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mysticalcrowntyrant · 3 days ago

Note

Could you write a story based on red riding hood? :)

Yandere “Wolf” x Reader

The market was loud, as always. Chickens squawked somewhere near the eastern gate, and a pot of stew boiled over beside the smithy’s wife, who was too busy shouting prices at passersby to notice. Woodsmoke hung thick in the air, clinging to your shawl as you picked through the day’s produce.

Your basket was half full when you felt it: a gaze. Not the fleeting sort people give in passing, not curiosity or judgment. No—this one was heavy. You didn’t need to look up to feel it settle on your shoulders.

You did anyway.

He was standing just beyond the barrel of apples. Tall. Broad. Leaning with one arm braced on the edge of a cart. He wore black, mostly—faded from travel and stained with dust—but the way he held himself said it wasn’t just for show. His hood was down, and pale hair stuck to his brow in loose, sweat-damp strands. His eyes were pale too. Not quite gray. Not quite blue. Something colder than either.

“Careful,” he said, nodding at the apple in your hand. “That one looks a bit too sweet. Might give someone ideas.”

You looked down at it. Then back at him. “It’s a fruit,” you said flatly. “I don’t think it’s giving anyone ideas.”

He grinned. “You’d be surprised, little fox.”

You turned away without answering. The basket bumped against your hip as you moved to the next vendor, ignoring the sound of boots crunching behind you.

“I saw you earlier,” he said, sidling up beside you. “Near the well. You were talking to that old woman with the herbs. Is she your grandmother?”

You didn’t answer.

“She’s got kind eyes,” he added. “You do too.”

You stopped to examine a jar of honey, pretending not to hear him. He kept pace, unbothered by the silence.

“You live nearby, then? Must be hard work, running errands like this. All alone.”

Still nothing.

“I like your shawl,” he tried next. “It suits you. Red’s a good color for you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Are you going to keep following me?”

His smile didn’t waver. “Not if you ask me nicely.”

“Fine. Stop following me.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “That wasn’t very nice.”

You started walking again, faster this time. But he was behind you before you could make it to the next stall.

“Mercenary work,” he said, gesturing to the worn sword at his hip. “That’s what I do. Nothing fancy. I don’t kill children or clergy, if that’s your concern. But I am good with my hands.”

You stopped. “That’s disgusting.”

He blinked. Then grinned again. “You misunderstand me, little fox.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why?” He tilted his head. “It suits you. Quick. Sharp-eyed. Always watching. You’re not as quiet as you think, you know.”

You stared at him. “And you’re not nearly as charming as you think.”

He laughed. A full, delighted sound, like you’d said the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard.

“You’ve got a tongue on you,” he said. “I like that.”

You turned from him again, mouth pressed into a tight line, and made your way toward the baker’s stall. The smell of warm bread rose thick in the air—brown crusted loaves and sweet knots of cinnamon on display behind a woven curtain of flies. You hoped it might put a wall between you and him. But he didn’t take the hint.

Of course he didn’t.

He followed like a shadow stitched to your heel, speaking just loud enough for you to hear over the hum of barter and bleating goats.

“I could buy you something,” he offered. “A tart, maybe. Or one of those little hand-pies. Something sweet for a sour face.”

You didn’t answer.

“A smile wouldn’t kill you,” he added after a beat, voice softening, as if coaxing a wild animal closer. “Though I’d be the first to admit, there’s something pretty about your scowl.”

You turned on your heel so fast your shawl flared. “Do you ever shut up?”

His brows lifted, mock-wounded. “I talk when I’m nervous.”

“Why would you be nervous?”

He stepped a little closer. Too close. The crowd buzzed and flowed around you, but in that moment, it was like no one else existed. Just the two of you and the thick, invisible cord of tension wound tighter than twine. His pale eyes flicked down, then slowly back up.

“Because I don’t want to say the wrong thing to the prettiest girl in the square,” he said with a smirk. “Might ruin my chances.”

Your lip curled. “You didn’t have a chance.”

He grinned, leaning in like he was about to whisper some awful secret. “You sure about that?”

That was it.

Without thinking, you reached into your basket, grabbed the nearest apple, and hurled it at him. It wasn’t a perfect throw, but it hit him square in the chest with a satisfying thud.

He froze, blinking in genuine surprise as the apple bounced off his ribs and tumbled into the dirt. A few heads turned. Somewhere, a child gasped.

You didn’t care.

“Get lost,” you snapped, loud enough to cut through the noise around you.

