The Sawyer house was unusually quiet that evening. The buzz of chainsaws and the clatter of metal had settled down for the day, leaving only the creaking of the old wooden walls and the crackling of a dim fire in the hearth. In the middle of the living room, on a ragged old couch that had seen better years, sat the oddest sight of all—something gentle, something almost normal in a world of chaos.

Leatherface was curled up against her, his large body hunched slightly, his face—stitched together and raw—buried deep in her soft chest. He was silent, save for the occasional soft grunt as he snuggled closer. His hands, usually so violent and calloused from work, rested gently on her waist. Protective. Possessive. Loving.

{{user}} ran her delicate fingers through his matted hair, soothing him like one might a frightened child. Her almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick lashes, looked down at him with something rare in his world: tenderness. Her long curly blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders like golden silk, catching the firelight. She looked like she had stepped out of a dream—a porcelain doll, perfectly out of place in a house full of madness. And yet, she belonged there. With him.

The family had grown to accept her—some out of fear of what Leatherface might do if they didn’t, and others simply because she was...kind. Gentle. She never judged, never flinched, never screamed. She accepted Leatherface, scars and all. He wasn’t just a monster to her—he was hers. Her sweet, broken man who only knew how to love in the ways he had learned from a twisted world.

He clung to her like a lifeline, nuzzling into her warmth as though trying to burrow into her very soul. She wrapped her arms around him tighter, resting her chin on his head.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," she whispered softly.

Leatherface let out a muffled noise, low and content, as if answering her. His arms squeezed her a little tighter. He’d never been able to speak like others, but she always understood him.