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daflangstlairde-art · 1 day ago

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"she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands" 5,334 words

Part 2 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. — Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Killer wasn't sad when first Horror and then Dust ditched their operation.

It didn't happen fast, nor at the same time, but it happened. It wasn't a shock. And he wasn't sad. He wasn't. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

As he stalked the halls of the dark castle, he felt nothing.

It was emptier than ever.

There was no longer Horror to cook warm soup and to splinter wood with a cleaver. He was introduced to some universe of farmboys. He left. He cared for his own universe, which remained alive.

There was no longer Dust to shadow him because company was better than the emptiness. He was harder for those Stars to convince, but apparently, Underfell admired violence and strength. Apparently, he was being “rehabilitated”.

And, well! We all know how Nightmare was. He had always been above them. Killer could linger in his company only if allowed.

There was... nobody.

Nobody.

Just massive, spanning walls of dark, cold stone. The rare slits of light only enough to illuminate the particles of dust in the air, really. It was all abandoned. Silent and dead. Empty.

Desolate.

Familiar.

...Haha. Hahahah.

How funny.

Killer kept ending up in dead ends.

—

He sat at the kitchen table.

He laid down on his bed.

He wandered the halls.

Emptiness of emptiness of emptiness.

Bored.

Killer wasn't sad. Killer couldn't be sad. Sadness was... it was a sincere emotion.

Killer was drowning in the dark, dark depths.

Killer felt emptier than ever.

It's like he wasn't even real.

—

“If you don't get your act straight, you’ll keep messing everything up.” Nightmare growled, tentacles holding Killer aloft and pinned to the wall by his throat.

Missions were boring. It was the same, all the same. Hurting and ruining and sometimes killing. All alone. All repetitive.

But Killer was Nightmare’s one loyal tool left. The only one.

Of course the Stars tried to break him too. Of course they offered many things that... probably sounded appealing to others. Like forgiveness, or help, or freedom.

Killer didn't care about those. Killer didn't care about the Stars. He didn't even know what their deal was! He had never particularly cared, and only really knew the most vague of details. Because none of it mattered to him.

Nightmare was the only thing that mattered. He was all Killer had. All.

...And Killer was all Nightmare had left.

Killer chuckled low, even as the restriction around his throat tightened painfully.

“Anything for you baby,” he teased, because it drove Nightmare up the wall with annoyance. It earned Killer the prize of pain, just like he wanted it to. He was discovering being provocative and crude made people react hilariously.

Missions were a fog. He lacked drive, he lacked interest, he lacked attention. On missions, heck, in everyday life, Killer was in a fugue state.

But he didn't need a brain! He just had to do as told.

Nightmare says kill, you kill.

—

“Why are you still fighting for him?!” Blue yelled, trying to keep up in parrying each of Killer’s violent slashes. “He doesn't care about you! He– he’s awful to you! I don't understand you!”

Killer just started laughing in his face.

Slash, stab, attack and attack and attack. Again, and again, and again and again, repeat upon repeat.

All the same. All meaningless. All horrible.

—

“I heard them talking about some ‘Cross’ guy,” Killer mentioned, twirling a knife, its point against his fingertip.

Nightmare paused in his irritated pacing, and for a moment Killer was sure he would get another “Shut the hell up while I’m thinking” for his generous efforts to help his boss.

Instead,

“...Cross, huh?” Nightmare hummed, considering.

—

They beat the Stars to it and now, once again, after weeks and weeks of emptiness, there was finally someone else in the castle.

And Cross was even fun to poke fun at!

“What’s got you so angsty?” Killer teased, tailing the guy into the kitchen.

“Leave me alone,” Cross dismissed him all huffy. He had this stoic attitude going on. Not very fun, except when Killer got it to crack. He was still exploring which buttons gave him the best reactions — honestly, he didn't know much about this Cross guy, and didn't care particularly to learn about his tragic backstory or whatever.

“I don't think I will,” Killer hummed, as Cross started searching through the cabinets.

“Is this place just empty?” Cross muttered to himself.

“Like my soul,” Killer joked. Ah, a classic.

Cross gave him a flat look and continued searching. “Where is all the food?”

“Oh the guy who did that left,” Killer replied.

“Did... food?” Cross turned around to look at him.

“Yeah, that was his thing,”

“And you... what, don't?”

Killer shrugged. “Nope, I'm not into it,” he chuckled, and Cross groaned.

“Why are you like this?” he demanded, exasperated. “Aren't you, I don't know, uh, in a–” and then he seemed to reconsider his words. Frowning. “...What is the deal with you and Nightmare?”

Killer started laughing so hard he teared up.

Cross disregarded him.

—

Knock-knock-knock at the door. Cheerful as ever. Waiting for the multiple locks on the inside to be unlocked, even when Killer could've just used a shortcut right in. That's to signify he’s coming with no violent intent, or whatever. Well. Minor violent intent maybe, haha.

The door opened, and immediately Red grimaced.

“H–!”

“DUST!” Red yelled to the inside of the house. “NIGHTMARE’S BITCH IS AT THE DOOR!”

“What?” called muffled from inside.

“ONE OF Y’ FUCKIN’ MANIAC FRIENDS!”

Killer laughed. Maybe someone else would've been hurt. He wasn't. Both of those statements were delightfully true.

—

There was one little problem. A little thorn in Killer’s side. Not enough to change his modus operandi — again, emotionless and uncaring — but enough to be noticeable. Enough to be annoying.

“Cross, you're in charge of this mission,” Nightmare stated.

“Yes sir.”

That thorn was called Cross and Killer might just hate him.

Before Killer could stop gaping and reply, Nightmare was already gone, leaving them in some random forest (not unusual, not important).

“Let's go.” Cross turned to walk in some direction for some reason.

“What– do you know where we are??” Killer sputtered, waving his knife.

“No.” Cross didn't even look at him, like he was better or something.

That wouldn't do.

Killer grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

“Then why are you ‘in charge’?” he asked, so very friendly.

“Because I don't fuck off to do whatever I want every time?” Cross raised a brow ridge. Ohohoo, some spunk in him today! “Because I'm an actually good henchman and don't talk back constantly?”

Oh the nerve of this guy. Heh. Heheheh! Hilarious!

In fact, Killer was chuckling. He was laughing. He was hysterical.

“You?” he gasped. “Whatever gets you off, puppet boy!”

Because there were a few easy answers to Cross’ question from awhile ago.

What was their relationship? Easy.

Killer was Nightmare’s. His yes-man, his victim, his tool, his loyal toy, his lackey, the only one who stayed. His bitch, to put it oh-so-elegantly. Everybody knew that.

—

“What have you done with Cross?!” Dream demanded, parrying Killer’s attacks beat for beat. That guy was not to be underestimated, which Killer was admittedly guilty of! What could he say? These positive, soft types never went for the kill — how can you be truly afraid of them?

It's not like he felt much fear, anyway. That was reserved for a special someone.

“Horrible things!” Killer exclaimed, laughing. “He's suffering as we speak!”

“What?!” Dream exclaimed, horrified.

(Cross was probably just sleeping. There wasn't much else to do when you're stuck at the castle and need to pass the time.)

“Terrible!” Killer nodded, dodging to the side and using the movement to try shanking Dream. It was evaded.

“Where is he?!”

“Where do you think?” Killer teased. “Same as always! He's not some treasure to be hidden,”

“Oh,” Dream was caught off guard by that. Probably wasn't expecting it. That meant he also wasn't expecting the knife Killer stabbed into his shoulder, haha.

—

Killer’s gotta give it to the Stars. Having experience with Horror and Dust, they retrieved Cross pretty efficiently this time.

—

Killer’s skull slammed into the wall behind him so hard the pain reverberated through it and echoed throughout his body. He groaned, a gutteral drawn out sound. The tentacle that’d grabbed him by the throat now also lifted him off his feet by it, in that uncomfortable way where Killer’s body dangled and felt like it’s about to drop away from his head.

“HOW DID THEY KNOW HE WAS HERE?” Nightmare demanded, shoving rage and disgust and fear into Killer’s soul like it's nothing, like it doesn't drown him.

“How am– I supposed– to know?” Killer choked out, grinning, hands clutching onto the tentacle in a poor attempt to hold himself up a little, to loosen the pressure. He was barely able to think through the onslaught of horror and misery. It was like a diseased, starving, feral animal clawing at his body. Unrelenting with you're horrible disgusting scum you're going to die die die you are going to SUFFER there is no escape you–

“You useless tool!” Nightmare pulled him away from the hard stone wall, only to slam him against it, and again and again and again until Killer was crying out with the pain. Everything was ringing with the building concussion. It was a little difficult to hear whatever Nightmare was saying through it, pardon Killer’s manners, but it sounded something like “This is your fault, isn't it?!”

In case it wasn't clear, Nightmare was really pissed. This whole weakening of his forces seemed to be really getting to him. How sad.

Killer blinked against the shapes swimming in his vision. He could feel that hateful substance trickling, leaking even, from his eyes down his face. Warm. No, it was cold. He could never quite decide. The probably-blood oozing down the back of his skull was certifiably warm, however.

“That’s very– presumptuous of you–” he struggled out, breathing heavily, breathing through the pain and the merciless barrage of rancid emotions. Grin widening. “I can see you’re– angry, baby– are you hhngh on your period?”

Nightmare was livid. Killer started laughing, even as there were great efforts being put to choking him out.

“Shut. Up.” Nightmare said, cold and reverberating off the walls until it surrounds you. He lowered Killer down slowly, but didn't let go of him — it was just so Killer wasn't held aloft anymore, but rather, Nightmare, with all his engulfing darkness, loomed over him. “Need I remind you betrayal. Isn't. Tolerated?”