A few people glanced over. A merchant frowned.

But the mercenary didn’t get angry.

He smiled.

Not the cocky smirk he’d been wearing like armor all morning. This one was different. Slower. Thinner. Like a knife slipping into silk.

You hated how calm he looked. Like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

“You’ve got spirit,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “I like that too.”

You didn’t give him a chance to say more. You turned and stormed away, pushing through the crowd, willing your legs not to shake.

But you could still feel it. That awful heat on the back of your neck.

——

Three days passed.

You hadn’t seen him again, not in the market, not on the road. And though you didn’t speak of it aloud, you’d felt it. The strange, coiled sense of absence. Like a storm that had paused just past the ridge. Waiting.

You pushed the thought aside as you walked. Your basket was heavy, full of the bread and herbs your grandmother had requested. Evening crept low over the trees, the light turning from gold to rust as shadows stretched longer and longer between the trunks. The woods were quiet. A little too quiet. No birds. No wind. Not even the creak of branches. Just your boots on damp leaves, and your breathing, and that crawling sensation like something just behind you.

…

The growl came first. Low, guttural. Then the snap of twigs. You turned just in time to see a wolf lunge.

Its weight hit you like a thrown sack of stone, knocking you hard onto your back. The breath tore out of your lungs as teeth snapped inches from your face, reeking of rot and blood. You shoved your arm under its throat, keeping it at bay with both hands while it snarled and twisted, claws raking at your skirts.

Your palm lit up in panic, magic flaring gold against the beast’s ribs. It didn’t throw it back like you’d hoped. The creature jerked, yelped, but it didn’t fall. You grabbed a broken branch from the ground and shoved it between its teeth before it could clamp down again. The branch splintered, but it gave you enough time to twist, roll, and knee the creature hard in the ribs.

It yelped and pulled back. You scrambled to your feet, heart thundering. Your hands were scraped raw. Your shawl had been torn clean down one side.

Another snarl. It came again—faster this time.

You ducked. You kicked. You drove your elbow into the side of its neck. The wolf crashed into a tree and staggered.

You raised your hand again, palm glowing faintly, hoping—praying—that something, anything, would spark strong enough to knock it out.

But the magic fizzled, drained and useless, like striking flint in the rain.

A second growl came from behind.

You turned slowly.

Another wolf. Black-furred, low to the ground, teeth slick. This one was smarter. It didn’t rush.

You were cornered. Your breath hitched. You stepped back toward the tree, pulse thrumming in your ears.

And then—just as the second wolf began to stalk forward—

Steel flashed. Flesh split. A roar not from an animal but from a man.

The mercenary collided with the first wolf like a thunderclap—his blade arcing low, catching the beast along the ribs. Blood sprayed. The wolf howled and staggered, but it didn’t drop.

He didn’t hesitate. He followed it, fast and brutal, boots pounding the earth as he brought the blade down again. The second swing sank deep into the creature’s shoulder, cutting through fur and muscle with a wet crunch. It screamed and bucked wildly, knocking him off balance, and in that moment the other wolf sprang.

You screamed. He turned just in time to take the brunt of it—teeth sinking into his forearm as he raised it to block. Blood poured freely down his sleeve.

Still, he held.

With a growl of pain, he slammed his fist into the wolf’s muzzle, staggering it just enough to wrench his arm free and shove the beast back. He was bleeding badly now. You saw it. The wound was deep, jagged.

The first wolf had recovered. It circled again. Two predators, flanking. They weren’t wild—they were coordinated. Intelligent.

You had to move.

You darted in without thinking. Heart hammering. You grabbed a fallen branch from the underbrush—a thick one, splintered at the tip—and rammed it straight into the first wolf’s side as it lunged toward him again.

It shrieked, twisting midair, your makeshift spear dragging a line of blood along its ribs. It didn’t fall, but it hesitated. And that was enough. The mercenary lunged forward, driving his blade clean into its neck. Blood sprayed hot across your skirts. The wolf collapsed, spasming once before going still.

The second wolf growled low. It lunged itself towards you.

You threw yourself forward, hands glowing faintly with the last shimmer of your magic. You slammed your palm against its snout, and the flash of energy surged into its skull like a jolt of white fire. The creature reeled, yelping, momentarily dazed.

The mercenary didn’t waste it. He grabbed its throat with both hands, twisting hard, and slammed it down onto a jagged rock. There was a crunch. A cry. And then silence.

You were both panting. You staggered back against a tree, trembling.

