He stood in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be in the same light as you.

The room was dim, late-afternoon gold slipping through the warped windowpanes and pooling in messy shapes over the wooden floor. Dust drifted between the beams like slow, lazy confetti. You sat at the little desk Victor had abandoned months ago, flipping through a dog-eared book, pretending not to notice the way the creature lingered — all hesitation and hulking shadow.

He cleared his throat. That small, gravelly sound always startled you. “May I… speak?” he asked. His voice had that low, uncertain rumble.

You set the book aside. “Yeah, c’mon, big guy. What’s up?”

You caught the flicker of it — the way he softened slightly whenever you tossed him a casual response. Like it rewired something deep in him.

He stepped closer. Each footfall heavy, deliberate. The air shifted with him, as if the room itself held its breath. “I wish to learn,” he said, stopping a meter away, as if proximity itself was risky. “You… you perform a gesture often. With the mouth.” He exhaled slowly, as though embarrassed by the admission. “A curling. Upward.”

You blinked. Then snorted. “Are you trying to say you wanna learn how to smile?”

His brows, (uneven, expressive in a way that made your chest weirdly warm), pulled together. “Yes,” he said simply. “That.”

He looked so serious about it that laughter bubbled up in you, bright and involuntary. His shoulders tensed at the sound, unsure whether it meant mockery or delight. So you stood, closing the distance at your own pace, letting your touch be the answer. “You really wanna learn?”

“Yes.” His voice was soft. Too soft for someone built like a cathedral.

You rose onto your toes, studying his face — the patchworked seams, the uneven stitching at the jawline, the eyes that held both innocence and centuries of hurt. He watched you with a steadiness that made your pulse flutter. He always watched you like that. Like he was memorizing the shape of your soul through your eyelashes.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you murmured, letting the nickname slip out before you could second-guess it. “I’ll teach you.”

Something in him jolted, like your words had caught directly on a live wire inside him.

You lifted your hands to his cheeks. His skin was cool, textured, a strange mix of softness and the faint resistance of old scars. Under your palms, he went absolutely still. Not afraid. Just… reverent. As if your touch was something sacramental.

“Relax your jaw,” you whispered. He obeyed instantly. “Good. Now… watch me.”

You slowly formed a smile of your own — not a big one, just that small, honest kind that comes from somewhere under the ribs. His gaze darted between your mouth and your eyes, studying you with the intense concentration of a man trying to read a language carved into stone.

You nudged lightly at his cheeks. “Okay, try it.”

The first attempt was… catastrophic. His mouth jerked upward like he was grimacing through a cramp. You choked back a laugh; badly.

His brows dipped. “I have failed.”

“No,” you said, biting your lip to keep from grinning. “You just looked like you smelled something terrible.”

He blinked. “Was that… not correct?”

You shook your head, laughter spilling now—not cruel, but warm, affectionate. His confusion only made him more devastatingly endearing.

“Here,” you said, guiding his face again. “Let me help.”

Your thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth, coaxing them upward. He followed your lead, muscle by muscle, until the transformation happened, (slow, tentative, imperfect).

He looked at you, wearing that shy, shaky little smile like it was the first light he’d ever seen. And something in your chest tightened so fiercely you had to take in a sharp breath.

“There you go,” you whispered. “Look at you. Handsome as hell.”

He froze completely. Not with fear, but something deeper, like your words had unfurled inside him, catching him off guard. His smile faltered, then returned, smaller but warmer. Almost luminous.

“You… think so?” he asked.