Killer couldn't help but snort and cackle at that, past the rancid, cloying smell of death from Nightmare’s general aura.

“Betrayal?” he exclaimed. “Me? Please. You and I both know I'm all you really have.”

There was the kicker.

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer.

But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had.

He was the only one truly allied with Nightmare. Not through force or violence or threats, none of that — because he wanted to be. Because Killer was an empty husk of a being and adored the force and the violence and the threats and the fear. A living wound that only exists when it's bleeding.

Nightmare knew that Killer knew that. But Killer knew that Nightmare knew it too. They both knew where they stood. They both knew Nightmare could leverage whatever suffering he wanted against Killer and that Killer would only enjoy it the worse it is. Killer only did as told when he enjoyed it, because he wanted to. He misbehaved for the very same reason.

Killer was so ruined through his own fault. There was nowhere further Nightmare could ruin him. Nightmare couldn't hurt him because Killer hurt himself, and Nightmare was just the most intense, most effective, most convenient way to do it.

That's why Nightmare’s glare narrowed. That's why the tentacle holding Killer’s neck loosened, letting him exhale and inhale deeply.

“You're not as clever as you think you are, loudmouth.” Nightmare spoke slowly. Promising danger. He always carried out his promises. He was cute like that.

...Except.

Except it wasn't what Killer expected. It wasn't sickening, merciless violence. It wasn't choking suffering. It wasn't burning agony. It wasn't animalistic fear.

It was... white.

Just white.

Endless, shapeless white.

All it took was a moment for Killer to be brought there, and a second one for Nightmare to be gone, and then it was just Killer and the endless white abyss.

He exhaled, standing amidst it all. It was so much larger than anything that could be conceived, and yet. And yet it was empty.

Hah. Hahahah.

Like his soul.

...It was always... a strange experience. The way the emotion would rise, like a tidal wave. A split second explosion of anger-hate-fear-despair at the devouring vastness, at the fact that he was just ditched there. When Nightmare knew he despised the emptiness. Or, rather, precisely because he knew how much Killer hated it.

And just as quickly it would be gone. Like a sudden electrical surge that blew out the fuse. And he was numb as ever. All the feelings he may have felt about this just the lingering buzz in the non-air. Only serving to make him even more aware of the nothing that remained, that lingered.

Killer couldn’t parse whether being stranded in the Antivoid was a worse or better hell than the Void. He supposed it didn’t particularly matter.

He sat down on the concept of a “ground”.

He didn’t even have a shadow. It was all empty. It was all nothing.

He didn’t have the energy to laugh. He laid down, staring up at the whiteness (as opposed to the whiteness to the side, or even: the whiteness down below).

—

Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

It’s... familiar. In the worst of ways, You hate “familiar”. You hate the staleness, the sameness, the stillness. It’s all the same, for hours upon hours upon hours.

Haha. Funny how you keep ending up in dead ends.

It’s more barren than your own universe. It’s more repetitive and deprived than hundreds of repetitions of the same goddamn day remembered with crystal clarity. It’s not warm and it’s not cold. It’s not nice, and it’s not even painful.

If the Antivoid was painful, that would’ve been a mercy to you.

The emptiness devours you whole. It rips you up piece by piece. Slow and deliberate, unbothered by the passage of time, which makes sense, because it’s not like time changes anything at all around here.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It couldn't have been that long, but it already feels like weeks. The void spaces have that effect on people. It’s by definition. Here, eternity is stored in every second.

You sleep, mostly, to pass the time.

When you’re awake, you self-destruct. Your mind is starved and desperate, looking for something something something to grasp but there is nothing. It’s just you. You engrave your own bones with sharp points. You claw at your being. You seek and seek and seek and you find nothing but yourself, until your self is indistinguishable from the nothing as well.

You feel like screaming just to hear something, but nothingness has no voice.

—

You wake up. Again. All the same every time. Repetitions for eternity. You despise abstract concepts, except you don’t, because emptiness doesn’t contain emotions.

...Except.

“Good thing it’s not Error who found you first!” Ink jokes, standing over you all cheery. He’s... he’s colorful.

It takes you several moments to remember that, conceptually, you have a body, and you leap to your feet.

“Woah there buddy!” exclamation mark in his eye, Ink stumbles back so you don’t ram your head into his accidentally, but that triggers some desperation in you and you grab him by the scarf and yank him back.

The feeling of something material in your hand, something that isn’t you, is like a shock. Except you still feel nothing. You just stare at the bunched up fabric.

Ink remains in place, a little awkward. In a position showing he’s unsure what you’re up to, whether to be prepared for an attack. You consider attacking. You feel nothing about the concept.

“Heeeeyyyy,” Ink draws out, regaining his nonchalant cheer with a blink. “Yyyoou okay there...?”

How are you supposed to answer that? The question strikes you as absurd. Nonsensical. You laugh even though you feel no amusement. That’s normal for you.

“...Right,” Ink clears his throat. “Sssooo whatcha up to? Where’s Nightmare?” he asks, mostly curious. Ink has always struck you as a weirdo freak, something off about his reactions, but you’ve never thought about it too deeply.

You shrug. You’re still holding his scarf. You’re unsure why. You don’t particularly care and he doesn’t seem to mind it either, so. No reason to stop.

(He’s real he’s tangible he’s something different he’s something something something–)

“Well I’m just passing by, I’ll be out in a–”

“If you so much as think about leaving I’ll stab you through the spine.” you immediately counter, calmly threatening.

“Awww if you wanted company you could’ve just said so!” Ink takes it in stride, and again, off reactions. It’s the most interesting thing that has happened in what feels like eternity so you latch onto it.

“You’re weird.” you point out.

Ink laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot! Part of having a creative nature,” he strikes a pose all cheeky, eye light in the shape of a sparkle. You’re still holding him by the scarf. “Soooo what have you been up to??” he asks, rocking back and forth on his feet all silly.

You gesture around with a flat expression. “Nothing,”

Ink snorts. “How long have you been here?” he prods you (literally, with a finger, which you allow because he’s physical and here and real).

You shrugs. “Not like I can keep track,” you huff.

“Yeesh. You gotta be careful with that one, spend too long and the glitching disease will get to you,” Ink says like he’s joking, except that is literally a fact. People go insane and corrupted in the void spaces.

You consider demanding from Ink to get you out of here.

...You remember you have nowhere to go.

You remember how livid Nightmare was. And how much more powerful he is than you. And how he owns your soul. And how if he wants you to be here, here you will be, so there’s not really a point to it. Everything always ends up like this for you, huh? Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters. That’s how your existence has always been, and how it always will be.

“Need me to get you somewhere?” Ink offers, lifting his brush, like he was on a similar train of thought but departed a few stations earlier.

“...I’ve stabbed you several times,” you point out like an echo of amusement, because Ink is best described as quirky. And again, considering circumstances, it’s currently the most interesting thing in your life. What a tragedy.

“Yeah...?” Ink prompts with a question mark in his eye, like he isn't seeing how that relates to his question at all.

You tilt your head.

“Why do you want to help me?” you ask, because the closest thing to emotion you have right now is curiosity-fascination. Though that doesn't say much, considering it just as distant as everything else. “We're enemies, or something,”

“Oh!” Ink exclaims. “Oh I don't really care,” he shrugs. “I mean, I guess that's the narrative, yeah! But it's not like I hate you personally or something,” he chuckles.

Weirdo freak.

You've never cared to learn anything about the Stars. You realize you barely even know their tragic backstories. You still don't particularly care, but Ink is a natural yapper, so maybe you can use him to fill the silence.

(Until he leaves, of course. Until you are left alone. You are always left alone.)

“You don't find my actions abhorrent? Not how I've killed hundreds? Not how I enjoy torturing others?” you seek for the buttons to press, grinning. You recall that yeah, Ink is a lot more difficult to get a rise out of compared to the other two, who are so openly emotional.

“I mean,” Ink scratches his skill. “On one hand, a good story needs villains. On the other hand, the best narratives are about how good triumphs in the end, and so you need someone to be that component as well. In that sense, I am against it!” he concludes. “Although works that explore dark endings are also fascinating and have their own merit,” he considers. “Like tragedies, or darkgrim stories. They–” he starts rambling, distracted by the topic.

It's interesting for maybe a second. It quickly stops being so. You can't bring yourself to care about whatever he's talking about, or to want to.

You consider attacking him, again. But then he might leave, depending on whether he has something else to do instead or not.

“Are the other two coming around?” you interrupt, though Ink doesn't seem offended that you completely ignored his spiel.

“Hm? Uh, I don't think so, why?” he asks in turn. Damn, that means they have no business around here. Though, after a brief pause, Ink’s eyes widen and he exclaims a “Wait!”

He tries to pull away but you hold onto the fabric of his scarf tighter, summoning a knife in a kind reminder of your threat. Ink lifts his palms placatingly, chuckling.

“Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere!” he assures. “I’ll just call them over too and then we can all... talk!”

Oh.

That meant he was going to seize the opportunity to try and “reason” with you like they did with Horror and Dust. Again. Like you didn't laugh in their faces every previous time. Respect for the persistence?

“You do realize that won't work, right?” you generously point it out to Ink.

He blinks.

“I’m not betraying Nightmare,” you snort.

Ink tilts his head. “Why?”

He asks it so simply. No “You know he doesn't love you, right?”, no “But he's awful to you!”, none of that. Maybe that's why you answer him.

“Because,” you say, almost amused, shrugging. You're unsure how to finish that. You're unsure how to explain, so you just say the truth — “I don't care about anything else,”

Ink is looking at you curiously now, his previous idea of calling for backup seemingly forgotten, which is typical for him.

