nuviillteee

[nuviillteee]

Puppy Eyes

Chapter Four: After the Collision

Time had frozen.

Even after they pulled apart, the taste of the kiss lingered on their lips—sharp, hot, screaming in a voice they couldn’t silence inside their heads.

Joe

I hate you.

The words still spun in his mind, like a knife he pressed against his own skin—knowing it only didn’t cut because they’d been so close.

Hate?

If he truly hated him, his heart wouldn’t be pounding like this, his knees wouldn’t tremble at the memory of Ted’s fingers gripping his neck, or the heat between their bodies.

Joe wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand as if he could erase the trace… but his mind was stubborn. Every detail was etched in: the way Ted’s breath came when he was close, the roughness that spilled over suddenly, then drew back when Ted caught his breath, as if… as if the man was afraid of breaking something.

He tried to convince himself: It’s just provocation… like every other time.

But his heart disagreed, and the heat in his chest betrayed him.

Ted

He stood by the window, a lit cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around his face like a veil.

Replay after replay, breath after breath.

Joe had been closer than he’d imagined—his expression, the stubbornness in his eyes, and the moment that stubbornness shifted into a silent desire.

I hate you too.

He’d said it like a counterattack… but in truth? It was a defense. A defense against a feeling that should never have surfaced.

He knew himself—he shouldn’t have leaned in, shouldn’t have let their lips meet.

But something deeper than anger had driven him.

And he hated the question that lingered: Why?

Now

The next day, the streets were plastered with election campaign posters. Their faces met at almost every corner, as if the city itself enjoyed their rivalry.

Joe arrived first, his team handing out flyers and talking to people, a calculated smile on his lips. Every move deliberate… until he caught the shadow of someone familiar approaching.

Ted, in a dark suit with no tie, as if he’d just come from another battle. His eyes scanned the crowd—or maybe searched for a reaction—but they didn’t stop until they landed on Joe.

“Relax. I’m not here to ruin your day.”

Ted’s voice was steady, but there was something in the tone—a scrape, a challenge.

Joe answered with a cold smile:

“Your presence is enough to do that.”

But his eyes betrayed him—flickering for just a second with the memory of yesterday, of the distance lost, of the heat.

Instead of responding, Ted turned to a passerby, took one of Joe’s flyers, pretending to be nothing more than a curious competitor.

Minutes later, their paths crossed again—closer this time. Joe was speaking to people about his platform; Ted stood behind, listening.

It wasn’t about politics. It was about the sound. About watching the way the other moved, about every small detail that revealed more than it should.

Ted stepped forward, stopping beside Joe, leaning slightly to whisper:

“Trying to steal my voters, or just watching me like usual?”

Without looking at him, Joe said:

“At least I don’t hand out free kisses in public.”

A pause… then Ted laughed softly and leaned closer, leaving a gap that was barely bearable:

“That was just a reaction.”

This time Joe turned, locking his gaze on him.

“A reaction?”

Joe’s tone carried both mockery and anger, but his eyes… his eyes held another question he didn’t dare voice.

Ted didn’t answer. He simply left him with that narrow space that felt too much like yesterday—then walked away, leaving his presence behind… and leaving Joe with a heart set on betrayal.

⸻

The night was longer than usual.

Joe sat in the leather chair of his office, the glow of his computer screen the only light in the room. But his eyes weren’t on the screen.

They were on a frozen image—a still from the camera in Ted’s home.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply, but the air didn’t calm the storm in his chest.

Every time he blinked, the scene returned.

Ted’s heavy breath against his ear…

The grip on his neck, fingers pressing as if measuring his racing pulse…

Another hand at his waist, pulling him closer until their bodies met fully.

The grinding pressure, the way Ted’s hips pressed insistently against him—as if it was a battle of another kind.

The solid chest that was both barrier and prison, and the overwhelming presence that made Joe feel, for a moment, completely powerless.

He swallowed hard.

What have you done?

The question pounded in his skull without rest.

Since when did he let himself get this close? Since when did he give Ted—Ted, of all people—access to something so deep inside him?

He thought of his wife—the one who’d run off with another man months ago.

I’m loyal… I didn’t cheat.

But his mind replied with a cruel sneer: Then what was that kiss?

He tried to shove the thoughts away… but the harder he tried, the clearer the images became.

Ted leaning in, the heat spilling between them, the way his breath had shortened, even that faint, unintentional moan.

It wouldn’t be erased.

He stood abruptly, shoving his chair back as he went to the cabinet, pulling out a small bag and packing his tools.

One last look at the screen.

The current feed was empty—just a dark room in Ted’s house—but Joe still felt the weight of his presence.

“I crossed a line.”

He said it under his breath, as if passing sentence on himself.

An hour later, he stood in Ted’s apartment, moving quietly as he removed the camera fixed in the corner.

His hand trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper… the knowledge that he was severing the last thread connecting him to Ted outside their face-to-face battles.

As he left, it felt like he was leaving more than a device behind.

He was leaving a piece of his curiosity… and a piece of himself.

In the car, the road ahead was empty, but his head was a roar of noise.

Denial began to take root:

He’s just a political rival… just provocation… it means nothing.

He repeated the phrase like a charm, trying to drown out the other voice inside him that refused to let go:

You didn’t really want to walk away.

⸻

Ted didn’t know about the cameras… or so Joe had always believed.

But the truth? Ted had felt it—in some strange way—that Joe’s eyes followed him, even when no one was there.

His breaths were sometimes slower, his movements less guarded, as if sharing his moments with an unseen audience.

Now… there was emptiness.

Three days had passed without that presence.

No one watching—or so it seemed.

One night, Ted stood at the kitchen counter, slicing bread slowly, eyes on the knife but mind elsewhere.

A small smile tugged at his lips—the kind of smile from someone who knows another is trying to stay away… and won’t succeed.

The next day was their first official meeting since the incident.

Joe stood at the far end of the long table, pretending to be busy with the papers in front of him, but Ted didn’t give him that luxury.

He entered with slow steps, his gaze fixed on him, as if reading his thoughts.

