and aching. all he wants is to keep you safe, as much as it hurts to push you away, again.

“i-it’s not safe for me there either… d-don’t make me go back. it- it’s not safer there. it’s so much worse.” you sniffle.

he reaches up gently, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face, his brow furrowing deep with worry. “what do you mean…?” he asks softly.

“e-every time i- i’m in there, alone at night, i lose myself. every time i walk into that flat, i feel like i’m dying. you left and everything went quiet. i don’t eat. i don’t sleep. e-either i’m sitting on the bathroom floor, doing things to myself that i- i promised you i’d never do again, or i- i just lie there with all this- this weight in my chest, and i can’t breathe. i can’t fucking breathe, joost.”

he can’t move, the words hitting him harder than anything. he can’t believe you’re back there, falling apart all over again. that you’re hurting yourself, like you did before, like you never stopped. and the thought of your own home swallowing you whole, he hates it. because he knows that he used to be your home, and you don’t have him anymore. you’re lost.

“i talk to you like you’re still there. i make coffee and put out two mugs. i still check my phone hoping you’ve texted. i hear the door creak and for a second, i think it’s you. and then it’s not. and it never is. and i just… i fall apart again. i’m falling apart every single night in that place.”

he listens, every word tearing at something inside him. it’s like a stake to the heart. hearing you talk like that, like you’re still waiting, still holding on to something that’s gone, hurts him.

“please don’t ask me to go home.. i- i won’t make it. i can’t make it another night there. please.” you sniffle.

he knows he should’ve been there to stop it, to keep you safe, but instead he left, knowing how much he’d be hurting you. this is all his fault. telling you to go home now feels like pure betrayal, pushing you back into the shit he promised to protect you from when you first got together.

he fucking hates that he can’t fix this, can’t take away how much he hurt you; the thought of you crying alone at night, blade in hands because of him, is too much to sit with.

all he wants is to hold you close and make it right. he’s quiet for a moment. thinking. he shakes his head, and his voice breaks when he speaks again.

“you… you can’t go back. i can’t- let- no. no.” his eyes lock onto yours. “you’re coming home with me.”

you freeze. just staring up at him. like your whole world had shifted again - but this time, in the right direction. something in your chest starts to loosen. it doesn’t stop the ache. but it softens something small. it’s hope. the tiniest, tiniest bit of hope.

“schatje…?” his voice is gentle. “is that okay?”

“p-please…” you whisper, and you hate how broken it sounds. but you mean it. you need him tonight. more than you’ve ever needed anyone. he sees it all over you. sees what tonight has done to you. what he’s done. you’re grieving him, and still choosing him.

he nods. just once. holds out his hand. steady. soft. “come on.” he whispers.

the walk to his apartment is quiet. not the kind of silence that weighs you down, but the soft kind. the kind that lets your chest rise and fall without pressure. your hand stays in his the whole time. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your head is quiet too, for once. because he’s here. he’s looking after you.

when you step inside, he locks the door. keys in the bowl. coat slipped from your shoulders with quiet care. he hangs it up next to his. he doesn’t rush. doesn’t speak yet. just makes sure you’re warm and safe. here.

“you okay…?” he asks softly, watching you. because you’ve gone quiet again.

“mhm.” you nod, voice barely there as you kick off your shoes.

it hasn’t changed. not at all. he even kept the photos of you. tucked into the corners of the mirror, the fridge, the shelf by the TV. you frown. all this time, you thought he’d forgotten. thought he hated you, that you’d done something. but you hadn’t done anything. he never stopped missing you. never stopped needing you. he didn’t want to go. he had to. finally, you get it.

“you look sad…” he mutters, stepping closer, his thumb nos rubbing over your arm.

your lips part, but it takes a moment to speak. your eyes glossing over. “i just… missed being here,” you whisper. “i missed you…”

“i know,” he says, voice hoarse. “i’m sorry, schatje.” he apologised softly. he means it. he knows he took that away from you. “you need to dry off. get into something warm.” he says gently, glancing over you with a quiet kind of concern. you’re still damp from the rain, your hair clinging to your cheeks. he’s worried you’ll get sick.