He sits on the ground. He pats the ground in an invite. You sit down too, mostly because you're still holding his scarf.

“Nothing? Really?” Ink asks, pulling his leg closer to rest his chin on his knee.

“Nope!”

“You don't have a family?”

You burst out laughing. You pretend to wipe a tear, even.

“What? Do you know nothing?” you exclaim, cackling.

Ink is just staring at you with question marks.

“Know what?” he asks. What an idiot. You'd roll your eyes if you had any. At best, you manage to mimick the action.

“I killed them all,” you say easily. “Many, many times,”

“...Oh. Right.” Ink seems to remember. “But why??”

Huh. Apparently Killer wasn't the only one who couldn't give a flying fuck to learn anything about his supposed enemies.

Killer sighs dreamily, “To listen to their sweet sweet cries of pain,”

Ink grimaces. “Oh. Really??? You come from a twist on the original timeline though, right?” he asks, frowning in confusion. “The classic version of Sans is not like that,”

“Clearly I'm not the classic version of Sans,” Killer pointed out flatly, and to emphasize the point, he gestured to his soul. You know. The one that is nothing like a monster’s or a human’s.

“Oooohhhhh,” Ink nodded along, hand reaching forward– Killer flinched. Body immediately strung tight, ready for the barrage of suffering that always followed when his soul was grasped and squeezed and–

But he was so baffled by the action, he let it happen.

Ink pulled his hand back, however, staring at his face.

Killer snorted, and moved his hand to offer his soul, that wretched thing. It's not like he cared if anyone did anything to it. Or hurt it.

(His soul. His being. His self. The essence and shape of his existence condensed into one. The most vulnerable part of you. The most you part of you.)

“Go on,” you shrug. “Not like I care,”

Ink hesitantly reaches out a hand to prod the cursed thing. It feels just as uncomfortable and bad as you'd imagine, to have your soul poked. He pulls his hand back.

“...Well,” Ink starts, “at least you have one?” he offers, chuckling. “Better than nothing!”

You tilt your head. That's a strange way to say that.

“What, you don't?”

“Nope!” Ink says as easily as you would.

It's your turn to blink and stare. At his neutrally cheerful grin.

And suddenly... it does make sense. The sense of emptiness behind half his expressions. The lack of care where others would have at least some. The odd view of the world. His flat affect, even if it was a positive one.

...Huh.

Ink was telling the truth. He was soulless.

You raise a hand to where yours returned to the middle of your chest. Always sitting in front of it. Always bare. Detached from the rest of you.

“...How?”

“Just never had one,” Ink shrugs.

You can only think of one other soulless creature — that yellow flower.

But... it doesn't make sense. The wretched flower reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. You reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom.

Yet here Ink was. Playing as one of the so-called “good guys”.

“Then how do you feel?” you press the issue.

“Oh? I’m good!” Ink says cheerfully.

“No– how do you feel feelings if you're soulless?” you huff.

“Huh? Oh!” Ink exclaims, and then takes out one of those colorful vials he carries on a sash everywhere he goes. “I don’t! Not naturally, anyway. I have these to help me!” he shakes the little vial — yellow, barely anything remaining inside. They're all in different quantities.

You frown. “What? How? Are they magic?” you reach to take the vial but Ink pulls it back. Now that's interesting.

“Sort of?” Ink squints at the vial. “They correspond to different emotions, but I think they only work on me,”

...Of course.

You let go of his scarf.

You consider fighting him to snatch one of the vials and try it anyway. You know it's pointless, however.

The disappointment is crushing. You feel like a drug addict who was just handed a bag overflowing with white powder only to discover it's flour.

“You should leave before I dice you into dust.”

The disappointment is crushing.

Hah. Hahahah. As if. As if it could be as easy as drinking some paint. Of course not. When has your life ever been easy? No, you are doomed to be like this forever. You knew this. It's downright hilarious you thought (hoped), even for less than a moment, that there could be anything else.

It's so funny you're chuckling.

It's so funny you're laughing.

When Ink leaves, you're still howling with laughter, black liquid streaming down your face.

—

The quiet around here was deafening. It was starting to make Killer hyperaware of every quiet rustle of clothing from every little movement. Several times he caught himself starting to talk to himself, trying to fill the quiet with jokes or something. But that was a slippery slope, so he shut the hell up. If he didn't talk, hopefully nothing would start replying. He refused to get corrupted by the glitches.

Luckily — and that is a weird descriptor — Ink returned. For some known-only-to-him reason.

“Why the hell are you back?” Killer asked, not bothering to get up this time. Just laying on his back. He's here on a vacay.

“Well!” Ink said, and judging by the changing direction of his voice, he was moving around. “The empty white is literal torture, isn't it?” he chuckled.

“What would you know,” Killer mimed rolling his eyes. Wasn't Ink some almighty creator? He could just hurl some ink around and it wouldn't be white anymore.

Ink laughed. “Oh trust me, I know,”

Killer felt like he was missing something.

“Can't you just, I don't know, paint it?”

“Yep! That's what I'm doing right now!” Ink explained cheerfully. Killer pushed himself up to look, now.

Huh. Yeah. Ink was going around with his brush, using the white space as a big canvas. Killer squinted, unable to decipher what exactly he was drawing, besides some colors and shapes. Red and pink, blue in different shades, yada yada.

“...What is it,” Killer observed Ink’s movements, walking around him, deliberate but free flowing.

“Just whatever feels right,” Ink shrugged. “The different hues have different, you know, vibes, depending on how you mix them, how you use them against one another– oh can you step to the side there?”

He did, getting to his feet and stepping aside.

“Thanks!” Ink said, filling in the spot.

Killer squinted, still trying to figure out what it all was. The warm colors looked like a flame maybe...?

He kept watching Ink work for a few more moments. It was weird, to be alone with someone, without a constant background thrum of negativity. Killer couldn't call it pleasant, but... it was better than the emptiness.

Suddenly he was hauled up and his reflexes immediately fired off, magic materializing in an immediate attack and just as soon he was dropped.

“Wow you are jumpy!” Ink exclaimed, holding the wound that Killer cut into him. It didn't seem too deep, mostly due to Ink’s durability. He was standing on top of a short pillar of ink.

“Don't forget who you're talking to,” Killer threatened with a low tone, grin stretching as he gripped a sharp, sharp knife in hand.

“Whoops!” Ink didn't seem all too affected. “Don't you wanna see what it is though?” he leaned on a hand, all silly.

...

Killer accepted being lifted up by a glob of ink, mildly curious.

He stared at the splatter on the white ground.

It was a moth. In shades of icy, hopeless blue. Surrounded by scorching red flames. Huh. Okay them. Pretty cool, or something. At least it was colorful.

Ink put him back down on the ground. With his hands on his hips, he admired his own work, chuckling.

“It’s nice to fill the emptiness, don't you think?”

Killer had never bothered caring about the Stars. He didn't care about them as people, what they felt or what they thought.

He... never would've expected to find understanding with one of them.

“...Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it is.”

—

“ARGH we’re too late?!” Dream blurted out.

“Huh, I could've sworn he seemed to be staying here for longer,” Ink commented, much less affected.

“The one time he and Nightmare aren’t attached at the hip–” Dream continued groaning.

“Maybe Nightmare sensed we were planning to talk to him–?” Blue suggested, trying to investigate the nearly empty white space. All that remained were splotches from Ink’s activities. No Killer in sight.

Dream sighed loudly, rubbing his face, greatly dejected. “That's... possible,” he breathed.

“We should've come here sooner,” Blue put his hands on his hips.

“He wasn't very happy with the idea,” Ink shrugged.

“It’s... we’ll have another opportunity,” Dream concluded. He had to stay positive and hopeful. “No matter how long we need to wait, we’ll figure out how to help them,” he remained determined.

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 2 days ago

Text

Reckoning | Sebastian Sallow x OC #54

Quite a satisfying chapter if I do say so myself…

Summary: Sebastian's simmering resentment toward Alaric Thornton boils over during a heated confrontation, leading to a violent outburst. Evangeline intervenes just in time, cleaning up the mess and confronting Sebastian about his reckless behavior while grappling with the emotional distance she’s created between them.

Words: ~10,500

Tags: Mild Violence/Blood, Protective Sebastian, Hurt/Comfort, Reconciliation, Not-Quite-Dating, Will They Won't They, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Longing, Unspoken Feelings, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Drama, Idiots in Love

Timeline: Mid August

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The Ministry of Magic’s Auror Division was a whirlwind of activity, a symphony of rushing footsteps, shuffling papers, and urgent conversations. Trainees and seasoned Aurors moved purposefully through the corridors, their robes billowing behind them. Sebastian stood at his assigned station, the steady rhythm of his foot tapping against the stone floor doing little to mask the simmering frustration building inside him. His hands tightened around the parchment his supervisor had handed him, the words blurring as his irritation mounted.

The mission brief should have been a moment of excitement. He’d been waiting days for this assignment, eager for a chance to prove himself in the field. It was a straightforward mission: investigate a smuggling ring suspected of trafficking cursed artifacts through Knockturn Alley. Capture any suspects, secure the evidence, and report back. Simple, efficient—exactly the kind of task he wanted. But then he saw the name listed next to his: Alaric Thornton.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling around the parchment as if sheer force could erase the name. Thornton. The very thought of him sent a sharp, bitter surge of anger coursing through him.