He stopped close—too close—forcing Joe to step back.

“Good morning, Joe.”

His voice was calm, but tinged with something new… warmth wrapped in control.

Joe raised his eyes slowly, trying to stay cold:

“We have a busy schedule today. Let’s start.”

But Ted didn’t move.

Instead, he slowly reached out, taking a paper from in front of Joe—his fingers brushing against Joe’s for just a moment… enough to spark something unwelcome in his chest.

Ted looked at him directly, a hint of something hidden in his eyes:

“You’ve been… different lately. Disappeared suddenly.”

Joe gave a short, mocking laugh:

“Busy. There are more important things than sitting around watching people.”

Ted leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice but filling it with meaning:

“Watching… or caring?”

That word—caring—stuck in Joe’s head long after Ted had taken his seat at the other end of the table, as if nothing had been said.

The meeting went on, but Joe’s mind was somewhere else… and every effort at denial was slowly starting to crack.

⸻

Ever since Joe had removed the cameras from Ted’s home, the nights had been quieter… but the kind of quiet that grated on him.

He went to bed trying to convince himself it was the right decision—a step toward regaining his balance.

But every time he closed his eyes, the details of that night came back: hot breaths, the press of a hand, the grinding of hips, and that deep voice saying, “I hate you too.”

On an otherwise ordinary weeknight, Joe’s phone rang with the urgent tone reserved for emergencies.

“Officer Joe speaking.”

“I’ve got a small situation… or a big one—depends on you. There’s a drunk vagrant trying to break into the bar.”

The voice was unmistakably familiar, and Joe didn’t need to hear the name to know who it was.

“Ted…”

“And I want you, specifically, to come.”

Joe clenched his jaw, thinking about ignoring the request—but less than ten minutes later, he was standing at the bar’s front door.

The scene was chaotic: a middle-aged man, so drunk he could barely stand, yelling incoherent words while trying to push the door open.

Ted was inside, hand on the door, holding the man back—but his eyes had been locked on Joe from the moment he arrived.

Joe stepped in, handled the drunk with practiced ease, and called another unit to take over.

But instead of heading back to his car, he stayed where he was—eyes fixed on Ted.

“You asked for me specifically… why?”

Ted shrugged with feigned nonchalance.

“You like being the first to know about my problems, right?”

Joe gave a sarcastic laugh.

“And you like causing problems just to see my face, right?”

Ted didn’t answer right away. He just took a step forward, closing the space between them, the air thick with the same charge that had surrounded them the last time.

“Strange… first time we’ve had a real conversation since that happened.”

Joe felt the heat rush to his face but refused to back down.

“I’m here because of the call, not because of you.”

Then, suddenly… Ted laughed.

A short, deep laugh, as if it had escaped him against his will.

Joe froze, eyebrows raised, his voice sharp:

“What exactly is so funny?”

Ted’s smile was half challenge, half something Joe couldn’t quite read.

“Nothing… just that you’re funny when you try to pretend you don’t miss me.”

The words hit Joe’s chest harder than any punch.

He didn’t respond immediately—just stepped back, hiding the ripple of emotion under a frozen expression.

Joe narrowed his eyes, every feature on his face shutting down any chance of a smile from the other man.

“I don’t miss you.”

Ted arched a brow, as if amused.

“Sure… which explains why you got here in under ten minutes.”

“Doing my duty.”

“Your duty?” Ted laughed again—longer this time, the sound laced with provocation. “Joe, even the officers who’ve known me for ten years don’t show up that fast.”

Joe’s hand curled into a fist, his voice low but dangerous:

“Don’t test my patience.”

“Why not? You clearly like tests… even the ones you lose.”

Ted tilted his head slightly, the words carrying an unspoken weight between them.

Joe felt the heat rise to his face.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough… I know you don’t sleep well. I know you try to stay away from me—and fail.”

Joe took a step forward, closing the gap to less than an arm’s length.

“Fail?”

“Not the first time… and not the last.”

Joe was about to fire back, but then he caught that strange glint in Ted’s eyes—a mix of challenge and something Joe refused to believe.

“You just like provoking me?”

“I like watching you lose control.”

Joe let out a dry, mocking laugh—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t bother. I’m in control.”

Ted’s voice was almost a whisper, but every word was deliberate.

“You never were.”

A heavy silence fell between them, the kind that said they both knew exactly what they couldn’t say aloud.

Outside, the sound of the patrol car taking the drunk away broke the tension for a moment—but Joe didn’t move.

“We’re done here.”

“No, we’re not,” Ted said quickly, as if refusing to let the scene end on Joe’s terms.

Joe rolled his eyes and started to walk away, but his voice was sharp as he said:

“You’re the last person who gets to say that.”

Ted gave the smallest of smiles, as if he’d won something he wouldn’t explain.

“And you’re the last person who could convince me you don’t care.”

Joe stopped, turned to him for a brief moment—on the verge of saying something—but swallowed it back and kept walking.

Ted remained at the door, watching him go with a long, steady look, as if memorizing every step.

⸻

POV: Joe / Location: His home, two hours after the call

Joe sat at his desk, the phone trembling slightly in his hand.

His breaths came fast, as if all the air in the room wasn’t enough.

He stared at the screen—the familiar number blinking back: Ted Garcia.

He lifted the receiver, his heart pounding, trying to appear calm.

“Hello…” His voice was low, barely controlled.

“Hey!” Ted replied loudly, as if stepping into the room with a provocative smile.

“…Hi.” Joe said, trying not to show irritation.

Ted began talking about trivial things—minor details about the bar, the weather, people passing by.

Every word was a blade, cutting through Joe’s calm and dragging him back to the tension that had lingered since their last kiss.

Joe gripped the phone tightly, trying to focus on something else, but every sentence forced images of Ted into his mind, recalling every detail of that encounter.

Ted laughed, a soft laugh full of meaning.

“I knew you’d come to save me. Thought I’d thank you for stepping in.”

Joe blinked, aware of the subtext, but said nothing.

“…Just doing my duty,” he whispered, his voice catching slightly.

