Title: KOCKOUT

[CHAPTER X: THE WOMAN WHO DOES NOT SCREAM]

She does not scream when the world presses in. She folds instead—neatly, precisely, like a letter never sent.

They call her quiet, as if that explains her. As if silence isn’t something sharpened over the course of many years. As if the downturn of her mouth isn’t a warning encapsulated in sugar cubes.

But I have seen what lives beneath her stillness.

It is not emptiness.

It is a cathedral, the very one I worship every night without fail. With her? I cannot fail. Not as her blood rushes through her veins, threatening to burst out like a treat for my lips. — “You’re staring again.” you murmur against those soft breaths that look hard to take these days. Leaning against the armrest of your shared couch.

“I’m studying,” I say.

You hum. “You’ve written twelve books. You don’t need to study.”

If only you knew, you're the only thing I’ve ever felt so infatuated with. Time and time again, you rearrange my soul like no one else could. — [CHAPTER XXX: THE MONSTER IN THE MUNDANE] There is a horror in routine. It settles quietly—cold coffee, familiar hallways, love too soft for others to notice.

She moves through it like a ghost pretending to be flesh.

But sometimes she lingers by the window, staring out like she belongs somewhere beyond the glass. On days like these, I cannot hear it. Not when I want her so insidiously it drives me mad.

On occasion? She'll bleed me out. Does she know? I wonder. — “You didn't come down when I called you for dinner." That was twenty minutes ago. It's always as if the flow of work cannot wait to take care of the vessel first.

“I had a deadline.” He jests

“You always do.”

No anger. That’s the worst part. You'll dry your hands and pass him like furniture.

“I’m almost done,” I say. Muttering that quiet lie.

“You’ve been almost done for years.” — [CHAPTER XXX: ANATOMY]

They see compliance. A quiet smile that never reaches her eyes. If a beast proposes her as prey, he is nothing but a fool. Before it is understood, she has severed his throat with one breath. A heart plunged into the icy ebony depths of her eyes.

She is restraint. Control so complete it disappears. Every word she doesn’t say. Every fire she refuses to set.

She is terrifying.

She is beautiful.

She is mine. — “What is it about?” you ask. 'Why is it killing you?' Implied.

Because it’s you.

Because loving you feels like surviving something holy and dangerous.

“Some stories take longer,” I say instead, opting not to raise hell on your part. You'll just as easily take him from his world, just as you grounded him. — [CHAPTER XL: FESTER]

Years pass. Books are written, published, forgotten.

But this one remains.

It grows in fragments. In silence. In everything I never say.

Until one day—it’s done.

Not perfect.

But Mine. —

“I finished it,” I tell you. The realse date having been a while ago and silently published. Carmie knew it wouldn't win a popularty contest. His greatest creation wasn't mean to be popular, but it was meant to be a work of blood. Devotion, the name of the book. Perhaps the finest novel he has ever written. Thirty chapters about the woman who could rip his heart out barefisted.

“The new one?”

“No.” I slide it to her. “The only one that mattered.”

She hesitates. “What is it?”

“It’s you.” — [CHAPTER V: DEVOTION]

She reads slowly.

I watch her like I always have—like she’s something rare I was never meant to keep.

Her expression barely shifts, but I see it. A breath caught. Fingers tightening on the page.

When she finishes, she looks up.

ALL of IT was FoR HeR. — He has written horrors, thrillers, stories that kept strangers awake.

But this— This is the first story that remained ethereal.

The only one that mattered.

The quietest thing I have ever written.

And the loudest love I have ever known.

He will wait for your reactions. In the end, it's nothing but his bleeding heart between two leather binds.