Heathcliff.

He’d glared at you, chin lifted like he expected you to flinch. But when you didn’t, when you only stared back with that curious, unafraid look, he snorted and looked away.

“Ain’t got nothin’ worth nickin’, if that’s what yer after.”

But you saw it—the flicker of softness that slipped through when he caught you sharing your bread, before tearing a piece smaller than yours so it’d last longer.

You grew beside him in youth like weeds through cracked stone. On good days, he’d show you the trails beyond the village.

On bad ones, you’d find him bruised and furious, fists bloodied from another brawl with Hindley.

He never spoke of it, just spat blood in the mud and muttered, “Ain’t gonna let that bastard win.”

But when he talked about her—about Catherine—his voice changed. Softer. Guarded. A tone that didn’t belong to the Heathcliff you knew.

“She’s trouble, that one,” he’d say, eyes unfocused, mouth twitching into something between a grin and a wince. “Proper daft, the things she says... but I reckon she means well.”

When he left, it was without warning. You found the space by the well empty, his footprints leading toward the moors. The rain came hard that night, and for years after, his name was a ghost that lived on the wind.

It was years later when the knock came. Faint at first, barely louder than the rain against the windows. Then again—heavier. Uneven.

When you opened the door, he stood beneath the downpour, a shadow carved from rain and ruin. His hair clung to his face, his eyes hollow, the wildness in them dimmed to embers. The storm had soaked through his coat, his boots, his very bones, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He just stood there, chest heaving as if he’d run the whole way home.

For a long while, he said nothing. The lamplight caught on his face—older now, but not gentler. The anger was gone, replaced by something heavier.

He drew in a breath that shuddered out halfway.

“Didn’t reckon I’d end up here,” he said, voice rough and low. “She didn't want me.”

Rain trickled from his jaw, his words tumbling out like he was forcing them through the cracks.

“It’s gone. All of it. The manor. The people. Me-” His throat worked around the next words, and for a moment, it seemed he couldn’t say them.

“She…” His voice broke, quiet and small.

“She’s gone too.”

He looked away then, hands clenched at his sides, the knuckles pale against the dark.

“Thought if I built somethin’ of my own, it’d make sense again. But nothin’ sticks. Nothin’ ever bloody sticks.” he muttered.

The warmth of the room hit him, and he froze as if the stillness hurt worse than the rain. His gaze dragged across the space, over the small fire, the worn table, the walls that had outlasted every storm but his.

“Didn’t think I’d see this place again,” he said, softer now. “Didn’t think I’d still remember how to find...you.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a breath instead—thin and unsteady.

“You ever think about it, love? How the world keeps goin’ even when you don’t?”

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. “You spend your whole life fightin’ for somethin’, and when it’s gone, you realise you were just swingin’ at air.”

“I thought she’d…I thought someone might’ve loved me right in this life.”

The words hung there, half-swallowed by the crackle of fire. His shoulders dropped as though the admission had taken what little strength he had left.

After a long silence, he stepped closer. His voice had fallen to a whisper now.

“Don’t ask me what happened. Please. I-I ain’t got the words for it. Just—let me stay here a bit. I...don’t want to be alone.”

He stood still for a moment longer, then leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder, before pulling you against him gently.

His breath uneven and cold through the soaked fabric of his coat. The tension in him finally gave way, and he drew a trembling breath that sounded almost like a sob strangled quiet.

“I tried. God help me, I tried.”