Ted went on with random details, everything seemingly meaningless—he even explained how he replaced the washing machine filter, clearly prolonging the call on purpose.

After a few minutes of talking about removing the filter and covering half the machine, he suddenly said:

“And a customer told me today that the beer here tastes stranger than usual.”

“…Hmm…” Joe managed a word, but his mind was drowning in images of Ted—the way he moved, his smile, the tension it stirred inside Joe.

Every time Ted laughed, Joe’s heart pounded faster.

“Don’t you think the color on this wall changes the mood?” Ted spoke as if changing subjects endlessly.

Joe raised an eyebrow, feeling anger seep through his chest, but he couldn’t end the call.

“…I don’t know,” he said, his tone sharp despite his effort to control it.

Ted laughed again, then added:

“I was thinking, if we rearranged the tables, maybe the bar would get a new vibe.”

Joe gripped the phone harder, his mind replaying every detail of Ted’s body, the kiss from last night, the way his hand had rested on his waist…

He tried to push the images away but failed.

“Aren’t you going to tell me something about yourself?” Ted suddenly asked, his voice lower, as if testing him.

Joe hesitated, knowing the correct answer was silence, but words slipped out with difficulty:

“…Nothing new.”

Ted laughed again, longer this time, as if reading every feeling Joe was hiding.

“Don’t you get tired of the routine, Joe?”

“…I… don’t…” His voice nearly broke.

The call went on, every word from Ted adding pressure to Joe’s mind.

Every thought of the last kiss, the way Ted had pressed against his waist, the touch of his body—everything returned stronger.

Joe closed his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe deeply, but he knew it was impossible.

“Don’t you remember the day when…?” Ted began, asking a seemingly random question.

Joe froze, his heart stopping, his whole body trembling.

“…Why are you talking about that?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Ted smiled, emotionless on the surface, but fully aware that Joe had wavered.

“Just wanted to talk—the longest call with you today. You know why.”

Joe tried to find words, but his mind collapsed internally.

The conversation continued without pause; every thought Ted provoked brought back memories of the kiss, every tone of his voice reigniting Joe’s suppressed desire.

He tried to remain firm, to control himself, but he knew he was losing every internal battle.

Finally, after more than half an hour, Ted drifted to another, trivial topic—long enough to keep Joe on edge.

“Alright, I think I should go now,” Joe said, his voice weary, as if a piece of his soul had been lost in the call.

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” Ted replied, without laughter, just steady, driving Joe to the edge of madness.

Joe lifted the phone from his ear, a headache and inner fire burning him.

As he set the receiver down, he thought of everything—the kiss, the call, the images his mind refused to accept…

And he knew things would never be the same again, that Ted dominated every corner of his thoughts, even from afar.

⸻

Ted slowly hung up the phone, as if afraid of breaking something fragile.

He stared at the device for a moment, his fingertips still warm from holding it, as if the call had been more physical than vocal.

“You’re an idiot, Ted.” He muttered to himself, leaning back on the bar stool, raising his hand to wipe his face.

He let out a soft groan, as if punishing himself for a behavior he knew was completely unnecessary.

What was he doing? Calling just to bring up silly topics about the weather, walls, and drunks, like a teenager inventing any excuse to talk to his crush.

He smiled despite himself at that word he never dared say aloud, even in his thoughts he avoided it… yet, damn it, it was there.

He recalled Joe’s voice, the short replies, the tone trying to stay cold but failing.

He could hear the heartbeats between the words—or maybe it was just Ted imagining it—but he enjoyed it.

He lifted his empty glass, twirling it between his fingers, his eyes lost in the transparent liquid.

“Why am I like this?”

The question was simple, but the answer heavy: because he missed him. Because he wanted him close, even when he was far away.

He remembered Joe laughing in the middle of the struggle at the bar a few days ago… and the shock on Joe’s face when Ted kissed him.

He laughed again now, quieter… as if the old laughter had slipped from memory onto his face.

After the call ended, he should have gone back to work, but he stayed seated, back against the wall, a dumb smile still weighing down his face.

Even his breathing slowed, as if the call had momentarily hidden him from the world.

He reached for a pen on the table and began drawing small circles on an old sheet, but his mind wasn’t on the circles—it was on someone… someone with gray eyes, whose voice left a mark on his chest even after the line went dead.

“Stop, Ted.” He whispered to himself, trying to halt the stream of images racing through his head… but he failed.

⸻

The air was hot and dry, the sun hanging in the middle of the sky as if challenging anyone to look at it.

Joe stood by his car, reviewing files in one hand, a nearly cold coffee in the other.

He intended to leave as quickly as possible… if only the front door hadn’t opened and revealed Ted.

Ted emerged with exaggerated confidence, wearing a sky-blue shirt unbuttoned at the top, as if he’d stepped out of an old Marlboro ad.

He stood in the doorway, shoulder leaning on the wooden frame.

The place was relatively quiet… or at least, New Mexico quiet—until Ted opened his mouth.

Joe was just about to finish his task and leave, but of course, Ted decided today was the perfect time to bring up a topic with no relevance.

His voice carried that same provocative tone Joe knew all too well:

“Joe, I have a feeling you’ve been ignoring me lately.”

Joe slowly raised his head, making sure he hadn’t imagined the voice:

“Your feeling is correct. Congrats on your observation skills.”

Ted, standing with one arm resting on the table, a small smile on his lips:

“Joe, you know you take things way too seriously, right?”

Joe, without looking up from the papers:

“And you know you won’t shut up unless you sleep.”

Ted chuckled lightly, stepping closer:

“But seriously… why did I feel like you were about to punch me last time I called?”

Joe lifted his gaze, calm but sharp:

“Because I was about to punch you.”

Ted raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise:

“Oh… so you weren’t happy to hear my voice? Strange… everyone loves my voice.”

Joe, in a dry tone:

“Drunks, maybe.”

A small smile appeared on Ted’s lips, and in his eyes that gleam Joe hated to admit he’d noticed more than once.

Ted stepped forward, folding his arms:

“Why? Did we become official enemies after the last call?”

