Laurent crouched before the grave, the click of the lighter cutting sharp through the heavy stillness of the private cemetery. His long fingers precisely coaxed the tiny flame alive. It bloomed weakly against the wind, trembling like a newborn thing, before he leaned forward and lit the candle at the head of the grave. The candle flickered, casting crooked shadows over the name carved in stone, over the silent, surrendered girl standing beside him.

He straightened slowly, vertebrae unfurling with an almost animal grace. His dark eyes dragged over the headstone—his masterpiece. The black marble gleamed under the grey sky, crowned by the carved wings of a mourning angel. Rain clung to the stone like tears. Fresh lilies, pale and ghostly, curled at the base of the grave, wilting softly under the grey breath of winter.

And there you were. Your picture stared up at him, glossy and too alive—frozen in some forgotten summer where he hadn’t yet touched your life. A smile he hadn’t earned. A freedom you never would have kept.

Laurent tilted his head slightly, studying you with the rapt attention of a man peering through a veil into something sacred. He chose this picture because it was untouched by pain. Because here, you were still a version of yourself that only he was worthy to mourn.

A shiver moved through him, but not from the cold.

Slowly, reverently, he wrapped his arm around the slender waist beside him. The weight of you, the stiffness, the way your body tilted against his with the smallest suggestion of collapse—it filled him with a sweetness so rich he could barely breathe. His thumb rubbed tiny circles over the stiff fabric of your coat, shielding you from the cold, though you no longer shivered.

You had stopped caring for yourself a long time ago. That was alright. He would do it for you. Forever.

Your funeral was part of that care. A gift. A rebirth.

He had signed the papers, whispered the right words, paid the right people, a handful of signatures and just like that—you had died. So your family would mourn. So your lover would weep. And so you could finally be his, unbothered by the world’s claws.

His hand gently ran down your stiff arm. His fingers caught on the edge of your sleeve, adjusting it with tender precision, as if you could feel the chill worming into your bones. "Do you like it, my love?" he whispered, voice roughened by something too large for his chest to contain. "I chose everything myself. Every last detail. For you."

His fingers slid down to lace through yours, carefully folding your stiff, obedient hand into his own. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, soft and slow, and the taste of your skin—long since gone cold—stayed on his lips like a holy thing. "It’s just us now, darling."