The night was quiet. Too quiet, considering who you were sitting next to.

Jack leaned against the peeling wall of the half-abandoned house you two were holed up in for the night. It was only illuminated by the low red glow of a makeshift heater and the flicker of a dying flashlight in the corner. The scent of blood, faint antiseptic, and the metallic tinge of tar clung to him like a second skin, but somehow… you were used to it by now.

He sat with one knee propped up, long limbs folded awkwardly in the too-small room. His claws clicked softly against his thigh, that nervous habit he had when he wasn’t quite sure how to sit still. The blue porcelain mask was where it always was—on his face, hiding the disaster beneath. But you knew what was there. The hot tar that constantly dripped from empty sockets. The unnatural, jagged teeth. Those layered tongues. The thing he never wanted you to see for too long.

He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t, really. But you knew he was aware of every inch of your presence. You sat cross-legged a few feet away, watching the way his chest rose and fell slowly, steadily. You’d grown comfortable around each other in the strangest of ways—sharing silence, sharing bandages, sharing warmth when it got too cold for even a demon to pretend it didn’t sting.

And maybe you were a little too comfortable tonight.

You crossed the space between you, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. He didn’t move away, but his breathing shifted—slightly shallow, slightly fast. You knelt in front of him. He didn’t lean forward. He didn’t move at all.

So, with your heart pounding against your ribs, you simply lifted your hand, cupped the side of his porcelain mask—the surface smooth and faintly warm from his skin beneath it—and pressed your lips to it. Gently. Softly.

It was ridiculous, in a way. You weren’t kissing his mouth, or even his face. Just a piece of crafted ceramic, painted in shades of blue and black. But it felt… intimate. More intimate than it should have.