Page 12

I tugged on black leggings and an oversized red shirt that slipped off one shoulder, grabbing my stained baking clothes from the drawer—evidence of too many hours spent covered in flour and buttercream. I tugged on fluffy socks last—my feet were always freezing, and the kitchen tiles didn't help. Warmth surged low as my toes curled into the softness.

I padded down the hallway, my steps faltering when I spotted V. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, sleeves stretched tight over muscle coiled like restraint. My neck tingled with warmth after staring too long, my gaze jerking away. His gaze tracked every movement, brushing over me like static.

My hands were still shaking from my parents' surprise visit, from the panic attack that had gripped me just minutes ago. My ribs tightened with each shallow breath, vision tunneling as their voices closed in. V had been there instantly, his form solid as stone as he'd ordered them out. Their stunned silence as V ordered them out haunted me, guilt sinking too deep to wash out. My mom's hurt expression and dad's anger branded in my mind. The phantom weight of his cut, smelling of leather and smoke, pressed against my shoulders. I touched the spot without thinking. The last thing I needed was to get distracted by memories of V being... surprisingly gentle.

I tried to slip past him into the kitchen. He didn't move an inch, making me squeeze by close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. My pulse quickened under his stare. "I need to start baking. You can..." I gestured vaguely at my living room, not sure how to handle having him in my space after everything that had happened.

He nodded once before plopping on the couch. Heat flooded my cheeks, hotter than the oven-warmed kitchen. He'd chosen one of my steamiest romances, its pages soft and worn from countless late nights. But seeing him there shifted something in my chest.

I just now noticed how domestic we were becoming. His books wedged next to mine, keys mingled in the bowl, shirts scented with my lavender softener instead of leather and oil. He'd crept in piece by piece—until one day, I woke up surrounded.

It felt surreal seeing him there, lounging among my things. Weeks ago, I'd woken in terror beneath Hellbound, flinching at every shift of his shadow across the crematorium walls. Back then, his presence meant danger. Now, seeing him gently turn the pages I'd worn thin, my heart struggled to reconcile those memories with the quiet warmth spreading between us.

The thought of him sleeping on the club's dirty floor made my stomach knot with guilt. Him curled up on filthy concrete, alone in the dark, while this whole apartment stood empty except for me—the image returned night after night. That's why I hadn't made him leave—sending him back made me sick. Here, at least, he had warmth. Safety. Excuses, maybe. But I didn't care.

The extra flour sat on the top shelf. I'd already asked so much of him today, made him deal with my parents and me falling apart like some pathetic mess. Like the kind of girl men leave behind. He'd probably have a heart attack if I dragged out my wobbly step ladder. After a few failed attempts to reach it myself, stretching until my shoulder ached, I gave in.

"V?" His name had barely left my lips before he materialized behind me, filling the tiny kitchen with quiet intensity. My chest tightened at his closeness. I swallowed hard, acutely aware of how his presence hovered close behind me, each silent breath drawing him closer. "Could you..." My voice faltered slightly, heart pounding. "The flour?"

He reached up, his shirt riding to reveal a strip of tanned skin and that dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. My eyes caught on muscle shifting under golden skin, veins disappearing into denim. I should've looked away, but instead, my mouth dried.

"Oakley?" His voice ricocheted through my thoughts, pulling my head up to meet that midnight stare that used to terrify me. Now it just made heat bloom in my cheeks.

"Hmmm?" The flour container pressed cold into my palms, his touch lingering—sending electricity up my arms.

His head tilted, his expression reading every flicker on my face. "What?"

"T-Thank you," I squeaked, holding the flour to my chest. We stood frozen, the air between us charged with something new.

His mask shifted when he sniffed, reminding me how inhuman he could appear. "What are you baking?"

I turned around, setting the flour on the counter, intensely aware of his shadow behind me. The warmth from his body reached across the space between us, making even the distance feel intimate.

"Cherry cupcakes." I measured ingredients with practiced hands, watching them blend. My body tensed as he crowded against my back, his mass impossible to ignore. The spatula trembled in my grip.

Each measurement was precise—flour, sugar, butter—messy components transformed through patience and care. Soon, delicate cakes would rise in the oven, small miracles from chaotic batter. Sometimes beauty came out of chaos. I hoped hearts worked the same way.

"What are you doing?" My lips barely moved, words flowing out in a whisper.

"Watching." My arm stalled mid-fold, his breath tickling my neck through his mask.

Words tumbled out to fill the charged silence. "One of my client's boyfriends likes these. I visit her every week." His warmth vanished suddenly, leaving me cold. His eyes narrowed dangerously, possessiveness darkening his features.

