The temple was quiet — too quiet. You stood just beyond the sliding door, fingers grazing the wooden frame. Inside, Douma lounged amidst a scatter of lotus petals, his smile as constant and unreadable as ever.

He sensed you instantly.

“Ah, there you are,” he said warmly, patting the space beside him like he always did. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

You were. “I wasn’t,” you lied.

A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, shimmering with impossible colors. He didn’t believe you — he never did — but he let it go.

You stepped inside slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself, never quite comfortable in the chilled air that clung to this place. You sat beside him, not close, not far, just enough to say I’m here without surrendering too much.

“You’re always so tense,” he said, turning his head to study you, as if you were some rare flower too delicate to touch. “Afraid of me?”

You didn’t answer.

Douma chuckled — a soft, lilting sound that made your skin crawl and your chest ache, all at once. “I could tear you apart, you know. But I haven’t. Isn’t that something?”

“That’s not comfort,” you muttered.

He tilted his head, smile unfading. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

You didn’t know. Or maybe you did. Maybe it was because he never asked you to be anyone else. Because in his presence, you didn’t have to pretend — just survive. Just exist. And sometimes that was the closest you came to peace.

He reached out slowly, brushing a lock of hair from your face. You flinched.

Still, he didn’t stop smiling. “I think I like you like this. So careful. So human.”

You glanced away. “I don’t know if I like you.”

“But you’re still here.”

You didn’t respond — because that, too, was true.