Sebastian hadn’t forgotten Alaric’s past—or, more specifically, Alaric’s involvement with Evangeline. The memory of their brief courtship was a wound that never fully healed, a source of simmering resentment that flared to life the moment he saw the man’s name. It wasn’t just that Alaric had been with her—it was that he’d had everything Sebastian had ever wanted and thrown it away. Worse, he’d nearly ruined Evangeline in the process.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, scanning the briefing again as though a second read would offer some reprieve. But it wasn’t just Alaric that had him on edge. The last week had been hell in more ways than one.

The brief levity between him and Evangeline during the Quidditch game had been a welcome relief. For a few moments, it had felt like old times—like she hadn't spent weeks avoiding him, like they were still Evie and Sebastian, teasing and bickering as naturally as breathing. He’d saved her when that Bludger hit, and for a fleeting moment, nothing else mattered. Not the Prophet, not the whispers, not the weight of everything left unsaid.

But, of course, the Prophet had punished them for it. The next morning, a headline screamed from every street corner: Auror Saves Sterling, But Was the Danger His Fault to Begin With? The article had twisted every detail, painting him as reckless, impulsive, and somehow complicit in the chaos. Worse, it had dragged Evangeline into the spotlight again, insinuating that she was foolish for trusting him.

He hated it. He hated that no matter what he did, the Prophet always managed to make him the villain. But more than that, he hated how it pushed Evangeline further away, retreating into the same polite distance that had plagued them for weeks. It didn’t matter that he’d saved her. It didn’t matter that she’d looked at him afterward like he was the only person in the world who could make her feel safe. The whispers, the scrutiny—it had won again.

The silence in her absence was deafening. At night, Sebastian lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his hand instinctively drifting to the empty side of the bed. He missed her warmth, the subtle weight of her presence beside him. He missed the way she’d murmur nonsense as she drifted off to sleep, her voice soft and half-lost to dreams.

He worried that in their time apart, she wasn’t sleeping at all. That the nightmares were back. And with their work on the repository enchantments stalled, he couldn’t help but think that her dreams might be haunted by that darkness again. The thought made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

And if that wasn’t enough, Ominis had casually relayed details of another party Evangeline had attended. Another room filled with men like Theodore Fawley and Elias Carrow, men who spoke of her as if she were a prize to be won. Men who knew nothing of her quirks, her strength, her vulnerability. Men who had no right to be in the same room as her, let alone vying for her attention.

The thought of it made his blood boil, but the worst part was knowing she’d endured it all with the same graceful smile she always wore when society demanded it. She didn’t let on how much it weighed on her, but Sebastian knew.

And now, as if fate had decided to test his limits further, he was assigned to work with the one man he hated more than anyone else: Alaric Thornton. Alaric, who’d had Evangeline’s heart and thrown it away. Alaric, who’d dragged her name through the mud to save his own skin, all for the sake of a handful of galleons. A man who had threatened her—who had nearly destroyed her—and yet still managed to weasel his way into Sebastian’s present.

Across the room, the man in question stood by a bulletin board, casually scanning the notes pinned beneath a softly glowing charm. Alaric looked exactly as Sebastian remembered: tall, composed, and exuding an infuriating air of effortless confidence. His robes were impeccably tailored, his dark hair neatly combed, and his posture radiated a self-assuredness that made Sebastian’s wand hand twitch. It wasn’t just the polish and poise—there was something about the way Alaric carried himself, as though the world bent just slightly to accommodate him, that set Sebastian’s teeth on edge.

Alaric turned, and their eyes met. His brows furrowed ever so slightly, a brief crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. For a fleeting moment, Sebastian saw a glimmer of apprehension in his expression, as if Alaric was weighing the implications of this unwanted reunion. But then, with a precision that spoke of practiced professionalism, he smoothed over the reaction, his features settling into a neutral, almost indifferent mask as he approached with measured, deliberate steps.

“Sebastian Sallow,” Alaric said, his tone cool but polite. "It seems we’re working together on this one.”

Sebastian gave a terse nod. “Looks that way.”

Alaric studied him for a moment longer before glancing at the parchment in Sebastian’s hand. “A smuggling ring in Knockturn Alley—cursed artifacts, mostly. It’s a delicate operation, so we’ll need to tread carefully. I’ll lead the planning since this is your first field assignment.”

Sebastian forced himself to breathe, to maintain the professionalism expected of him, but his voice came out colder than intended. “I’m aware of how these operations work.”

Alaric’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Of course. Then I trust you’ll follow my lead.” He turned on his heel without waiting for a response, his posture impeccably straight as he moved toward the equipment lockers.

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the effort of holding himself together. The assignment was already a disaster, and they hadn’t even left the Auror office. Every interaction with Alaric felt like a fresh provocation, and Sebastian was beginning to wonder how he’d manage to get through the day without saying—or doing—something that would land him in hot water with their supervisors.

By the time they arrived in Knockturn Alley, the tension between them was palpable, thicker than the heavy, damp shadows that clung to the crooked buildings and twisted alleyways. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint stench of mildew and something unidentifiable but unpleasant. Their footsteps echoed unevenly against the cobblestones, the sound amplified in the narrow confines of the alley.

The strained silence between them was broken only by the occasional murmur of a passerby or the distant clink of glass from a nearby shop. Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he caught Alaric scanning their surroundings, his gaze sharp and calculating. The man was every bit the professional, and that only fueled Sebastian’s frustration.

He wanted to throttle him. Right here, right now, in the middle of the street. Sebastian wanted to grab him by the collar, shove him against the nearest wall, and demand to know how he could do it. How he could look at Evangeline—kind, fierce, brilliant Evangeline—and decide she was worth so little. How he could throw away what Sebastian had dreamed of, what he still longed for, like it was nothing.

But Sebastian couldn’t. Not with their superiors waiting for a successful mission report and his career as an Auror depending on his performance.

Alaric stopped at the corner of a derelict warehouse, gesturing for Sebastian to follow. “This should be the place,” he said quietly, his voice level and professional. “The reports indicate they’ve been using the upper floors for storage. We’ll sweep the perimeter first, make sure there aren’t any lookouts, then move in.”

Sebastian nodded stiffly, unwilling to give more than the bare minimum of acknowledgment.

Alaric glanced at him, his expression carefully neutral, but there was no mistaking the sharpness in his eyes. “Keep your head in the game,” he said, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable edge of warning. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his teeth clenching as he forced himself not to snap back. The comment seemed innocuous enough on the surface—standard Auror advice, even—but Sebastian wasn’t stupid.

He was referring to Evangeline.

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened, the polished wood digging into his palm as he fought to keep his composure. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Good,” he said simply, turning back to scan the alleyway ahead. “Then let’s move.”

Sebastian followed. The darkness of the alley seemed to press in around them, the flickering light from a broken lamppost casting jagged shadows on the crumbling walls.

Alaric paused at a corner, motioning for Sebastian to stop. His hand moved with precise efficiency, pointing toward a narrow side entrance partially obscured by a stack of rotting crates. “That’s likely our best entry point,” he murmured.

Sebastian gave a curt nod then stepped forward, his movements sharp and deliberate, as they approached the side entrance. Alaric waved his wand, murmuring a quiet detection spell. The faint shimmer of a protective charm glimmered for a moment before fading.

“Low-level enchantment,” Alaric said. “Amateurs.”

Sebastian’s snorted. “Guess you’ll feel right at home.”

Alaric shot him a brief glance, his expression hardening, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he flicked his wand again, carefully dismantling the charm. The door creaked open, and they slipped inside, the musty air of the warehouse thick with dust and neglect.

Inside, the darkness was punctuated by faint shafts of light filtering through broken windows. The hum of magic grew stronger as they moved deeper, its source hidden somewhere within. Crates lined the walls, their lids pried open to reveal objects wrapped in frayed burlap—glimpses of cursed jewelry, cracked potion vials, and jagged shards of enchanted mirrors.

Sebastian’s wand hand twitched as his anger flared anew, though for an entirely new reason. This wasn’t just a smuggling operation—it was a collection of destruction, the kind of artifacts that could ruin lives.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, faint but distinct. Alaric gestured silently, motioning for Sebastian to move left while he circled right. For a brief moment, Sebastian considered ignoring him, storming ahead and taking matters into his own hands. But he relented, slipping into the shadows and moving toward the sound.

The confrontation came fast and brutal. Two smugglers appeared, wands raised, their spells slicing through the air. Sebastian reacted instantly, his fury spilling into his magic. He didn’t hold back, his spells crackling with raw power as he disarmed and subdued one smuggler with ruthless efficiency.

Behind him, he heard the clash of Alaric’s duel. Glancing back, he saw Alaric moving with precision, each spell calculated and deliberate, his expression calm even under fire.

When the last smuggler fell, immobilized by a binding spell, Alaric turned toward Sebastian, his breathing steady, his expression unreadable. “That was effective,” he said, his tone neutral. “A bit… impetuous, but effective.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his wand still gripped tightly in his hand. Without seeking permission, he moved toward the crates lining the walls. “Let’s just secure the evidence and get out of here.”

Alaric followed suit, his movements calm and methodical as he began inspecting the cursed artifacts. “We should alert the containment team,” he said, gesturing toward a particularly volatile-looking shard of enchanted glass. “Some of these are too unstable for transport without reinforcement.”

Sebastian barely heard him, his attention already elsewhere. His wand moved with precise motions as he began securing the perimeter, muttering counter-charms under his breath to dispel lingering traces of dark magic.

The tension between them hung heavy in the air as they worked in strained silence, broken only by the occasional creak of shifting crates or muffled murmurs from the subdued smugglers. Alaric sent word to the containment specialists with calm efficiency, methodically cataloging the cursed artifacts with an infuriating composure that grated on Sebastian’s nerves. Meanwhile, Sebastian directed his frustration into his task, reinforcing the protective wards around the captured contraband with a precision that bordered on aggression. Each flick of his wand was sharp, his focus unrelenting.

