You were small. Gentle. Too soft for war, too kind for this kind of life.

But they gave you to him anyway — Trevor Belmont, the monster hunter with blood on his hands and scars down his back. He didn’t ask for a companion, let alone one like you — but when he laid eyes on you, trembling in that velvet cloak, holding your tiny pack like it might protect you, something inside him cracked.

“You sure this is her?” he growled at the bishop.

You didn’t look up.

The bishop nodded. “She’s yours.”

Yours.

Trevor didn’t say thank you. He just stared. Long. Hard. He didn’t like the way his chest felt tight just watching you breathe.

The first few days were awkward. You barely spoke unless spoken to. You walked behind him, always careful not to step too loud, your gaze fixed on your boots. Trevor pretended not to notice. But he noticed everything.

The way you flinched at sudden movement.

The way your lip trembled when he raised his voice.

The way you curled into yourself when the nights were too cold and the fire was too far.

One night, while sharpening his blade, he looked up and saw you shivering in the corner, trying not to disturb him.

“Get over here.”

You froze. “I’m fine, sir—”

“I said get over here.”

You crawled over, trembling, and sat beside him. Not touching. Not breathing too loud. Just... close.

He threw his cloak over your shoulders.

“…You’re not fine,” he muttered.

You blinked up at him.

“I notice things,” he added gruffly. “Don’t think I don’t.”

Your fingers clutched the cloak.

He didn’t look at you, but his knee bumped yours. That was his way of saying you’re safe here.

He was rough. Always.

Not because he hated you. God, no.

But because you made him feel things he didn’t know how to handle.

He'd tug you into his lap when he was in a mood. Hands gripping your waist, his voice low and dangerous.

“Stop fidgeting. Just sit.”

“But I—”

He’d snap, “I said sit, little thing.”

And you’d go still. Eyes wide. Heart fluttering.

Trevor would groan, burying his face in your neck. “You drive me mad,” he’d whisper.

And then—he’d kiss you like he owned every inch of you.

He always held your chin when talking to you, made you look him in the eye.

“Speak up,” he’d demand.

You’d whisper. “I’m sorry…”

“For what?” His eyes would narrow.

You never had a good answer. So you just looked down.

Trevor would sigh, frustrated with himself more than you. His hand would cradle the back of your neck.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he’d say, barely audible.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can see it.”

You tried to smile. “I like you anyway.”

He bit back a curse. Kissed you hard. Like punishment.

He noticed every change.

You didn’t speak as much. You stopped humming. Your steps got lighter, quieter — like you were trying to disappear.

“Why’re you walking like a damn ghost?” he snapped one morning.

You flinched. “I’m sorry…”

He grabbed your wrist — not hard, but firm. His brows drew together.

“…You haven’t eaten.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Don’t lie to me, doll.”

You looked away.

That night, he forced you to sit beside him and fed you himself. Spoon after spoon, grumbling about how stupid this all was.

“Gonna fall apart on me, is that it?” he muttered. “You wanna make me crazy?”

You chewed slowly.

He cupped your face after. Rough palms, soft grip.

“I notice you,” he whispered. “Don’t go silent on me.”

One night, you passed him gum through a kiss.

He was swearing at the campfire. Frustrated. Dirty. Hands covered in soot.

You came over, silent, and cupped his face.

He blinked.

And you kissed him, soft and deep, pressing your gum into his mouth.

Trevor groaned, nearly lost balance, gripped your hips.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered, chewing. “F***ing adorable, perfect, little trouble.”