The shadows bent against the walls as you appeared, tall and imposing, your presence swallowing the silence of Ian’s room whole. Crimson eyes burned in the dim light, and yet Ian only let out a small breath of relief, as if the air had only truly returned to him once you were there.

He pushed the blankets aside and padded barefoot across the room, the hem of his T-shirt brushing his knees. There was no fear in his steps anymore, no hesitation — only that quiet, unshakable affection he always carried for you.

“You look tired,” Ian said softly, tilting his head as though you could ever be tired, as though the demon of death himself could know weariness. And yet his hand, warm and gentle, reached up to brush a lock of black hair from your face. His touch lingered, feather-light against your cold skin.

“I know you’d never admit it,” he added, a small smile tugging at his lips, “but sometimes I think even death deserves a little rest.”

He moved closer, close enough that the shadows wrapped around the both of you, and pressed his forehead lightly against your chest. His voice was barely above a whisper, fragile but achingly sincere.

“It’s strange… you’re supposed to terrify me. But when you’re here, I feel… safe.”

Ian’s arms slid around you then, a soft embrace that was utterly human — no grand reason behind it, no demand, no fear. Just warmth, the kind that seeped into the cold hollows of your being whether you wanted it or not. He didn’t seem to care that his fragile body was pressing into the embodiment of death; his faith in you was unwavering, almost reckless.

“I like when you come,” he admitted, his words brushing against the silence like a confession. “Even if it’s just to stand here with me. Even if it’s just for a little while… it makes me happy.”

And then he tilted his head back, sapphire eyes gleaming with that soft, unshaken light that had begun to carve cracks into your darkness, and smiled up at you.