"I know. I watch you make your deliveries."

I shouldn’t be surprised that he knew my schedule. Had probably followed me more than once, a shadow I never noticed, keeping me safe. He leaned against the counter as I worked, his massive arms crossed. The outline of muscles through his shirt drew my attention before focusing back on the cherries bleeding vivid red into pale batter—too bright against the quiet of my life.

"A brick and mortar is my dream." The words escaped before I could stop them. My parents had offered to buy it outright, but building it was something I wanted to do myself. "I even have a name for it." The words filled the space between us. "Sweet Summer's."

"Why that name?"

My throat tightened. I stirred harder as if the bowl could absorb the weight behind my words. "My mom named her flower shop after me and I wanted to do the same." Each turn of the spatula hit harder, but nothing drowned the memory seared behind my eyes. That sterile office with its too-bright lights. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the harsh rustle of pamphlets about fertility options stacked neatly on the desk I couldn't stop staring at. The sound of my own heartbeat in my ears as the doctor's voice seemed to come from somewhere far away. My eighteen-year-old hands gripping that chair like it was the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned upside down.

You'll never be able to have children.

Six words that stole a future I hadn't even started living yet. I'd always assumed I'd be a mom someday—it was just a given, like graduating high school or falling in love. Those words burned in my throat whenever someone asked when I might start a family. Sleepless nights passed, wondering if anyone could ever want a future knowing what couldn't be given.

My hands shook, breath hitching as those sterile office lights flickered behind my eyelids—the rustle of printouts, the hollow scrape of her voice. My grip on the chair left crescent moons in the vinyl. The way I'd walked out into bright sunshine afterward, the world continuing as if mine hadn't just shattered. How unfair it seemed that strangers passed by, oblivious to the emptiness growing inside me where a child would never be.

Sometimes the weight of everything lost pressed against my chest, constricting breath, movement, and existence. Like now, standing in this kitchen with a man who had no idea he was witnessing mourning for a future that died in a doctor's office.

"You don't have a kid." A choked laugh escaped me, covering the familiar ache that bloomed in my chest at those words.

I didn’t have a child, but it didn’t mean I didn’t have names picked out.

"Summer Anne." The second name caught in my throat, heavier than it should've been. The spatula scraped through grief-heavy dough. Cherries swirled into the batter, vivid red against quiet white. "It's special to me."

I'd never shared that aloud before, not even with my parents. Saying it here felt dangerous yet freeing, as though offering up that secret pain might lessen its weight.

The silence grew heavy. V was watching me—reading truths I wasn't ready to show.

"Summer?" The way he said it squeezed my heart—something reverent threaded his voice.

He stepped into my orbit, so close I had to tilt my head back to meet his void-colored eyes. His hair was half up, the rest falling over his shoulders, and standing there in my small, overheated kitchen, a change flickered across his face, making my chest ache.

"We'll have Summer one day."

Tears pricked at the edges of my vision. Had he really said we ? The oven timer's shrill beep shattered the moment.

"C-Could you get that out of the oven for me?" The whir of the fan filled the silence. V's footsteps moved behind me. I glanced back, expecting to see him reach for the lavender oven mitts he'd just bought me.

The scrape of metal made me turn fully, just in time to see his bare hands wrap around the scalding pan. A half-scream, half-gasp erupted—pure instinct. My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. The bowl clattered. Batter hit the cabinets. I grabbed his wrist instinctively, nausea rising as raw welts formed beneath my touch, too calm. Wrong in a way that made my stomach flip.

V stood there casually, holding the burning pan with the nonchalance of a man untouched by pain itself. His eyes met mine, one eyebrow raising in confusion. "What?"

I gripped his wrist. Too warm. Too calm. The smell of burnt skin twisted through the air, nauseating.

I guided him backward. At first, he didn't budge—solid as a statue—but after a moment he followed me to the sink. The lukewarm water hissed against his wounds. "Keep your hands there." My voice shook with panic. Hair clung damp to my cheeks, slick with sweat and anxiety. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I got the cupcakes out of the oven." He bent over the sink, seemingly unbothered by injuries that made me feel sick.

"Your skin's blistering and you're standing there like it's nothing!"

"I don't feel pain."

My fingers circled his wrists, keeping them under the cool water. "What do you mean you don't feel anything?" Another strand of hair fell in my face. "Just because you can't feel it doesn't mean you're not injured."

Our eyes locked, obsidian depths staring back. "CIPA. Nerves don't work."

"What is that?"

His gaze drifted up, expression thoughtful. "Congenital insensitivity to pain."