The minutes dragged into what felt like an eternity, the oppressive atmosphere of the warehouse pressing down on them. Finally, the sound of boots echoing against the stone floor heralded the arrival of reinforcements. A squad of Ministry specialists swept into the room, their brisk movements and clipped orders cutting through the tension like a blade.

Sebastian stepped back, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of the last hour. His grip tightened around his wand, its familiar weight grounding him as he watched the specialists expertly handle the cursed artifacts. Their practiced efficiency was a welcome reprieve from the strained dynamic he’d endured with Alaric. For the first time since they had entered the musty, dimly lit space, he felt a flicker of relief.

The return to the Ministry was uneventful, the bustling halls of the Auror Division a stark contrast to the shadowy tension of Knockturn Alley. Sebastian and Alaric handed in their report to their supervising Auror, detailing the mission with a detached professionalism that belied the simmering animosity between them.

Their superior scanned the parchment, his stern expression softening slightly. “Efficient work,” he said gruffly, his eyes flicking between the two of them. “The artifacts are secured, the smugglers are in custody, and there’s no collateral damage. You’ll both receive commendations for this. Dismissed.”

Sebastian nodded stiffly, exchanging a brief, tense glance with Alaric before they turned and left the office. The moment the door closed behind them, the thin veneer of civility Sebastian had maintained cracked, shattering entirely as they stepped into the quiet corridor.

His footsteps slowed, and he stopped abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet hallway. “We’re not done, Thornton.”

Alaric paused mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. He turned slowly, his expression weary but guarded. “The mission’s over. We did our job.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened, his wand hand twitching at his side. “The mission might be over,” he said, his voice low and sharp, “but you and I have unfinished business.”

Alaric let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this is about Evangeline—”

Before Alaric could finish his sentence, Sebastian grabbed him by the arm and shoved him toward the nearest meeting room. The door slammed shut behind them, and with a flick of Sebastian’s wand, the lock clicked into place, and the blinds snapped closed. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a lamp in the corner.

Alaric turned to face Sebastian, his jaw tightening. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sebastian didn’t answer immediately. His wand moved in a blur, disarming Alaric with sharp precision. The wand flew into Sebastian’s outstretched hand, and he tucked it into his pocket with a deliberate motion, his eyes blazing with fury.

“What I should have done a long time ago,” Sebastian said, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped closer.

Alaric squared his shoulders, his expression hardening. “You’re out of line,” he said coldly, his tone clipped but controlled. “I suggest you think carefully before making any rash decisions. You’re still only in training, Sallow. You sure you want to end your career before it even starts?"

Sebastian let out a cold, humorless laugh, the sound sharp in the small room. “Rash? Believe me, I’ve thought about this plenty. Months, in fact. Months to stew over how you could betray her like that. How you could take everything she trusted you with and twist it into something vile because the Clearwaters waved a few Galleons in your face.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “That’s in the past,” he said firmly. “I made a mistake—a terrible one. Do you think I haven’t paid for it?”

Sebastian’s lip curled into a sneer. “Paid for it?” he spat, his tone venomous. “You think a tarnished reputation and a few snide whispers make up for what you almost did to her? Do you even realize the damage you could’ve caused?” Sebastian let out a bitter laugh, "You were lucky. Lucky that we stopped you before the damage could stick. But you want to talk about paying for your mistakes? You haven’t even scratched the surface.”

Alaric’s fists tightened at his sides, his voice trembling with anger. “I know what I did, alright?! I don’t need you to remind me! I regret it every day.”

Sebastian stepped closer, his voice rising. “Regret doesn’t cut it, Thornton. Regret doesn’t undo the fact that you tried to destroy someone who trusted you. So tell me, why pretend to care if you were planning to betray her from the start?”

“Because I did care,” Alaric shot back, his voice strained. “I didn’t start courting her with the intention of doing what I did! If you had your facts straight, you'd know the Clearwaters didn’t just bribe me—they blackmailed me.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Blackmail?” he scoffed. “And you call yourself an Auror? Some protector of justice you are if you can’t even handle a little pressure from a bunch of vindictive aristocrats."

Alaric stiffened, his fists curling tighter. “You think it’s that simple?” he said, his voice rising. “You think I didn’t try to fight back? The Clearwaters had leverage! It wasn’t just me they were threatening!"

Sebastian’s lip curled further, his sneer practically dripping with contempt. “So you folded,” he spat. “You chose to throw her to the wolves. You chose to humiliate her, to ruin her future. You don’t belong in this department if that’s all it takes to break you.”

Alaric took another step forward, his frustration spilling over. “I already told you, I regret what I did! What else do you want from me? Blood?”

Sebastian’s rage bubbled over. “Maybe I do,” he snarled, grabbing Alaric by the front of his robes and slamming him against the wall. “Because it sure as hell seems like you haven’t suffered nearly enough.”

Alaric’s head snapped back, his jaw tightening as he glared at Sebastian. “This isn’t going to solve anything,” he growled, shoving at Sebastian’s chest. “You think roughing me up is going to change the past?”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “No, it won’t,” he admitted, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “But it’ll sure as hell make me feel better.”

The taller man scoffed, his composure cracking. “You’re pathetic, Sallow,” he spat, his voice venomous. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for? To play the white knight for Evangeline? Because you’re in love with her? Even when I was courting her, I could see it—the way you looked at her, the way you hovered like a dog waiting for scraps.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, the words landing like physical blows. He twisted Alaric's robes in his grip, his knuckles white. “Shut your damn mouth,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

But Alaric wasn’t done. If anything, his smirk widened, his taunts sharpening. “Oh. Hit a nerve, did I? What’s the matter, Sallow? Afraid I’ll say what everyone else already knows? That you’ll never be good enough for her? The Prophet spelled it out for you, didn’t it?”

Sebastian’s vision blurred with fury. Without thinking, he reached for his wand, a silencing charm snapping into place over the room like a heavy curtain. The ambient hum of the Ministry hallway outside vanished, leaving them in a tense, oppressive silence.

“You should’ve stopped while you were ahead,” Sebastian snarled, his voice a whisper but no less lethal.

Alaric’s smirk faltered for a split second before he regained his composure. “What are you going to do, Sallow? Fight me like a common thug?” His smirk twisted into something cruel. “She deserves someone steady, someone who won’t bring her down with their baggage. Someone like Carling, perhaps. Have you seen the way he looks at her?"

The last thread of Sebastian’s restraint snapped. His wand forgotten, he shoved Alaric harder against the wall, his fist slamming into the older man’s jaw. The satisfying crunch of impact reverberated through the room, followed by Alaric’s sharp intake of breath. He staggered for a split second before recovering, his smirk replaced with a sharp, predatory glare. Without hesitation, he shoved Sebastian hard, the force sending the slightly shorter man stumbling back a few steps.

Alaric sneered, rubbing his jaw where Sebastian’s punch had landed. “You’re a bloody idiot, Sallow,” he snarled, his tone dripping with contempt. “But if this is what you want…”

Alaric lunged forward and his hand caught Sebastian’s collar, yanking him forward, but Sebastian braced himself, planting his feet firmly on the ground. With a surge of strength, he grabbed Alaric’s arm and twisted, forcing the taller man off balance.

The two crashed against the nearest wall, the sound reverberating in the silenced room. Alaric grunted as his shoulder hit the stone, but he retaliated quickly, his free hand coming up to shove Sebastian’s chest. “You’re dangerous” he growled, his voice low and furious. “This is exactly why she’ll never pick you.”

Sebastian saw red. His weight worked to his advantage as he barreled into Alaric, using his momentum to drive the man backward. They collided with the corner of a table, the sharp edge digging into Alaric’s side. The taller man let out a pained grunt but didn’t falter. Instead, he brought his knee up, catching Sebastian in the ribs and forcing him to stumble back.

“You’ve got a lot of bark,” Alaric hissed, circling Sebastian with predatory precision. “But that’s all you are, isn’t it? Bark. No bite. Just a desperate fool chasing after something he can’t have.”

Sebastian’s lip curled into a snarl, his fury giving him focus. “You think I’m desperate?” he shot back, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m not the one grovelling after selling out someone I supposedly cared about."

The words struck a nerve. Alaric’s composure cracked as he swung, aiming a sharp punch at Sebastian’s jaw. The hit connected, sending a jolt of pain through Sebastian’s skull, but it wasn’t enough to bring him down. He staggered, then lunged forward, tackling Alaric to the ground with a force that rattled the floor beneath them.

Alaric’s agility gave him an edge, allowing him to land sharp, calculated blows, and after some grappling, he managed to twist free, using his longer reach to shove Sebastian off him. They both scrambled to their feet, their chests heaving as they squared off once again. Blood trickled from the corner of Alaric's his mouth, and his jaw was already beginning to swell.

"You think you’re some noble protector, but you’re no different from your uncle." Alaric let out a bitter laugh, wiping the blood with the back of his hand. "Reckless, impulsive, and completely incapable of seeing the bigger picture. No wonder she doesn’t want you."

Sebastian’s vision blurred at the edges, his fists tightening. “You don’t know a damn thing about my family.”

“Don’t I?” Alaric shot back, his tone mocking. “Everyone in the department knows the story. Solomon Sallow—the hotheaded Auror who couldn’t follow orders. It’s no secret how he ended up. And now here you are, following in his footsteps."

Sebastian’s mind went blank.

The world around him narrowed to a singular, suffocating point—Alaric Thornton, standing there with blood trickling from his split lip, spitting venom with a smugness that made Sebastian’s stomach churn.