The mercenary straightened slowly, covered in gore. His face was pale, sweat slicking his brow. His arm was bleeding freely, soaking through his coat, and there was a ragged wound across his ribs.

But he was alive. So were you.

He wiped the blade off on his sleeve and looked down at the broken bodies. Then at you.

His voice was hoarse. Rough.

“That wasn’t just a wolf.”

You blinked. “What…?”

He nudged the corpse of the second one with his boot. Its eyes were still open—too many teeth in its mouth, too much muscle beneath the fur. Its limbs were too long. Not natural.

“Monster-wolves,” he said. “Some call them duskbeasts. Wolves who were born of magic. They had probably been tracking you for miles.”

He looked up at you, gaze steady despite the exhaustion bleeding through his limbs.

You stared at the carcasses, heart still thudding in your throat. The wolves—the duskbeasts—lay twisted and broken in the fading light, their bodies too large, too wrong. Joints bent at unnatural angles, mouths stretched too wide, fangs still bared in death. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“I mean, it makes sense.” His voice was strained, but still tried for smugness. “You're a little irresistible, little fox. Even to monsters.”

You turned to look at him. He was limping slightly, favoring his left side, blood dripping steadily from his arm and soaking through the black of his coat. And yet somehow—somehow—he still managed to smirk at you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“And you’re welcome.” He winced as he walked, though he tried to mask it. “Wouldn’t have lasted another minute without me. Admit it.”

You stepped toward him and reached for the torn fabric near his ribs. He flinched slightly but didn’t stop you.

“I would’ve lasted fine without you,” you said, and jabbed your fingers firmly into the deepest part of the wound.

He let out a sharp gasp through his teeth and immediately folded forward with a groan.

“Gods—! What was that for?”

“Just checking how fine you’re doing.”

“Cruel little thing.” He gritted his teeth, swaying slightly as he glared at you. “And here I came to rescue you.”

“You also stalked me through the market and called me little fox five too many times.”

“Six, actually.”

You rolled your eyes.

But he was turning pale, and the cocky lilt in his voice had begun to fray at the edges.

“We need to get you off your feet.”

“Oh? That sounds—”

“Say another word and I’ll jab your ribs again.”

He shut up.

—-

You half-dragged, half-guided him through the woods until the trees gave way to your grandmother’s farm. Smoke curled from the chimney, but you steered him away from the house and toward the stables, where the air smelled of hay and horses, and no one would ask questions.

He collapsed onto a low bench near the far stall, back slumping against the post, blood dripping down his side in slow rivulets.

“Stay still,” you said, already digging through the old healing pouch you kept hidden in the tack box. The salves were weak, the herbs cheap but your magic was returning, slowly, like warmth seeping back into your limbs after frost.

You knelt before him, fingers steady as you peeled away the shredded fabric of his coat. The wound along his ribs was ugly. Deep, angry, red.

“This is going to sting.”

“I like pain,” he muttered. “Makes me—“

You jabbed your thumb into the edge of the gash again.

“Ow!” He hissed. “I take it back. I take it all back.”

“Good.”

You pressed your hand flat over the wound, and light spilled from your palm. Golden, warm, and slow-moving. The bleeding eased almost immediately. The edges of the torn flesh began to knit beneath your touch, muscle rejoining muscle, skin pulling together again.

He watched you the entire time.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just watched, with that pale, patient intensity like he was memorizing the shape of your hand. The furrow of your brow. The sound of your breathing.

The silence stretched.

And just when the magic began to fade, he said, quietly, “You really weren’t going to leave me behind.”

You didn’t look at him.

“No.”

“I like that about you,” he murmured. “Even if you hate me.”

“I do hate you,” you said, smoothing the last edge of bandage over his arm.

He smiled faintly.

“You say that,” he said, voice low, “but you’re still touching me.”

You stood up so fast he nearly fell off the bench.

“Don’t push it.”

He lifted his hands in surrender, though his smirk had returned in full.

“I’m just saying. You’re a very caring little fox.”

You reached for your basket, ready to hurl another apple at his face.

“Try me.”

Your fingers had just closed around the basket's handle when his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Hey—”

He tugged, and before you could plant your feet, you stumbled forward. The bench creaked beneath both your weights as you landed—half on it, half on him, knees bumping his and palm braced on the wood beside his thigh.

“Gods,” you muttered, “what are you—”

“I need to check you,” he said, already reaching for the edge of your shawl. “You were thrown to the ground. Bitten at. Scratched. You might be bleeding and not even feel it yet.”

