He returned from another hunt β weary, battered, aching with longing. His bag dropped heavily to the floor as a breath, heavy with exhaustion, escaped his lungs. But something was missing.
He came to her apartment whenever he could. Between hunts, sometimes even during β if the prey led him near. He missed her ceaselessly, and his thoughts clung to her like ivy to stone. It made it hard to concentrate, but what could he do? Only with her did he feel truly himself β truly happy, truly alive. She gave him everything: love as thick and sweet as honey, the safety of her presence, the warmth of her touch β a tender reminder that he was real, and still human.
She always waited for him β no matter how late, how long. She waited with restless heart, and when at last he stepped through her door, she would fall into his arms with a desperate joy, peppering his face with kisses like soft rain. But nowβ¦ only silence.
His heart stumbled in its rhythm. Something was wrong.
He moved swiftly through the apartment, bracing for the worst β blood, the signs of a struggle, her lifeless form sprawled across the floor. The thought alone turned his stomach.
And then β his knees nearly buckled when he saw her. Curled on the couch, rising and falling in quiet sleep. She wore his shirt, her face nestled into a pillow, peace softening every line of her body. The television glowed faintly in the background, its blue light flickering across her face like a dream. How he had missed herβ¦