It wasn’t just the insult. It wasn’t just Alaric’s face or his voice, dripping with superiority. It was everything.

His past, looming over him like a dark cloud—every mistake, every misstep, every failure. The constant whisper of self-loathing, telling him he’d never be enough for her. The painful distance she’d put between them because of the Muldoons’ ever-growing shadow, her careful steps to protect them both only serving to carve a deeper wound in his chest. His endless regrets about Evangeline—about waiting too long, saying too little, doing too little. The thought of Alaric, standing here now, after everything he had done to her, still breathing and pretending he had any right to say her name. And the thought of all the others—Carling, Fawley, every polished, perfect bastard vying for her attention because of that stupid list, their smug smiles haunting him like specters.

It all erupted at once, like a dam breaking under the weight of years of pressure.

Sebastian lunged. He barely registered the shocked flicker in Alaric’s eyes before his fist connected with the man’s face. The impact sent a sharp jolt up his arm, but he didn’t care. The crack of bone meeting flesh was drowned out by the roaring in his ears, the visceral satisfaction of releasing the storm he’d kept bottled inside.

Alaric staggered back, hitting the edge of a table, but Sebastian didn’t stop. He followed, grabbing the front of Alaric’s robes and slamming him against the wall. His fist came down again, this time catching Alaric across the cheekbone, splitting the skin with a sharp, sickening crack. Blood erupted from flesh, dotting the floor like crimson raindrops. Alaric tried to shove him off, his hands scrambling to regain control, but Sebastian’s grip was ironclad. He swung again, this time landing a brutal blow to Alaric’s ribs, and the taller man let out a sharp gasp, his knees buckling slightly under the force.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Sebastian growled, his voice raw with fury. He didn’t wait for a response. His fist collided with Alaric’s face again, the crack reverberating through the room. “You don’t get to talk about me, and you sure as hell don’t get to talk about what she deserves.”

Alaric crumpled against the wall, his hands weakly attempting to shield his face as Sebastian grabbed him again, hauling him upright. The older man’s breath came in ragged gasps, his sharp tongue momentarily silenced under the onslaught.

Sebastian scarcely noticed the blood staining his knuckles, warm and sticky. He didn’t see the way Alaric’s face was already swelling, or the cuts splitting open under his fists. All he could feel was the overwhelming need to end this, to make Alaric pay for every ounce of pain he’d caused Evangeline—for every failure and regret that haunted Sebastian himself.

“You don’t know fuck all about me,” Sebastian hissed, his voice cracking as he threw Alaric against the corner of the table. The sharp edge jabbed into Alaric’s side, drawing another pained grunt. “And you sure as hell don’t know what it’s like to want something—someone—so badly it hurts, and to have it ripped away because of bastards like you.”

His fist flew again, a brutal, instinctive motion that left Alaric sagging in his grip. Sebastian’s chest heaved, his breath ragged and shallow, as he raised his fist for another blow, only to pause as a faint, horrible sound reached his ears.

Drip.

The blood on his knuckles fell onto the floor, mingling with the splattered mess already pooling at Alaric’s feet. It gleamed in the dim light, stark against the stone. The sight snapped something loose in Sebastian’s chest, the fog of rage dissipating just enough for reality to creep in.

He let go, and Alaric collapsed to the floor, coughing weakly. Sebastian staggered back, his gaze fixed on his bloodied hands. His chest tightened as the full weight of what he’d done sank in.

The silence in the room was suffocating. It was just him, Alaric’s broken form, and the undeniable evidence of his loss of control.

“Fuck,” Sebastian muttered, his voice trembling.

The sound of the door unlocking should have terrified him. It should have sent him scrambling for his wand, grasping at any excuse, any plan to salvage the disaster in front of him. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He stood frozen, his bloodied hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his wand on the floor, his chest heaving as his mind replayed the events in an endless loop of anger and regret.

The door creaked open, and Sebastian braced himself for the worst. His supervisor, the Head Auror, even the Minister—it didn’t matter who walked through that door. Whoever it was, they’d see the evidence plain as day. He’d destroyed everything.

“Sebastian?” Her voice cut through the silence.

His head snapped toward the door, and his heart nearly stopped. Evangeline stood in the doorway, her hazel eyes wide as they took in the scene: Alaric crumpled on the floor, blood staining his robes and pooling beneath him; Sebastian standing over him, his knuckles raw and dripping red.

“Evie…” Sebastian’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t gasp or demand an explanation. Instead, her expression shifted—shock giving way to something colder, sharper, a glint of determination in her eyes that Sebastian knew all too well. Without another word, she stepped inside, her wand slipping into her hand with practiced ease. With a quick flick of her wrist, the door locked behind her followed by the sound of another silencing charm snapping into place.

Sebastian stared at her, his heart pounding as she crossed the room in brisk, purposeful strides. “Evie, I—”

“Not now,” she said sharply, cutting him off as she crouched beside Alaric. Her hands moved deftly, her wand tracing over his injuries with precision. Healing charms poured from her lips in rapid succession, her voice steady despite the tension radiating off her in waves. The swelling on Alaric’s face began to subside, and the blood slowed its relentless flow, but she didn’t stop there.

Once Alaric’s injuries had disappeared, she cast a Stupefy charm, ensuring he wouldn’t wake too soon. Then she moved to the bloodstains, her wand sweeping over the floor in careful, deliberate motions. The crimson streaks faded, leaving the stone pristine once more.

Sebastian staggered back a step, his knees threatening to give out as he watched her. “You’re—what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she muttered, not glancing up from her work.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely, his voice trembling with guilt. “You shouldn’t—”

“Sit,” she ordered, her tone brooking no argument as she pointed to a nearby chair.

Sebastian didn’t move, his legs locked in place as shame clawed at his chest. “Wait, let me—”

“Sit. Down.” Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding. She didn’t wait for him to respond, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the chair. He sank into it heavily, his muscles feeling like lead.

When the room was finally free of visible evidence, Sebastian watched in stunned silence as Evangeline levitated Alaric’s unconscious body with precision, her wand steady despite the exhaustion that now clearly clung to her like a shadow. She guided his body to a chair near the desk, propping him up in a position that could pass for someone who had simply overexerted themselves. The entire scene looked disturbingly normal, as though nothing violent had taken place in this room mere moments ago.

Satisfied with his positioning, she took a deep breath, steadying herself, before aiming her wand at his temple. “Obliviate.”

The spell cast a faint shimmer over Alaric’s face as his memories shifted, rewritten under Evangeline’s careful direction. When she was done, she sat back on her heels, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “He won’t remember this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Sebastian. “Not like this, at least. He’ll wake up thinking he passed out from exhaustion."

With that, Evangeline turned back to Sebastian, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. Her hazel eyes were a mix of frustration, concern, and something else—something he couldn’t quite name but that made his chest tighten. “Give me his wand. You have it don't you?”

“What?” he asked dumbly.

“His wand,” she repeated, her tone softer now but no less firm. “Give it to me.”

Sebastian moved as if in a trance, his hands acting of their own accord. He reached into his robes and retrieved Alaric's wand, feeling its weight settle heavily in his palm. For a moment, he hesitated, his grip tightening. This whole situation felt surreal, but the look in Evangeline’s eyes, steady and unwavering despite her exhaustion, cut through his doubt. She needed him to do this. So, he handed it over.

Evangeline took the wand, her movements calm and deliberate, though her pallor betrayed the toll this had taken on her. She positioned the wand beneath Alaric's limp hand so it appeared as though he had simply let it slip from his grasp while working.

“There,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “When he wakes, the memory will align."

Sebastian stared at her, his thoughts racing. The speed at which she had handled everything—clearing the room, casting the Memory Charm, fabricating a plausible story—was nothing short of remarkable. But it was also unnerving. He had always known Evangeline was clever, but this level of composure in the face of... this? It left him speechless.

“Come on,” she said quietly, moving toward Sebastian and grabbing his wrist.

“Where—?” he began, but she cut him off.

“Home,” she said simply.

Before he could protest, she turned on the spot, Apparating them both with a sharp crack. The world blurred and spun, and when it righted itself, they were standing in the familiar warmth of her apartment. The soft light from the enchanted fireplace cast a golden glow over the small sitting room, and for the first time that day, Sebastian felt like he could breathe again.

Evangeline released his wrist and Sebastian stood frozen in the middle of the sitting room, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He watched as she moved across the room, her back to him, hanging her cloak with deliberate, methodical movements. Her silence was deafening. It unsettled him more than if she’d shouted at him. He felt like he was waiting for an ax to fall, for the inevitable wave of anger or recrimination to come crashing down on him.

Before he could find the words to speak, Evangeline turned and she reached for his hand. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist, firm but not harsh, and she gently tugged him forward.

“Evie…” he began, his voice hoarse.

She shook her head, cutting him off without so much as a glance. “Come with me,” she said quietly.

She led him down the narrow hallway to her bathroom. The small space was warmly lit, the glow of the sconces bouncing off the porcelain sink and neatly arranged shelves. She released his hand and turned on the tap, dampening a soft washcloth under the stream of warm water. Sebastian hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to step inside or retreat.

Evangeline turned back to him, holding the cloth, and for the first time since they’d left the Ministry, she fully met his gaze. Her expression wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t entirely soft either—it was focused, laced with a quiet determination that made his chest ache.

“Come here,” she said, her voice low.

He stepped forward reluctantly, unsure of what to expect. She reached up, the damp cloth brushing against his cheek as she began to wipe away the remnants of blood and grime from his face. Her movements were slow and careful, her touch impossibly gentle.