The implications hit me hard. This man who'd seemed invincible... He didn't flinch, but something behind his eyes flickered—like I'd stumbled on a secret no one was ever meant to name. "If you can't feel it, how can you tell if you get shot or stabbed?"

"I can't."

My heart stuttered. "What if..." The words caught. "What if you get hurt and can't tell you're bleeding?"

He leaned in, eliminating the space between the sink and the counter. "I feel the pressure." His attention never wavered, cataloging every microexpression. He submerged both our palms together, the water swirling between our joined skin. My lungs expanded in a sudden jerk—fear or something else entirely.

His other hand rose, blocking my view of the burns. "Don't look. You don't like wounds."

I bit my lip, eyes squeezed shut. "Just... I can look. Just talk with me so I can focus on your voice and not your wound." The quiet dragged on, dense with everything we weren't saying. He stayed still, letting me work.

Taking his wrist, I led him to the living room where his book lay forgotten. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

I went to the bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit I kept for baking accidents. The white box was heavier than usual, knowing who I was about to use it on—a man who'd probably used similar supplies for bullet wounds and knife cuts.

Back in the living room, I gestured at his hand nervously. "Open your hand up and let me see." He complied immediately, massive palm facing up like an offering. Welts puffed across his palm, tender and red—raw like rising dough. "Just because you can't feel pain doesn't mean it can't get infected."

"Almost died from one."

"You almost died?" I barely choked the words out.

His shoulders lifted in a casual shrug as if death was just an inconvenience. The nonchalance on his face made my chest tighten with worry.

"It still might leave a scar. I need to get that covered." The kit landed with a muted thump on the couch as I searched through it, fingers trembling slightly. The gauze felt accusatory, each roll questioning what I was becoming—a baker who patched up killers.

"I have scars." His voice dropped lower, sending shivers down my spine.

"You're always covered up." The bandage shook slightly as I took his injured palm. Heat radiated beneath my touch.

"You don't like scars. I hide them from you."

He sat there, beauty amid ruin. Every interaction connected suddenly—small gestures, careful shielding. Hands that destroyed lives were also capable of astonishing gentleness.

The intensity burned through the air, pulling forward a question that had grown familiar as a shadow. "Why me?"

He made a questioning sound, head tilting.

"Why did you choose me?" The question floated between us, barely audible. "Out of everyone, why do you..." I couldn't finish. Protect me? Watch me? Care? Each possibility scared me more than the last. Why me? Why did being chosen scare me more than being overlooked?

His eyes locked on my touch like it meant something. "I felt my heart beat for the first time when I saw you."

The gauze slipped from my trembling fingers. The look in his eyes dragged my attention back, our eyes meeting over the fallen gauze. But now there was something else—something almost desperate in how he watched me process his words, like a man watching his last chance at redemption slip away.

His hand suddenly covered mine as I reached for the fallen bandage. Not gentle—just certain, like everything he did. "Did I upset you?"

His thumb brushed once more across my pulse, a quiet reassurance even he might not fully understand.

"N-No." The word was barely a whisper.

"I don't understand emotions." His thumb brushed once more across my pulse, memorizing its rhythm—his unreadable expression fixed on our joined hands with an intensity that made my heart stutter. "But I want to understand you."

The words fell between us. From a man who lived in absolutes, who knew only certainty, this was... everything. This wasn't a crack in his armor—it was a door he'd never opened.

Maybe it was stupid. But it felt like the only thing I could give him back.

"Let me help you," I blurted without thinking. "I-I mean, I can help you sort out your emotions if you want?" My voice shook with uncertainty—was I even capable of helping someone like him?—but the raw need in his eyes erased hesitation. What if I failed him? That worry tightened my throat, but something deeper urged me forward anyway.

He blinked slowly. "How?"

How—and more importantly, why? Why did those words escape like a plea? Because he had helped me, twice in twenty-four hours. Was this something I could do for him? My journey started last night. What if I could help V start his own? Guide him toward something like light? "You have feelings. No one taught you what they are or how to use them." He considered my words with his usual focus.

His grip tightened on my wrist. "They tried."

"Tried what?" I whispered.

"With feelings." His eyes burned with questions I couldn't answer, locked on some point I couldn't see.

"Who did?" I pressed softly.

He just stared ahead, not saying a word. I looked into those eyes—void-colored and uncertain—and knew I wouldn't turn away. This was my choice.

And somehow, inexplicably, I wasn't afraid anymore.

Behind the mask, behind all the scars, V wasn't a monster—just a man no one had ever stayed long enough to see.