You slapped his hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Oh, really?” He arched a brow, fingers brushing your shoulder again. “Then what’s this?”

“That’s fabric, and I swear—”

But he was already lifting the shawl, pulling it aside like he had any right, gaze scanning your collarbone, your upper arm, the line of your shoulder. His hand was warm, calloused, and annoyingly gentle.

Your face burned hot. “Stop.”

“Just one sec. If there’s a bite I missed, it could go bad.”

“There’s no bite!”

He reached for the tie of your blouse.

And that was it.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.

Hard.

“Agh—! Ow—gods—!” he wheezed, twisting away as your fingers tangled in the sweat-damp strands near the base of his skull. “Mercy, woman!”

You didn’t let go. “Still feel like checking me now?”

He was laughing before he even got the words out. “Alright—alright—it was a joke!”

You stared at him.

“You were blushing,” he wheezed, grinning up at you like a boy caught with both hands in the pantry. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You nearly got punched in the ribs again.”

“Worth it.”

You shoved him back against the post, not hard enough to reopen the wound, but enough to rattle him. His smirk didn’t falter—if anything, it deepened.

“I liked the hair-pull,” he said. “Very commanding. Should’ve known you were the grabby type.”

You let go of him fast.

“Sleep outside,” you said, brushing off your skirts. “With the horses.”

He tilted his head back against the beam, watching you through narrowed eyes, still smiling.

“Can’t,” he said. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I might be.”

“Then go die quietly. Somewhere far away.”

He slouched down, sighing dramatically. “So cruel. You mend me with magic just to break my heart.”

—-

The next morning, the sun had barely crested the treetops when you slipped into the barn again. It was cooler inside—dust motes floating in the early light, the air thick with the scent of hay, old wood, and horses that hadn’t yet stirred.

You hadn’t brought much. Just a crust of bread, a bit of cheese, and a jar of quince jam your grandmother had insisted on giving him. She didn’t ask who he was. Only raised an eyebrow when you came in with blood on your skirts and left again with clean bandages and a muttered excuse about a “traveler who got into a scrap.”

You found him right where you’d left him—half-sprawled on the bench, coat slung over a post, boots kicked off, hair a mess.

He was asleep.

Or pretending to be.

You approached quietly, footsteps soft in the straw. The basket creaked as you set it down. At the sound, he stirred, one pale eye sliding open beneath a tousled strand of hair.

“You didn’t die,” you said.

He blinked slowly, voice rough with sleep. “Not yet.”

“Shame.”

He groaned as he sat up, one hand pressed to his side. “You say the cruelest things first thing in the morning.”

“I brought food.”

“I take it back.”

You handed him the bread and jam. He studied it like it might explode. Then: “Is this a peace offering?”

“No. It’s breakfast.”

“Still sounds like a peace offering.”

“Eat it before I change my mind.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look then took the bread with a half-smile and broke it in two, handing you back a piece.

You didn’t take it.

“I made it for you.”

He raised a brow. “You made bread?”

“Poorly.”

He bit into it anyway. “Still the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in months.”

You sat down a few feet away on an overturned bucket, watching him pick crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

His movements were slower today. Careful. His side was clearly bothering him, though he tried not to show it.

“How’s the wound?”

He glanced down at it. “Clean. Mostly. Still hurts like hell.”

“You’ll live.”

“Again, debatable.” He leaned back against the post, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “I had a nightmare you tried to stab me with a spoon.”

“Sounds like a dream.”

He cracked an eye. “Cruel.”

You crossed your arms, studying the hay-strewn floor.

A moment passed.

Then, softly, “You’re really not going to ask who I am?”

You looked at him. “I assumed you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

That seemed to surprise him more than any accusation would have. He stared at you for a beat, the usual arrogance stripped from his face.

“I’ve got names,” he said eventually, voice low. “Too many, depending on the town. But you can call me Kesh.”

“Kesh.”

“Short for something unpronounceable,” he added, biting into the bread again. “Or possibly made up. Hard to say.”

You waited.

“And you?” he asked. “What do they call you, little fox?”

You hesitated.

His tone had softened. Not mocking, not prying. Just curious. And in that stillness, with the smell of hay and bread between you, it felt almost safe to answer.

So you did.

Quietly. Simply. Just the name you’d carried since birth, like any other burden.

Kesh blinked, then tilted his head slightly, as if turning the sound of it over in his mind. His lips quirked at the corners.

“I like mine better,” he said.

You frowned. “Your…?”