Joe returned his gaze to the files:

“After the last call, we became official enemies, unofficial enemies, and enemies in every possible form.”

Ted suddenly laughed, the laugh flowing easily, and the smile stayed on his face longer than Joe expected.

Joe tried to ignore it, but the eyes… the same eyes he had dubbed “puppy eyes” in his mind, unspoken aloud, stared steadily at him.

Joe averted his gaze, trying to regain focus:

“Do you have something important, or is this part of your new hobby… wasting police time?”

Ted with a side smile:

“Police time, or your time?”

Ted shook his head, quickly changing the subject, as if he enjoyed the quarrel more than any real result:

“Funny… I thought you enjoyed the conversation.”

Joe let out a short laugh, without any trace of amusement:

“Conversation? You opened topics about the weather, your coffee stock, then tried to explain how to clean the washing machine filter… and I don’t even have a washer.”

Joe exhaled slowly, feeling his blood boil at the way Ted toyed with words… but he didn’t respond.

This time, Ted’s laugh came out loud, and the smile brightened his face, enough for Joe to notice it had reached his eyes.

That irritated Joe more than it eased him.

“Maybe I was trying to prolong the call,” Ted said, stepping another deliberate step closer, his tone less provocative but still bold.

Joe stared at him, feeling the heat of the sun melt with the heat in the eyes facing him.

Puppy eyes, the nickname Joe had given in his mind but never dared speak aloud.

Joe cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the files:

“If you came here to repeat the call, I’m busy.”

Ted leaned on the car, bringing his shoulder intentionally close to Joe’s:

“Busy avoiding me?”

Joe turned sharply, but noticed the faint smile that never left Ted’s face.

He wanted to tell him to step back… but the words delayed a second or two, and Ted took advantage of the silence.

“You know… when you get angry, your voice gets a little deeper. You think it’s a threat… I consider it a compliment.”

Joe raised an eyebrow:

“Ted, one more minute with you and I’ll file a report against myself for wasting work time.”

Ted laughed, raising his hands as if surrendering:

“Alright, alright… I’ll leave you to your work, noble officer.”

He stepped inside, but before disappearing, he glanced back and said in a teasing tone:

“But remember… you came here today, not me.”

Joe stared after him, feeling a tightness in his chest, unsure whether it was from the heat or Ted himself.

Ted lingered with a long look before turning, as if victorious in a small round, leaving Joe to wonder why he’d wasted five minutes of his life.

[nuviillteee]

Puppy Eyes

Chapter three: “Not Obsession, Just Duty!”

Joe Cross’s Perspective Location: Behind an abandoned bar owned by Ted — Midnight

The street was empty, the cold biting, and the only light came from a lamp above a back door — dark and forgotten.

Ted told him to meet here. Joe was deliberately late.

He could have refused. But the idea of leaving Ted waiting alone fed something inside him.

He regretted it the moment he saw him standing there.

Ted was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, the light casting shadows on his hair, making him look…

No. Joe wasn’t going to think like that.

He cleared his throat and said, “Aren’t you tired of the dramatic moves?”

Ted smiled but didn’t raise his eyes.

“You’re the one who came, not me knocking on the sheriff’s office door, right?”

Joe took a step forward, his footsteps echoing sharply.

“Don’t beat around the bush. Why did you call me here? Behind your abandoned bar? At midnight? And if you’re planning to kill me, don’t even think about it—I’m warning you.”

Ted laughed and finally looked up. A direct gaze. Sharp.

Something in it… pierced.

Ted said, “Because I’m tired of you watching me from afar. So I thought I’d try to get you to come closer.”

Joe said nothing. But his heartbeat was loud.

“You imagine things,” Joe said, trying to steady his voice.

Ted walked toward him. One step. Two steps.

The distance between them became small enough for Joe to hear his own breath. And Ted’s breath. The air between them was heavy.

Ted said, “You imagine? Okay, let me remind you… the time you opened your mouth at the council? You looked at me like you wanted me to disappear, but your body was saying something else.”

Joe clenched his fist. The hatred felt like poison inside him. But why? Why like this?

Ted got closer. So close that Joe could hear his heartbeat, or maybe his own, or maybe both.

Ted whispered, “You always look at me like you want to…” His eyes shifted quickly from Joe’s face to his lips, then back to his eyes.

He stopped. Because Joe didn’t back away.

He expected Joe to run. But he didn’t.

On the contrary.

Joe stepped closer. A cold step. Full of hate.

Their faces drew near. Their breaths intertwined. Their lips… didn’t touch. But they were close. So close it was frightening.

Joe said in a low, rough voice, “Stop analyzing everything.”

His eyes locked on Ted’s. Full of hate. Full of… something undefined.

Ted whispered, “You hate me? That much?”

Joe gave a short, dark laugh.

“You don’t even know half the reason.”

Ted didn’t reply. He stayed standing. Silent. Surprised.

And for a wild moment, Ted reached out his hand… But Joe suddenly stepped back, as if something inside him broke.

He said sharply, “Don’t come closer.”

Ted bit his lip, lowered his hand. Took a deep breath.

“Fine. But don’t pretend you came here willingly.”

Then he left. Walked through the door.

Joe stood alone. Nervous and tense.

He whispered to himself, almost audible:

“I hate him. I hate him…”

But his chest was saying something else.

And he hated that contradiction more than anything.

More than Ted himself. — Joe Cross’s Perspective Location: His apartment — 4 A.M.

The dream was clear. Very clear.

Ted was standing in front of him, the same place behind the bar, but this time… He didn’t pull away. He didn’t say his mysterious line.

He got closer. Until there was no distance left. Their breaths mixed.

Joe didn’t move. Nor did he step back.

And Ted, with that unreadable smile, leaned in and whispered: “This time, don’t run.”

Then…

He kissed him.

Not a violent kiss. Nor a soft one. It was burning. So hot Joe could taste it. As if it were real. As if it actually happened.

His hand moved—in the dream—grabbing the edge of Ted’s shirt. He pulled it.