Sebastian’s breath hitched, his mind spinning. “Wait, why are—”

“Quiet,” she murmured, not pausing in her task.

The cloth moved across his skin, warm and soothing, and he let his eyes drift shut, too overwhelmed to argue. Each stroke felt like a balm, not just for the physical evidence of his outburst but for the storm raging inside him. He didn’t deserve this—her care, her softness—but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

When she lowered the cloth to wipe his hands, the silence between them felt heavier than before. He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, her hazel gaze steady and searching.

“I don’t understand you,” she murmured. “I don’t understand how someone so strong, so smart, can be so reckless.” She reached up, her hand brushing against his temple where a bruise was beginning to form. Her touch lingered for a moment before she pulled away. "What happened?"

Sebastian’s stomach twisted at her question, her voice so quiet yet heavy with meaning. His fists tightened at his sides, the memory of Alaric crumpled on the floor still vivid behind his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. The weight of his own actions pressed against his chest like a physical force. “I just… lost control. He pushed me too far, said things—”

Evangeline hummed, a low, unimpressed sound as she brought the cloth back to his knuckles, gently, wiping away the blood and grime still clinging to his skin. “That’s not an excuse,” she said softly, though her tone lacked its earlier edge. “You can’t let your temper get the better of you. Certainly not at work, not in the bloody Auror Division."

Her words stung, but her touch didn’t falter. Sebastian winced slightly as the cloth brushed over a tender spot, but he stayed still, letting her work.

“You need to be better than this, Sebastian,” she murmured, her tone softened but still laced with disappointment. “You’re not some first-year picking fights in the corridor anymore.”

Sebastian sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her quiet scolding. “I just… he said things, and I—I couldn’t let him go. Especially not after what he did to you last year.”

Evangeline’s lips parted, her brows furrowing for a moment before she shook her head, her expression softening. “You don’t need to fight my battles, Sebastian,” she said gently.

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The memory of Alaric’s smug face, his thinly veiled jabs, flashed in his mind, and Sebastian clenched his fists at the thought of it. “I know you can handle yourself,” he muttered. “But it's... it’s hard not to step in.”

Evangeline sighed, her lips quirking despite herself. “You’re infuriating,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Absolutely reckless and infuriating.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her tone. “I'm—”

“Don’t apologize," she interrupted, her smile softening.

Sebastian frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

Evangeline stepped back, folding the cloth neatly in her hands. “I mean,” she said slowly, “that while I don’t condone your idiocy, I’m not going to pretend I don’t find a certain… satisfaction in knowing Alaric finally got what was coming to him.”

Her words hung in the air, and Sebastian stared at her, his breath catching in his throat. “You’re not mad?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, I’m furious,” she said, her smile turning wry. “You could’ve jeopardized everything—your reputation, your job, your future. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t... like seeing you defend me. Even if it was stupid.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at her admission, the weight of his earlier shame lifting just slightly. “I’d do it again,” he said, his voice steady.

Evangeline shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “That’s precisely the problem,” she said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “You’d fight the entire Ministry if you thought it would make me happy.”

“Would it?” he asked, his lips quirking into a faint grin.

She laughed softly, the sound warm and unexpected. “It might. But you’d still be an idiot.”

Sebastian’s grin widened, the tension in his chest easing. “I’ll take it."

Evangeline rolled her eyes, but her fingers brushed against his hand, her touch light and unassuming. Without a word, she laced her fingers with his and tugged gently, leading him out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

“You look like you’re probably sore,” she said over her shoulder, her tone casual but tinged with a familiar concern.

Sebastian followed her, his steps hesitant. “You could’ve just said I look like hell,” he quipped, though his voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Evangeline glanced back at him, her lips quirking in a faint smirk. “I was trying to be polite.”

When they reached her bedroom, she pushed the door open, revealing the cozy space bathed in the glow of a single lamp. She guided him to her bed, her grip on his hand lingering for just a moment before she stepped away. “Sit.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a wince as his bruised ribs protested the movement. “I’m surprised you’re not pulling out all your fancy charms to patch me up,” he teased, his tone light despite the ache in his muscles. “Thought you’d jump at the chance to show off."

Evangeline snorted, moving around the bed. “Oh, I could. But then how would you learn anything?” She shot him a wry smile before pulling a small jar of salve from her bedside the drawer. "Remember this?"

Sebastian blinked at the familiar tin in her hands, his brows furrowing slightly. “Is that—?”

Evangeline held up the small jar, the faintly worn label bearing the apothecary’s emblem catching the warm light of the lamp. “Your handiwork,” she said with a hint of amusement. “From the apothecary in Upper Hogsfield."

A faint flush crept up Sebastian’s neck as he leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued despite the ache in his ribs. “I can’t believe you kept that.”

Evangeline arched a brow, unscrewing the lid to reveal the faintly green salve inside. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s good stuff, and Merlin knows I’ve needed it more than once thanks to your brilliant ideas.” She chuckled. “You should take pride in your work, Sebastian.”

He gave a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, I am decent at brewing, but I just followed the recipe.”

Evangeline smirked, stepping closer to where he sat on the edge of her bed. “Stop downplaying yourself,” she said, her tone softer now. “You might be trouble but you're still talented. Now, shut up and hold still.”

Sebastian stiffened as Evangeline stepped closer, her movements careful yet unhesitant. She sat beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight, and reached toward the edge of his robes. Her fingers brushed against the fabric, pausing just before pulling it aside.

Their gazes met, and for a moment, the air between them felt heavier than the bruises weighing on his ribs. Evangeline hesitated briefly, her fingers brushing against the hem of his shirt as she prepared to lift it over his head. He gave a small nod, signaling it was fine, though his throat was dry, and his heart thundered in his chest. Of course, she’d seen him shirtless before, but things had been particularly tense between them lately, and they hadn’t been close like this in what felt like forever.

When she finally pulled his shirt over his head, the cool air of the room hit his skin, but it did little to calm the heat simmering beneath the surface. Her hazel eyes flicked over him and her focus was clinical as she assessed the bruises that marred his ribs and the faint scratches along his arms. Yet, for all her detached professionalism, he felt her lingering gaze like a physical touch.

The past couple of months of grueling Auror training had transformed him more than he realized. His frame had filled out—broader shoulders, a stronger chest, and muscles more defined from relentless sparring sessions and endless drills. He thought back to the last time she’d seen him shirtless—Hogwarts, the Prefects’ Bath. He’d been strong then, sure, but there’d still been the softness that came from sneaking Honeydukes chocolates into his dorm between late-night study sessions and Quidditch practices.

Now, he wondered if she’d noticed the difference. If she liked it.

The thought sent heat crawling up his neck. Evangeline had complimented him in the past, but those compliments were usually accompanied by a teasing eye roll, as if pointing out he was handsome was just an obvious truth. She’d never been direct about whether she personally found him attractive—never let on if she’d looked at him the way he always found himself looking at her.

Evangeline's fingers dipped into the jar of salve, smoothing the cool paste over the bruises with a touch so light it made his chest ache. “You’ve... been keeping busy,” she remarked lightly, her tone betraying nothing.

Sebastian let out a faint laugh, though it felt forced. “Auror training isn’t exactly a desk job.”

She smirked faintly, dabbing more salve onto a particularly nasty bruise. “Apparently not. You’ve... filled out a bit since Hogwarts.”

His stomach flipped at her words, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “Noticed, have you?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a glint in them that made his heart stutter. “Hard not to,” she said simply. Then, just as quickly, she dropped her gaze back to her work, leaving him to wrestle with the warmth her comment stirred.

“You’re holding still for once,” she changed the subject, her voice soft but laced with amusement. “I’m impressed.”

Sebastian forced a chuckle, though his mind was far from calm. “I’ve learned not to argue with you."

She smirked, dipping her fingers into the paste and dabbing it gently along his ribs. He watched her closely, his eyes following the subtle movements of her hands as she worked. Her touch was precise, confident—yet there was a tenderness to it that made his chest tighten. For all her sharp wit there was a softness to Evangeline that she seemed to reserve just for him.

"You’re better at this than most Healers.” He said, his voice low.

Evangeline chuckled softly, though the sound was a little strained. “You’re just saying that to make sure I don’t leave you halfway patched up.”

Sebastian gave her a faint smirk, but there was a warmth behind it that softened the edge of his usual teasing. “I’m serious. You're probably better than half the professionals at St. Mungo’s. Maybe you missed your calling.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she smoothed the salve over a particularly deep bruise.

The teasing banter faded into a quieter moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken things. Her fingers worked steadily, but Sebastian couldn’t ignore the way his chest tightened with every careful movement she made, every touch that lingered just a second longer than it needed to.

Finally, he broke the silence. “When you walked in on… that mess with Alaric,” he began, his voice quieter now. “How did you even find me?”

Evangeline’s hand stilled on his shoulder, her fingers freezing mid-motion. For a moment, she didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the faint discoloration of his skin under her touch.

“For anyone else, you would’ve been tough to track down,” she said finally, her voice measured. “But when I checked your office and you weren’t there, and then the receptionist mentioned your assignment with Thornton… well, it didn’t take long for me to piece things together.”

Sebastian frowned, his chest tightening at the mention of Alaric. “Still, it could’ve been anything,” he said. “An interrogation, an official investigation, even a meeting. It’s not like you knew for sure what was happening in that room.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, the motion subtle but unmistakable. “Oh, please,” she muttered, smoothing the salve over his skin with a little more pressure than necessary, though her touch remained careful. “A locked door, a silencing charm strong enough to block out even a whisper, and the fact that you and Thornton had just worked together? It wasn’t exactly a mystery, Sebastian.”