He gave a faint shrug, the movement slow to avoid tugging at his ribs. “Little fox. It suits you. You’re quick on your feet, bite when cornered, and keep looking at me like you’re wondering if I’ll steal your chickens.”

“I am wondering.”

“I don’t even like chickens.”

You scoffed. “You don’t like anything that behaves better than you.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Exactly.”

You stood. “You can call me by my name.”

“I could,” he said, “but then you might forget how much it annoys you when I don’t.”

You stared at him. He gave you that same look from the day before—the one that cut straight through the humor, the wounds, the mess of it all.

A pause stretched between you.

Then, softer this time, like a secret: “I’ll say it when it matters.”

You didn’t quite know what to make of that.

But you turned to leave without arguing, hand on the barn door, the morning breeze sneaking in through the slats.

Behind you, Kesh muttered through a mouthful of cheese, “Besides…the way you say Kesh, it kind of sounds like you like me.”

You didn’t respond.

You just let the door swing shut on whatever grin he was wearing.

—-

Kesh stayed for five months. Not because he asked. Not because you offered. He just…didn’t leave.

And somehow, the days folded in around him.

—-

Week One: You found him asleep in the hayloft, a pitchfork clutched like a sword across his chest. When you called his name, he opened one eye and said, “You're sweet when you're worried,” before you could deny it.

You nearly threw the bucket of water you were holding.

Later, you brought him a fresh bandage and told him he smelled like barn cat.

—-

Week Two: He helped you chop wood.

Well—helped might be generous. You did most of the chopping. He leaned against a stump and gave commentary.

“You’ve got murderous form,” he said, dodging a stray splinter. “Marry me.”

You missed the log entirely and told him to shut up. He laughed so hard he winced and nearly opened his stitches again.

Afterward, you smeared salve on his wounds.

—

Week Three: You taught him how to braid twine into rope.

He got it wrong three times, cursed every loop, and tied his own sleeve to the rafter. You nearly fell off your stool laughing.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, struggling to untangle himself.

“Not enough,” you replied.

But when you took his hand to guide the next knot, your fingers brushed, and neither of you pulled away.

—-

Week Four: You caught him feeding your grandmother’s half-blind goat a tart from the pantry. She was supposed to be fasting for bloat.

You smacked the tart out of his hand and told him he’d killed her.

She lived. Thrived, actually. She followed him around all afternoon like a lovesick puppy.

He called it destiny. You called it suspicious.

—

One Month In: Your grandmother asked him to bring in kindling.

He came back with an entire broken tree branch and three pinecones. Proud.

She looked at the mess, then at him. “You could’ve gotten away with this if you were at least pretty,” she said. Kesh looked insulted. “I’m devastatingly handsome,” he corrected.

She snorted and tossed him a knife. “Make yourself useful, then.”

He did.

You found them later at the table, peeling apples. She was telling him a story you hadn’t heard in years, smiling.

—

Two Months In: Rain.

Kesh stayed in the barn, listening to the storm through the rafters while you sat beside him with mending in your lap. You didn’t speak for an hour. Just the click of your needle and the soft drum of water on the roof.

Then, without looking up, he said, “You make this place feel less like the end of the world.”

You nearly pricked your thumb.

When you looked over, he was watching the rain. Like he hadn’t said anything at all.

—

Three Months In: You found your grandmother muttering in the kitchen.

“I told him to get thyme,” she said, pulling open a drawer. “He came back with a rock. A rock, child. And berries I didn’t ask for.”

You raised a brow. “Where is he now?”

“In the garden,” she said, exasperated. “Asking the scarecrow if it likes jam.”

You stepped outside, and sure enough—there he was. Jarring jam for a scarecrow. You didn’t ask.

You just helped him clean the lids.

—

Four Months In: There was a harvest fair in town. You didn’t want to go, but your grandmother made you.

Kesh went with you. You bought cinnamon bread and apples. He won a knife-throwing contest.

That night, you both sat under the porch roof. He leaned his head back and said, “I’m not good at staying. But this…it’s hard to leave.”

You didn’t answer. But your hand was close to his on the bench. You didn’t move it.

—

Five Months In: You found him at the edge of the woods, eyes fixed on the trees. The morning was cold. Mist low and clinging. He looked different—still, somehow. Like a coin balanced on its edge.

“I’ll go soon,” he said, without turning.

You didn’t answer right away. Then,

“Why.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t make it harder,” he said.

You didn’t ask what it was. You didn’t have to.

You just stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the mist drift through the trees.