As if all his hate, all his frustration, all his inner screams… Turned into that moment.

The kiss deepened, lips devouring each other, tongues intertwining With a taste they didn’t know the meaning of. Joe pushed Ted against the wall, grinding him. Ted’s hand touched every inch of Joe’s body, as if Joe wanted to declare this body was his. These lips were his, these eyes didn’t look at anyone else—no, he couldn’t let them. He would kill anyone trying to steal those looks from him. “Puppy eyes,” he whispered amid his growing moans and rising breaths. He lowered his hands to Ted’s pants, undone buttons and belt, Touched him…

Suddenly, Joe opened his eyes.

Four in the morning.

Drenched in sweat. His chest rising and falling fast.

“Damn.”

He sat, buried his face in his hands.

His body… Tense. Too tense. His manhood was hard as a sword from just a dream.

He felt something inside him moving, twisting, shaking off.

“This can’t be. This is nonsense. Just a stupid dream. Just… stress.”

But the truth? His tongue seemed to remember the taste. His heartbeat faster than usual.

He stood up, went to the bathroom, drank straight from the faucet.

Looked at his face in the mirror.

“This isn’t desire. It’s burning hatred. Just hatred.”

But his reflection in the mirror was asking him:

Are you sure?

—

He returned to bed. Reached for his pillow…

And wished, for a brief moment, it was Ted’s chest.

He hit the pillow with his fist.

“Ted Garcia… damn you.”

But he couldn’t sleep. Nor could he.

His eyes stayed open, watching the dream replay in his mind.

And the kiss… Became clearer.

And he? Weaker.

And weaker.

⸻

Joe Cross’s Perspective Location: Police Station — Next Morning

The sun had risen, but the night was still stuck in his mind.

⸻

Joe Cross’s Perspective Location: His Apartment — The Day After the Dream

The daylight was dull, but in Joe’s eyes, it shone in a suffocating way.

The air was still, but everything inside him was restless. Since he opened his eyes, he refused to admit that the dream left its mark.

But his mind? It wouldn’t switch off.

Joe sat at his desk, a file open in front of him, but his eyes weren’t on the paper.

They were on the screen.

One camera. Connected to a rooftop across the street.

Pointing at the door of Ted’s bar.

He didn’t know why he chose that angle. But he knew he couldn’t resist.

And the worst? There was nothing. The bar was empty, the place quiet. And Ted? Gone.

He said it was routine. But the truth? He was searching. Following.

Imagining.

Until 3 PM.

The back door of the bar opened. And Ted came out.

Wearing a blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, his hair messy as usual. There was something in his steps… Like they were calculated.

Joe leaned closer to the screen.

Ted stopped.

Not just stopped. Stopped exactly at the spot perfectly covered by the camera.

Then he turned around.

And looked like he was staring… Up.

Towards the building. Towards the camera.

Towards Joe.

Joe shrank in his seat. But his eyes didn’t look away.

And Ted? Raised an eyebrow. Smiled. A small smile. Full of provocation.

Damn.

Joe sat back down. Instead of turning off the screen…

He zoomed in.

Ted entered the bar again. The door closed. But his trace…

Remained.

—

At that moment, Joe realized something:

He couldn’t stop anymore. Not just because of hate or obsession.

There was something else.

Something pulling him to Ted like a live electric wire. And every time he tried to move away… He burned again.

Every time he saw Ted getting into his car — same suit, same look, same heavy steps — he felt something inside shrink.

“Why? Why this much?”

He tried to convince himself it was investigative instinct. That a sheriff must know every move of his political rival.

But the closer the picture got, the more he focused on Ted’s facial expressions…

He knew.

He knew this wasn’t work. Nor security.

This was something deeper.

Something dirtier.

Something…

“I’m obsessed.”

He said it in a low voice, as if the confession itself was a betrayal.

He pressed stop.

Sat shaking.

The ghost of that kiss — the kiss from the dream — returned in his head. Ted’s features, his lips, his eyes…

Puppy eyes.

Joe whispered hoarsely: “You’re a damn curse walking on two legs.”

But his fingers returned to typing.

A new code. A new request. A new camera.

Closer.

Clearer.

Joe was no longer watching. He was drowning.

—

In the days that followed, Joe started going out on patrols more often. Not official ones. But always at the same time. And the same street.

He would drive slowly through the neighborhood where Ted’s bar was. Parked two buildings away. As if there was a fake report. Or just a routine patrol.

But no report, no routine. He was there… For another reason.

One time, he saw Ted come out the door, yawn, and light a cigarette. Another time, he saw him talking to one of the staff.

And once… He saw Ted stop and look directly at Joe’s car.

Ted smiled. That same smile.

Joe pretended to look at something on his radio. But the truth? He was avoiding the look.

A look that pierced through. A look he didn’t understand.

And didn’t want to understand.

But he came back. Every time. Same place. Same time. As if Ted had become a point on a map he couldn’t pass.

And the worst? He started to wait for the moment he would catch Ted looking at him.

⸻

Joe Cross’s Perspective Location: Inside Ted’s House — Afternoon

It wasn’t supposed to happen. It shouldn’t have.

But Joe was now standing in the middle of Ted’s kitchen.

Everything was strangely neat. Not reflecting the chaos of his laughter, or his eyes. The cups were lined up perfectly. The countertop was clean to an annoying degree.

The kitchen walls were a faded wooden color, curtains open, and the light filled the place with a warm tone unlike the coldness Joe felt inside.

He reached out. Mounted a small hidden camera on one of the shelves. Hidden behind a tea box.

Every step he took today… Wasn’t a wish. It was a decision. Cold. Obsessed.

He pulled another camera from his pocket. And headed towards the bedroom.

—

He entered it.

Ted’s scent was there. Hit him like a slap.

The bed was made. The boards neat. But there was something very human in the place.

A pillow that seemed never to have lost the shape of a head. A shirt thrown on a chair.

Joe swallowed hard and placed the camera on a shelf across the room.

Today, Joe Cross was no longer just a sheriff. He had become a ghost. And for Ted, his house held eyes other than his own.