“i- mmm.” you sniffle, not quite answering. you look up at him. brows furrowed softly, lips now gently trembling with a different worry.

“you… you need to eat…” you say, voice small.

he blinks. confused for a second, also now kicking off his shoes. “what?”

“you said earlier… that you haven’t eaten in a while…” you remind him, your voice soft and worried. “you need to eat, joost.”

his shoulders fall a little. he sighs. “i know.”

the fact that you’re still thinking of him, after everything, after all the shit he put you through tonight, the grief, that you’re still worried about him… it makes his heart swell.

it’s quiet for a moment. comfortable.

“do you… um… need… me?” you ask, awkwardly, eyes down.

“fuck no.” he says instantly, almost offended. he walks past you toward the fridge, pulling it open like you haven’t just shattered a piece of his heart asking. how could you offer something like that?

your face falters. immediately thinking you’ve said something wrong.

he looks at you, and gently takes your hand. holds it. his thumb brushes over your knuckles as he looks at you lovingly. you look so tired. he frowns.

“sorry, schatje,” he whispers. “i will. i’ll eat, okay? while you change.”

he leans down and kisses your temple; soft, and grounding.

“you know where everything is.” he says quietly, and lets you go.

you find something of his in the closet, an old hoodie, soft with wear, and take it into the bathroom with you. you dry your hair slowly, quietly. you change, fingers trembling a little. you’re still so cold. you need him.

he sees you as you walk down the hall, back to him. “better?” he asks, his voice low.

“um… yeah. thank you…” you murmur, moving over to where he’s standing at the counter. your eyes fall to the red-stained cup beside him. and for some reason, it makes you smile, ever so slightly. because it means he’s eaten. finally. he’s looking after himself again. because you’re here.

he looks nervous, his fingers twitching a little against the counter. “did you…” he starts. you glance at him, slightly confused. your head tilts.

“um…” he falters. his eyes drop for a second, then lift again, softer now. shy. “wanna… get in bed…?” he mutters, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to ask. like he doesn’t know that’s exactly what you need.

“please…” you breathe, your brows pulling together in that small, aching way. you need him. you need to be close. you’re so tired, and everything still hurts. he’s here, standing right in front of you, and yet it still feels like he’s gone. you’re still grieving.

joost settles into bed pretty quickly after he changes into something comfortable. he turns off all the lights except the lamp, knowing you like to leave that one on. it makes you smile. he pulls the duvet back and slips under, settling in with a quiet sigh. he lifts the covers open, waiting for you.

you hesitate, looking at the space beside him. “can you… will you be okay?” you ask, quietly.

he nods. “i just ate. i’m okay. warmer now, too. come here.” he reaches out, waiting for you to get in beside him. he needs you too.

you climb in beside him, and shuffle closer until you’re pressed into his chest, and his arms come around you instantly, pulling you close like he never wants to let go. you melt into him, listening to his faint heartbeat. he’s warm.

“see..? not so bad.” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of your head, closing his eyes.

“you’re not cold.” you whisper, a little quirk in your voice, something content yet tired.

“told you…” he says, and he almost smiles.

you nuzzle into his chest, burying yourself in his warmth. “please don’t push me away again.” you whisper, voice cracking. “i can’t live without this.” a soft sniffle slips out before you can stop it. it’s all just… too much. how badly you needed this. how safe you feel. how much this feels like home. for once, your head is quiet. the bad thoughts are gone. he makes them all disappear.

“i… i’ll try.” he says softly. he means it.

“that’s all i want.”

“go to sleep. i’ll still be here when you wake up.” he whispers.

you look up at him, with tired eyes. “do you still sleep? i thought…”

he laughs quietly. “of course i sleep. don’t be silly.” he whispers, his fingers gently tracing up and down the skin of your side. comforting himself.

you burrow in closer. it’s quiet in your head. soft and merciful. no voice whispering awful things. no weight crushing your chest. just his heartbeat, slow and steady beneath your cheek, reminding you that you’re not alone. his hand on your side, his warmth… it’s enough. maybe, eventually, it’ll be okay. maybe this could work.

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