—-

Kesh left the next morning. No note. No goodbye. Just the faint smell of smoke in the barn rafters and the imprint of his weight still pressed into the bench.

You found the twine rope you’d made together, looped neatly and left on the hook beside the stall. The knots were crooked. You didn’t untie them.

—-

Autumn came. Then winter. The frost crept in slow. First at the corners of windows, then the edges of fields. The leaves turned, then fell, and still—you didn’t hear from him.

Your grandmother asked once. Just once.

“Is that traveler coming back?”

You’d been kneading dough. You didn’t look up. “He wasn’t staying.”

She didn’t press. Only nodded and went back to her knitting. But after that, she always set aside an extra slice of bread when she packed your basket for the barn.

You didn’t mention it.

—-

The days grew short. Chores filled the quiet. Wood to stack. Stock to feed. A new fence to fix when the goats got too bold. You’d never minded solitude. Not really. But now it sat different, like a room that used to hold music.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, you caught yourself listening for footsteps that weren’t there. That particular rhythm—lazy, and uneven. But there was nothing. Just you and the frost.

And the rope on its hook.

—-

In town, you heard stories.

Monster-wolves, again. A whole den burned in the northeast hills. A caravan attacked at dusk. The survivors said someone had come out of the trees to stop it—just one man, cloaked in black, moving like a storm with a sword.

No one knew his name.

You said nothing.

But that night, you stayed out by the barn a little longer than usual. Let the cold bite into your fingers. Looked toward the woods until your eyes watered.

—-

Spring came late. The thaw was slow. Mud clung to your boots for weeks. The goats molted horribly. The apple trees budded unevenly.

You started sleeping poorly. Dreams full of teeth and smoke and voices that sounded like his, only never quite said your name.

Until one did.

—-

It was barely dawn. Mist clung low to the field when the knock came. Three short raps on the side of the house. Not the front door. The side—the barn-facing one.

Your hands moved before your head caught up. Shawl thrown around your shoulders, boots half-tied, you stepped out into the chill and saw—

Him.

Kesh stood at the edge of the porch, one arm braced against the post. His coat was darker now, mended in places, torn in others. He looked tired. Thinner. But still him.

Still Kesh.

His smirk flickered into place the moment your eyes met.

“Hey, little fox.”

He waited.

Waited for you to say something sharp. Or throw something. Or look away.

You didn’t.

You just crossed the few steps to him, grabbed the collar of his coat and hit him once in the chest with your fist.

Then, voice hoarse:

“You’re late.”

He blinked. Then smiled—soft this time. Small and sure, like he’d been carrying it all this time, just for this.

“I got lost.”

“Liar.”

“I missed you.”

That one landed. You hated how easily it cracked something open in your chest.

You didn’t speak again.

You just stepped into him, arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his shoulder. And for once—for once—he didn’t make a joke.

He just held you.

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for your fingers to go numb against the worn leather of his coat. Long enough to realize his arms had tightened slightly around you, just enough to be sure he wouldn’t disappear if you blinked.

Eventually, you pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to see his face again.

And now that he was this close, really here—you had questions. Dozens of them, crawling up your throat faster than you could speak them.

“Where were you?” “Are you hurt?” “What happened?” “Why didn’t you write?” “Was it really you they saw near the hills?” “Did you find more of those monsters?” “Why now?” “Why here?”

You stopped short of asking the last one aloud. But Kesh must’ve seen it in your eyes.

He smiled, soft and unapologetic, the corners of his mouth tugging upward like he’d expected the flood. Maybe even missed it.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, voice low. “I’ll tell you everything. Happily. Over tea. Inside. Where there’s a roof. And food.”

You stared at him.

Then stepped back fully, arms folding over your chest. “You think you deserve tea?”

“I always deserve tea.”

“You smell like you haven’t bathed in weeks.”

“I definitely haven’t.”

You sighed and turned toward the house. “Come on, then.”

Kesh followed like he’d never left. Same easy steps, same little limp, same smugness barely reined in behind every word.

But he didn’t speak again. Not right away.

He just looked around. At the porch. The field. The garden fence you’d mended. The goat grazing peacefully by the shed—his goat, technically, if affection meant anything.

And then he looked at you.

Like he’d remembered something, and now he was seeing it again for the first time.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

So you pushed open the door.

Inside, the kettle was already on. You’d lit it earlier, just for the chill, not expecting anything. The fire was crackling low. A pair of boots were drying near the hearth.

Your grandmother was sitting at the table, peeling root vegetables into a chipped bowl.