Joe knew he was crossing his limits. But he didn’t stop.

His car took the same route every day, passing Ted’s house, until the street itself memorized the sound of his engine. The excuse of “security” no longer fooled even himself.

The cameras… That was the real reason. He planted them and left them working silently, but they screamed in his mind every night.

On the screen, Ted moved steadily. In the kitchen… a cup of coffee, a hand stirring the spoon with a strange slowness. In the bedroom… a shirt unbuttoning slowly, a shoulder revealed, then a fleeting glance into the empty space.

Joe knew… that was not emptiness. That was him. He was the target.

On the third day… Ted stood in front of the mirror, fixing his hair, looking at himself like he knew someone was watching. On the fourth day… he sat on the couch, touched his neck, unbuttoned a shirt button, left it open. He took his laptop and opened something; Joe thought it was a sex scene. Ted opened his shirt and pulled down his pants.

Joe didn’t blink.

He practically held his breath watching Ted lower his empty hand to the growing bulge at the bottom of his chest.

He continued watching as Ted rubbed the bulge, and his swollen penis became clearer before he reached to free his erection. He could hear Ted’s breath grow heavier and more disturbed. Joe stared at the screen, watching Ted’s chest rise and fall sharply with every heavy breath. He was fascinated, eyes glued to the screen, when he realized Donnie was watching too. But he couldn’t look away.

Ted pulled his hand away from his semen-soaked erection, grabbed a tissue, roughly wiping his delicate skin, but he didn’t care as he rubbed it up and down his length. His grip turned the joints of his swing white as he moved the tissue back and forth, darkening it with semen.

While Joe watched Ted’s facial expression, he didn’t even notice that at some point Ted had pulled his erect member and started to stroke himself, nearly reaching the edge of climax. And while Ted’s eyes were staring, Joe almost imagined Ted in front of him, Ted’s eyes begging him, pleading with him. Joe could see the desire. Ted’s mouth opened slightly as he bared his teeth, and Joe barely heard the whisper from his lips: “…Joe…”

Joe’s vision blurred as he heard Ted’s harsh gasp. He shivered slightly, and the orgasmic shudder affected his body. He sat on his bed, panting and staring at the screen. In his room, Raff kept swinging, his hand still holding his member, tears streaming down his face.

Joe reached out with trembling hands and closed the laptop.

Those scenes got stuck in him, stuck in his mind like a needle in a wound. Even during the day, at work, they suddenly appeared… in a hand movement, in a shirt button, in any shadow.

⸻

The city was buzzing. Flags, cheers, loud music from speakers. People spaced apart, masks covering the lower halves of faces, but the eyes were enough to read everything.

Joe got out of his car. The first thing he looked for… was him.

He found Ted in the crowd, standing firmly like a staged actor. A moderate build, a calculated smile, a knowing look. The same moves Joe had seen hundreds of times through cameras… but now in front of him, alive, real.

Ted spotted Joe. His eyes fixed on him for two seconds… then raised an eyebrow with a brief smile, as if saying: “You’re here… and you know I know.”

Joe walked towards him. His steps heavy, but his eyes never leaving Ted’s face. The crowd around them clapped, but the distance between the two was a whole different world.

“Mayor,” Joe said quietly, as if testing.

Ted tilted his smile. “Sheriff… the ambitious rival.”

Ordinary words… but their tone was a knife. Joe stepped closer until the space between them was less than allowed by the rules. Ted didn’t back down.

The air between them was thick with hatred… and something else Joe wasn’t ready to name.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Joe said, eyes shining.

Ted shrugged calmly, provocatively. “And you watch my every step… who’s really playing?”

Joe tightened his grip on his shirt, suddenly pulling Ted closer. The crowd noticed the move, but Ted didn’t seem bothered. On the contrary… he was enjoying it.

“Keep watching, Joe,” Ted whispered, his eyes burning into Joe’s. “Maybe one day you’ll see more than you can handle.”

Why? He didn’t know. Or maybe he did.

But his mind wouldn’t allow him to admit it.

He left. Stood in the hallway.

His eyes caught a photo.

Ted as a child. Standing next to an older man. The same smile. The same look.

Joe whispered softly: “Puppy eyes… even as a child.”

He left the house. Closed the door. And every beat of his heart screamed… You crossed the line.

But he didn’t go back.

He just went to the car, sat down, and watched the small screen he connected to his phone.

Joe pushed the bar door hard with his hand, the sound of the wood hitting the wall gave him a small satisfaction he didn’t try to hide. The air inside was warmer than outside, the smell of alcohol and old leather mixed with slow music coming from the speakers. But his eyes didn’t wander… they went straight to the back table, where Ted was standing, adjusting masks on the table, like someone readying weapons before a battle.

Ted lifted his head, no smile. Not even a twitch on his lips. But his gaze… was calmer than necessary. Joe walked toward him with heavy steps, careful that each step was heard.

– “Masks, huh?” His voice was dry, with a clear tone of sarcasm. – “Health rules, Joe. Maybe you didn’t hear, the world’s changing.” Ted didn’t even raise his eyebrow. – “I heard… but not all of us kneel to people who decide from offices, without living our lives.” – “This isn’t a whim decision, it’s people’s lives. But maybe you like to play the hero who only cares about his opinion.”

Joe laughed a short laugh, without any pleasure. – “No, I like to see the truth, not orders.” – “Truth? You act like you’re the only one who can see it, and everyone else is stupid.”

The distance between them lessened, Joe reached out and touched the mask fabric on the table, slowly pulling it. – “Masks, store closures, freezing people’s lives… all a control game.” – “If you see it as a game, then you’re already the loser before it starts.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed, his heart beating faster. Ted was still standing, straight, like a pillar that only moves if the wind shakes it. – “You know what my problem with you is, Ted? You act like the calm man who knows everything… but I see beneath that shell.” – “And beneath your shell, Joe, there’s nothing but emptiness and loud noise.”

The words pushed Joe deeper and deeper, until the small space between them felt suffocating. – “You know what I see? I see a man who loves to control, even if it costs his people.” – “And I see a man who’s afraid of anything he can’t hold in his hand.”