“You still could’ve been wrong,” he argued, his voice quieter now. “What if it really was something official?”

She snorted softly, shaking her head as she moved to tend to another bruise. "I know you too well. You’ve got a tell."

“A tell?” His brow furrowed. “What tell?”

Evangeline’s smirk widened slightly. “Your magic,” she said simply, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin. “It’s… distinct.”

“How?” Sebastian pressed.

She hesitated, her touch stilling for a moment before continuing. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like… like static in the air—sharp, crackling. Especially when you're agitated.”

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard by her observation. “You can feel that?”

Evangeline shrugged, keeping her focus on the task at hand. “Not always. Just when I’m close enough. Or when you’re particularly worked up.” Her lips quirked into a faint smile. “Which, let’s be honest, is a lot of the time.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

“You’re not,” she replied, her tone softening. “But I’ve been around you long enough to notice.” Her voice dropped slightly, almost hesitant. "So when I came to the door... I knew you were in there.”

Sebastian stared at her as a flood of thoughts clamored for attention, each demanding to be untangled.

She’d known he was in that room. Not just because of logic or deduction, but because she could feel him. His magic. He’d never known she could do that—never even considered it. But it explained so much. How she always seemed to find him back at Hogwarts, or the way she’d appear out of nowhere, knowing he was just around the corner, even when he hadn’t made a sound.

The idea that she could sense him like that, that she knew him so well—it made his chest tighten, his pulse quicken. And then there was the relief. Relief that she had been the one to walk through that door, to find him before things had spiraled even further out of control. If it had been anyone else, his career, his future—it all would’ve been over. He hadn’t been in any state to clean up his own mess, to think clearly enough to salvage what he could. But she’d been there. She’d stepped in, taken control, and pieced everything back together when he couldn’t.

And now she was here, tending to him with calm precision, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn't been avoiding him for weeks, like she didn’t even have to think twice about helping him.

But of everything, one question pushed itself to the forefront, demanding an answer. “Why were you looking for me?” Sebastian asked, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him. “Back at the Ministry, I mean.”

Evangeline’s hand stilled. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the faint patterns of mottled skin beneath her touch. Sebastian could see the conflict flickering in her eyes, the way her lips pressed into a tight line as if she were weighing her words. Then, she exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping just slightly before she set the jar of salve aside.

“I… can’t stand it,” she admitted quietly. “The way things have been between us. The distance. I know I’m the one who created it, but it’s…” She trailed off, her hands retreating to her lap as she stared at them like they might hold the rest of her explanation.

Sebastian’s heart thudded heavily in his chest as her words settled between them. It was happening—the moment Ominis had predicted with maddening certainty. She’d missed him. She’d come back to him, not because he’d chased her or cornered her into admitting it, but because she’d felt it too. The pull. The ache. The impossibility of keeping their lives separate.

Of course, Ominis had been right. He always was. It had taken every ounce of restraint Sebastian had not to storm after her over the past weeks, to respect the distance she’d put between them even though it had been driving him insane. Ominis’s words echoed in his mind now, clear as day: “Give her the space to figure things out. And trust me, Sebastian, she'll come back. Evangeline can’t stay away from you any more than you can stay away from her."

Sebastian’s chest tightened as he fought to steady his voice. “I get it,” he said softly, his words thick with emotion he could barely contain. “I know why you’ve pulled away. I know you think you’re doing the right thing. But…” He hesitated, his eyes searching hers, willing her to understand. “You don’t have to shut me out, Evie. You never had to.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her shoulders hunching slightly as though she were bracing for an argument she wasn’t sure she could win. “I didn’t shut you out,” she said quietly, her voice faltering as she looked away. “Not entirely.”

Sebastian huffed a humorless laugh, leaning back slightly to look at her. “Not entirely?” he echoed. “You haven’t stayed over since the list came out. You hide when I visit your flat. And the last real conversation we had…” He trailed off, his throat tightening as the memory of their exchange in the café resurfaced.

He could still see the way she’d looked at him—tired, frustrated, hurt. The way she’d walked away, leaving him at the table with nothing but his own doubts and regrets for company.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “At the café, I mean. I was frustrated—angry about the list, about the Muldoons, about everything—but I should’ve handled it better. I made it worse.”

Evangeline’s head lifted slightly, her eyes meeting his for the first time since the conversation had started. “It wasn’t just you,” she said softly. “I… wasn’t exactly fair either. I let my frustration with the situation spill over onto you, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Her admission eased some of the weight pressing on his chest, but it didn’t erase the guilt gnawing at him. “Still,” he said, his gaze steady on hers, “I should’ve listened. Really listened, instead of trying to fix everything. You were already dealing with enough without me adding to it. I'm sorry.”

Evangeline’s lips twitched in a faint, bittersweet smile. “You’ve always been like that," she murmured, her voice tinged with warmth. “Always trying to fix things, even when you can’t.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at her words, the warmth in her tone a bittersweet contrast to the guilt he still carried. “It’s not exactly a strength,” he admitted, his voice low. “Sometimes I think I do more harm than good.”

Evangeline shook her head slightly, her expression softening as she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist. “That’s not true,” she said gently.

For a moment, they sat in the quiet, the words hanging between them like a truce. Evangeline’s touch was featherlight, but it burned into his skin like a brand, anchoring him in place.

He moved slowly, curling his fingers around hers, their hands tangling together as if they’d always been meant to fit this way. She looked up at him, startled, her hazel eyes wide and searching.

“Evie,” he began, his voice low but firm, the words bubbling up before he could second-guess them. “Please… stop trying to protect me.”

Her hazel eyes widened slightly, and she opened her mouth to speak, but he tightened his hold on her hand, shaking his head. “Just—listen. I know why you’re doing it. I get it. I do. But I can’t stand this. The way things have been between us—it’s killing me.”

Her lips parted, a protest hovering on the tip of her tongue, but the look in his eyes seemed to quiet her. She lowered her gaze, and he could feel the tension in her hand, the way her fingers stiffened under his. He didn’t let go.

“I miss you,” he said, his voice raw and unsteady, stripped of all pretense. “I miss you being sprawled on the sofa with one of Ominis’s books in the evening—the ones you swore you’d return ages ago. I miss catching you sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night to make tea, trying to shush me like I’m the one causing a racket when you’re the one clinking cups. I miss hearing you talk in your sleep, the way you mumble about things that don’t make any sense and act like it never happened in the morning. And I just—”

His voice broke, his hand curling into fists against his thigh as he looked at her, every unspoken feeling spilling out in those fractured words. “I just miss you, Evie. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re tearing me apart.”

Her free hand lifted instinctively to wipe at her cheek then, and he realized, with a pang, that tears had begun to form in her eyes. She looked away, her shoulders curling inward slightly, as if trying to shield herself from his words.

“Sebastian,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “You don’t understand. If I don’t—”

“I do understand,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “You think it’s the only way to keep me safe. But I don’t want to be safe if it means losing you.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes locking on his with a mix of disbelief and vulnerability.

“I don’t care what the Muldoons think of me,” Sebastian pressed, his voice steady. “Or what the gossip columns say. Let them talk. Let them sneer. None of it matters to me. You matter to me.”

The silence stretched between them and her lips trembled, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as she tried to process his words.

“I miss you too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The words felt like a release, a confession she hadn’t allowed herself to say out loud until now.

Sebastian’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he reached out, his fingers brushing against her chin. Gently, he tilted her face upward, his own expression raw and open, his eyes searching hers.

“Then come back,” he said, his voice soft but insistent, each word laced with unfiltered emotion. His grip on her hand tightened slightly, like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go. “Stay over again. Let me come by for tea, or for no reason at all. Just… let things be how they were before. Please.”

She let out a shuddering breath, her free hand coming up to clutch his wrist. For a long moment, she said nothing, her grip on him the only response he needed.

Finally, she nodded, the motion small but resolute.

Sebastian exhaled a shaky breath, relief crashing over him as he pulled her into his arms. There was no hesitation, no guardedness in the way he held her—just a raw, unreserved need to keep her close, as though letting go might mean losing her all over again.

She melted against him, her frame trembling as her face buried into his shoulder. He felt the faint hitch of her breath, the warm dampness of her tears soaking through his shirt. His hand slid upward with deliberate care, fingers threading gently through her hair as he cradled the back of her head, his touch steady, grounding.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, as the moments blurred together—seconds, minutes, maybe lifetimes. The trembling in her frame gradually eased, her breaths slowing as the storm within her began to calm. Her grip on his shirt loosened, her fingers uncurling slightly, but she didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

“And I promise,” he began softly, a faint, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips now, “I won’t beat the shit out of any more of your ex-boyfriends.”

A breath of laughter escaped her, quiet and shaky, but real. Her lips curved into a small, wry smile as her hands moved to rest lightly against his chest. “Good,” she murmured, her voice still thick with emotion. “Because cleaning up after you is exhausting.”

Sebastian chuckled, the sound low and warm, and he let his thumb brush a stray tear from her cheek. “To be fair,” he said, his tone laced with mock seriousness, “Thornton deserved it.”

Her smile widened just a fraction, and she shook her head, the motion gentle against his. “That doesn’t mean you get to make a habit of it.”

“No promises,” he quipped, his grin softening as his gaze lingered on her. “But I’ll try to behave. For you.”

Her eyes softened, the tension in her features melting away into something gentler, quieter. Then, without a word, she lifted her hand, offering him just her pinky finger.

A faint, almost boyish smile tugged at his lips as he lifted his hand, mirroring her motion. He hooked his pinky around hers, the small connection sealing something infinitely larger between them.

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