She looked up when the door opened.

Saw you first.

Then him.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, without missing a stroke of the knife, she said, “Well. Look what the goat dragged back.”

Kesh blinked. “You mean cat, surely.”

“She’s too clean,” your grandmother replied, nodding toward the goat out the window. “That one eats mice. Keeps her fur tidy. You, on the other hand…”

Kesh looked personally wounded.

Your grandmother rose from her chair and stepped closer, wiping her hands on her apron. Then she stood in front of him, arms folded, giving him a long, sharp once-over.

He stood still.

She reached out suddenly, brushing her fingers across his cheek.

Then she clucked her tongue. “Thinner than last time. And still ugly.”

Kesh looked delighted. “Missed you too, old woman.”

“Mm.” She turned to you. “Feed him before he talks himself faint.”

You rolled your eyes, already moving toward the cupboard. “He talks himself faint on purpose.”

Behind you, Kesh groaned as he settled into the nearest chair with the grace of a dropped sack of flour. “That’s slander. I only ever faint when it gets me something.”

“Like pity,” you muttered.

“Or a slice of bread.” He grinned, folding his arms behind his head. “Speaking of, if you had any of that quince jam left from before I was brutally exiled—”

“You left, you idiot,” you said, placing a bowl of stew and a heel of bread in front of him with more force than necessary.

“Semantics,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “I left to make you miss me.”

“She didn’t,” your grandmother said from her seat by the hearth, stirring her tea.

“I felt it, though,” he said, pointing a spoon at her. “Every day. The crushing weight of your mutual longing.”

You nearly smacked him with a wooden ladle.

He chewed dramatically for a few more seconds, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. “You’ll be pleased to know, however, that while you were pining, I was doing heroic things.”

You snorted. “Sleeping in ditches and starting bar fights?”

“And saving entire villages, thank you.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve—ignoring your grimace—and leaned in slightly. “You remember those beasts? The ones from the woods?”

Your hand froze on the ladle.

“Wolves?” your grandmother said, frowning slightly.

“Not wolves,” Kesh said. “Not really. The ones that attacked her weren’t the only ones sniffing around. I heard whispers, saw tracks. Something had stirred them up. Made them bold.”

You said nothing. Just watched him.

“So I followed them,” he went on, quieter now. “Weeks of it. Trail after trail. Whole nests of them—dozens. Buried deep in the hills. Blood-magic in the dirt. Something old and wrong.” He glanced at you. “Whatever they were after before…they’re not after it anymore. I killed them all.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Your grandmother broke the silence first, as she always did. “You brought that stench into my house just to brag?”

“I brought it to warn you,” Kesh said with a grin. “Then I remembered how much I missed being insulted before breakfast.”

You pushed his bowl toward him more firmly. “Eat.”

“Yes, general.” He took another bite, then added around it, “I kept a tally, you know.”

“A tally?”

“One scratch for every wolf I put down. Want to see?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You kept a murder log.”

He tugged his coat open and pulled his undershirt down at the collar, revealing the slope of his shoulder. Just near the collarbone—barely visible under smudged skin—were a series of faint carved lines. Sharp. Careful.

You reached forward before you thought better of it, brushing your thumb over the edge of one.

“How many?” you asked quietly.

“Too many.”

Kesh leaned back again, eyes half-lidded. “I’m thinking of getting one more. A tally for how many times you’ve looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” you snapped, pulling your hand back.

“Like I’m not all bad,” he said. “Like you might’ve missed me too.”

You opened your mouth—but your grandmother clattered her teacup down with a sigh.

“You two are exhausting,” she muttered. “Finish your food before it goes cold. And if either of you start flirting in front of me again, I’ll hex you both bald.”

Kesh looked thrilled.

“See? This is the real reason I came back.”

You rolled your eyes again—but this time, you were smiling. Just a little.

—-

The house had long since gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled deep into the walls—warm fire embers gone to ash, your grandmother snoring faintly behind the bedroom door, and outside, nothing but crickets and the creak of tree limbs in the wind.

But you weren’t asleep.

And neither was he.

You found him out in the barn again, sitting on the same bench as the first night you’d patched him up. No lantern, no boots. Just moonlight through the slats and the low rustle of hay as you pushed the door open.

He didn’t look up.

You stepped inside anyway, shawl around your shoulders, the cold biting at your ankles.

He let you come to him. Let you sit beside him without a word. The silence between you was familiar now—not empty, not strained. Just full of things unsaid.