Their breaths became clearer. Their voices lowered, but the tension grew. Joe leaned forward, his face closer to Ted’s. – “You get on my nerves, every time.” – “And you waste my time, every time.”

A short silence, only the sound of their heartbeats. Suddenly, Joe stretched out his hand, grabbed Ted’s shirt by the collar, and pulled him roughly closer. His eyes moved from Ted’s eyes… to his lips… and back again.

Joe’s voice was slower than usual, each word heavy. – “I… hate you.”

Without hesitation, Ted raised his hand, grabbed Joe’s arm, and pushed him hard back against the wall.

Joe’s back hit the wall so sharply that the rough wood left an immediate mark on his skin under his shirt. The pain wasn’t enough to distract him from the real shock… Ted was closer than ever. The air between them was heavy with heat, mixed with the whiskey scent Ted had been drinking earlier and Joe’s breaths.

Joe barely caught himself before Ted suddenly leaned in, closing the remaining distance with a boldness Joe hadn’t expected. Their lips met—not gently, but with pressure and force. The kiss was rough, violent, like another fight but in a different way.

Joe’s fingers clenched on Ted’s shirt collar, then slipped unconsciously to his waist, squeezing hard, as if trying to prove he still had control, even if his heart was betraying him. The warm fabric of Ted’s shirt under his fingers, along with the firmness of his body, ignited a fire inside Joe that he refused to admit.

Ted wasn’t any less forceful. His hand rose without hesitation, grabbed Joe’s neck from the side, a light but steady pressure, sending an electric current down Joe’s spine. Ted began grinding hard against Joe, pressing on his body, Joe’s waist begging for mercy under Ted’s grip, Ted’s hip grinding against Joe’s relentlessly, without thought, only raw, wild desire waiting to explode. Ted had been waiting for this moment for days, even if he didn’t admit it to himself… waiting to feel the touch of that waist in his hand, the familiar weight of Joe’s neck in his grasp.

Despite the hate Joe insisted everything between them was built on, he tasted Ted’s lips… the taste he dreamed of for weeks, that appeared to him in long nights, even as he convinced himself it was just a nightmare. A mix of the faint salt of their sweat, with the whiskey flavor, created a strange mixture… one he didn’t know whether to love or hate more.

Their eyes weren’t fully closed… from time to time, one would open an eye to catch a fleeting glance at the other. Those looks were more dangerous than the kiss itself. Hate, challenge, desire… and fear of something bigger than both—fear of admitting that, in a twisted way, they both wanted it.

Their breaths collided, each breath burning more than the one before. Joe lost all his senses, all his feelings, everything he was thinking about. He thought only of the touch of Ted’s lips on his, the grinding of his hip, and Ted’s obvious erection under his clothes. Joe’s own member began to swell, no longer able to control his feelings, his body betraying him in the moment of desire, and he let out a moan. The pressure increased… Joe’s hand squeezed tighter on Ted’s waist, as if threatening never to let him go. Ted responded by pressing harder on Joe’s neck, feeling the pulse beating wildly. Suddenly, Joe seemed to declare he couldn’t bear the grinding and pressure any longer, letting out a loud sound: “Aaahhh mm” He began moving his hips faster on Ted, as if reaching his limit soon, his voice showing clear weakness and his movements struggling.

For a brief moment, there was hesitation… but they broke the hesitation with the same intensity they started with, their lips moving again, deeper, slower… as if exploring a new battlefield, but still full of mines.

When Ted finally pulled away, he didn’t move far… stayed close enough that his breath touched Joe’s mouth, and his voice came out deeper than usual: – “And I… hate you too.” Im fucking hate you.

Ted took a step back, but it wasn’t enough to erase the traces of the moment. The air between them was heavy, as if soaked with the shadow of the kiss that had just happened seconds ago. Joe tried to catch his breath, but his chest kept moving rapidly, as if he were running from a beast.

“Damn you.” The words slipped from Joe’s throat in a hoarse voice, more fragile than he wanted to appear. His eyes couldn’t leave Ted’s face… he hated that, hated that he couldn’t look away.

Ted, with a short smile charged with something deeper, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if an automatic gesture—but it was deliberate… as if trying to erase the taste, or perhaps to imprint it deeper into his memory. – “I told you… I hate you too, Joe.” But the tone of his voice wasn’t as cold as he wished; it was cracked by a layer of desire he couldn’t hide.

Joe turned slowly, walking away tensely, every muscle tight. He felt the marks of Ted’s fingers on his neck, the light pressure from moments ago, like a sign that wouldn’t fade. He didn’t know whether he wanted to wash it off or keep it.

His mind tried to convince him: this is my enemy… the person I want to see fall. But the image of those lips, the warmth of that breath, overwhelmed all logic.

Ted, for his part, was no better off. He stood still, watching Joe’s back as he walked away, something inside him screaming to chase after him. Why? Why like this? He hated Joe’s way of speaking, his provocative style, even the sound of his footsteps… but at the same time, he longed for the strength in that grip, and the way Joe’s chest trembled beneath his touch.

Silence stretched between them, but it was not a comfortable silence… it was filled with all that was left unsaid. Joe stopped at the door, not turning around… but his voice came out finally: – “Last time you do that.”

Ted laughed, a short but deep laugh, and replied: – “You came close first.”

Joe left. The door closed with a loud bang, but it didn’t close the chaos he left behind.

[nuviillteee]

Puppy Eyes

⸻

Chapter Two: “A Face I Shouldn’t Remember”

POV: Ted Garcia Location: His home – Evening

⸻

He never liked sitting in silence.

But tonight, he turned everything off.

No music. No news. Not even the lights.

He sat on the couch still in his suit, tie half-loosened, shirt collar open. A glass of whiskey sat on the table in front of him, untouched.

It was supposed to be a throwaway encounter. The town sheriff, trying to bare his teeth. Politics, media, posturing.

But…

Why did I step closer?

The question kept circling in his head. Not about Joe. About himself.