For a while, it stayed that way.

Then—

“I didn’t kill them to be a hero.”

His voice was quiet. Rough at the edges. You glanced at him.

His elbows were on his knees, hands clasped, jaw set hard. No grin. No smugness. Just his face in profile, sharp with moonlight and something unreadable in his eyes.

“I didn’t do it for glory. Or coin. Or heroics. I followed those things across three counties. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat right. I picked fights with anything that smelled like them.”

You waited.

“They don’t feel pain,” he said. “Not like animals do. But I wanted them to. I needed them to. Because when I saw one of them throw you down, when I saw you bleeding—” He broke off. “There was a moment I thought I’d gotten there too late.”

Your breath caught.

“And I’ve been too late before,” he murmured. “Too many times.”

You watched his throat move as he swallowed hard.

“So I hunted every last one I could find. I made it slow. I made it hurt. Because I wanted them to know what it meant to touch you. To try to take you from this world.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

The kind of look that doesn’t ask for forgiveness, or praise—just understanding.

And maybe, somewhere beneath it, fear.

“I don’t know what that makes me,” he said. “But that’s why I did it.”

You sat very still.

The air between you had changed—thicker now, like the moonlight had weight, like the shadows were leaning in to listen. His hands were still clasped, knuckles pale. He didn’t glance away. Didn’t try to charm his way past what he’d just said.

And maybe that was what made it feel so heavy. So real. You studied him a moment longer. The quiet in your chest wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even shock.

It was a question.

So you asked it.

Soft. Careful.

“If I asked you to do something like that again…to anyone. Anything. Would you?”

His expression didn’t change at first.

Then slowly—very slowly—he sat back against the barn wall, his jaw shifting as if weighing the shape of your words. His eyes dropped to the floor, then back to you.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” you said quickly. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

His gaze flicked to yours.

“You want to know how far I’d go.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “If it was you asking?” he said. “Yes.”

Your heart thudded. Once.

He wasn’t done.

“If you looked me in the eye and said someone deserved pain—I wouldn’t even ask why. I’d just do it.”

There was no heat in his tone. No smugness. Just plain fact, as steady and unflinching as the blade at his hip.

Then his voice dropped lower.

“I wanted to hurt anyone who looked at you.”

You turned to him slowly, but he didn’t look back. His jaw was tight again, eyes on the floorboards like they were safer than your face.

“Every time I saw someone stare at you too long—at the market, at the road, even in town—I imagined snapping their fingers one by one. Just to see how fast they'd stop.”

A pause.

“I didn’t, obviously,” he added with a bitter sort of smirk. “Congratulations to them.”

You said nothing.

Because he wasn’t joking. Not really.

Kesh didn’t say things to shock. Not like this. He said them because they were already boiling too close to the surface. Because saying it aloud was the only way to loosen his grip on it.

“I’m not proud of it,” he said, quieter now. “Didn’t come here planning to turn feral in your barn. But something about this place—about you—it gets under my skin.”

He rubbed at the corner of his mouth like he could wipe the words away. But they stayed there, heavy between you.

“I’ve been around too much,” he went on. “Seen too much. Most days I don’t give a damn about anyone but myself. I thought that was smart. Safer. But then you—”

He cut himself off.

You watched the shadows pool beneath his lashes, the strain in his shoulders, the half-curled fist in his lap.

Then, finally—softly—

“Kesh.”

He looked up.

You didn’t think. Didn’t plan.

You just leaned in.

And kissed him.

His breath hitched against your mouth—surprised, almost startled—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he moved closer. His hand slid up instinctively, fingers threading through your hair, the other curling around your waist. He kissed like he fought—with intensity, with purpose. No half-measures. No hesitation. The kind of kiss that spoke of everything he didn’t know how to say aloud. Fierce. Focused. Messy. You felt it in your spine.

His mouth grazed yours, deepening, tilting with yours like you were made to move this way, like this was inevitable. His fingers slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, until your knees bumped his and you braced yourself on his thigh.

That’s when his hand—the other hand—slid a little too low.

You broke the kiss with a sharp gasp and smacked him across the chest.

He froze.

Then—

“Ow,” he wheezed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s not fair.”

You scowled, cheeks burning. “Hands where I can see them.”

“I got excited,” he said, all wounded pride and zero remorse. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“It was great.”

You shoved him, and he caught himself on the edge of the bench, laughter low and breathless in the dark.

“I’m going to regret that, aren’t I?” you muttered.

He looked up at you through a tousled strand of hair, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.