He was the one who moved first. The one who said the thing that didn’t need to be said. The one who smiled — that particular smile he’d promised himself months ago he’d only use on the campaign trail.

“You’re playing,” Joe had said, his voice still ringing in Ted’s ears.

But… this wasn’t a game.

Ted had looked at Joe’s face and seen something unbearable. Raw anger. Tainted truth. Eyes that refused to bow.

Why do I remember it like this?

He remembered his opponents’ faces with cold precision — their features, intentions, mistakes. But Joe’s face? It hit him like a blow. Every detail landing somewhere primitive inside him.

Those eyes… were looking for a reason to attack me.

And for a moment, Ted realized… he’d wanted to be attacked.

He smiled — bitterly.

“I need to hate you, Joe. You understand that, right?” he murmured, as if the other man could hear.

He stood, tore off his jacket, tossed it onto the couch. His footsteps echoed between rooms. Everything in him was moving — except the feeling itself. It just burned, in place.

“You made me think. You made me feel.” And that alone… was unforgivable.

Politicians aren’t supposed to feel. Especially not toward men who shout in their faces from far too close.

He walked into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it again. No reason. Returned to the living room. Looked at the whiskey. Didn’t drink it. Sat back down.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that moment. The closeness. The silence. Joe’s breath. The thing that wasn’t said — but almost was.

And then… That face.

The face he should never remember.

But now he did. And he would. Against his will.

⸻

POV: Joe Cross Location: Police Department – Morning, Day Two

⸻

He thought sleep would erase it.

Close his eyes, bury the image, get on with tomorrow.

But tomorrow came — and brought it all back.

Ted’s voice. His smile. That twisted tone. The nearness.

And that…

That thing that didn’t happen. But almost did.

“Joe, there’s someone here for you!” One of the deputies pulled him out of his thoughts.

He lifted his head from the stack of paperwork. He hadn’t really slept — maybe an hour. His coffee was cold on the desk.

“Who?” “Someone from the mayor’s office.”

He bit his lip. “Of course.”

He stood slowly, straightened his shirt collar, buttoned it up, and stepped into the hallway.

His mind was spinning. Was Ted sending someone to provoke him? Or was this some excuse for yesterday?

“Mr. Garcia will be here soon, he’s got something to show you,” the aide said, with a stupid grin.

Joe didn’t answer.

He just went back to his desk. Sat. Stared at the door.

He didn’t know what was coming. But his body did.

His pulse picked up, preparing for something he didn’t fully understand.

And then…

Two hours later.

Ted walked in.

Same confident stride. Same beautiful brown eyes that knew no shame. Same smile — that wasn’t really a smile.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” he said, as if greeting an enemy politely.

Joe stood.

“What do you want, Ted?”

“I saw the road-camera footage you sent me, but I noticed something… thought we could review it together.”

Of course. A pretext. A trick. An excuse to get close — again.

“The back office is free, come on.”

Joe walked ahead. He could hear Ted’s footsteps behind him — closer than necessary.

Inside the office, he shut the door, opened his laptop, pulled up the video.

But he wasn’t really watching.

He could hear Ted’s breathing.

Feel him behind him. Then beside him. Then… closer.

“Here, at minute 1:34…”

Ted leaned in, pointed at the screen, shoulder bumping Joe’s, his hand almost brushing Joe’s.

Joe didn’t move.

Mistake. He should’ve stepped back. Said something. Shoved him, cursed him, yelled in his face…

But he didn’t.

He just kept staring at the screen — then turned slightly, only with his eyes.

And Ted was looking at him.

A long, steady, burning look.

Then —

“What?” Joe asked, tension in his voice.

“Nothing.” Ted’s voice dropped to a murmur.

And he smiled.

Joe stood abruptly, took two steps back, breathing harder.

“You came here over one minute of video?”

“I came here for you, Joe.”

It hit him like a slap.

He stepped forward.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

Ted stepped closer — their shoulders clashing sharply.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Eyes locked. Breaths tangled. Lips a breath apart.

Joe didn’t know what to say. But he felt something inside him tear — and something else rise.

“You’re playing.”

“And you’re playing along.”

He almost hit him.

And the other almost kissed him.

But instead…

Joe walked out.

Left the door wide open. Left everything else behind.

⸻

POV: Joe Cross Location: His apartment – After hours

⸻

He’d been too close. Close enough to recognize his own voice… in the other man’s breath.

And the worst part? He could still taste it.

Joe got up from his bed for the fourth time in an hour. Went to the kitchen, stood there, opened the fridge, stared inside, closed it again. He wasn’t hungry.

But his mind… was a mess.

He sat at the table, fingers tapping on the wood, in time with his heartbeat.

Why had Ted said, “You’re playing along”?

Where did he get the nerve? And since when did Ted — Ted the politician, Ted the calm, Ted the mayor — let himself get this close?

And since when did Joe let him?

Infuriating.

Exhausting.

Elegant in a way that made Joe feel sick… or something else he refused to name.

He ran his hand along his jaw, as if wiping away the moment.

But it didn’t wipe away. It stuck inside him like a splinter.

Puppy eyes.

The phrase came to him, uninvited.

That strange look Ted got when he was quiet, smiling just at the corner of his mouth — and his eyes saying everything but politics.

A look unfit for someone in office. Unfit for a standoff. But perfect on him. Ted.

And Joe’s problem? He didn’t know how to fight it.

Every time he saw it, he forgot why he was angry. Why he hated him. Why he’d run against him in the first place.

“This is a sickness,” he told himself.

Then he got up, went to his room, opened a desk drawer, pulled out empty files. Opened his laptop. Started typing:

“Ted Garcia’s movements – current week”

His fingers moved fast, as if speed could hide the suspicion.

But his heart said something else.

His heart said: You just want to know when he leaves his house. When you’ll see those eyes again.

He hit print.

And in a low voice, he said:

“This isn’t obsession. It’s duty.”

But inside… he kept repeating the same thing:

Puppy eyes, puppy eyes, puppy eyes…

And he couldn’t stop.

⸻

[nuviillteee]

Puppy Eyes

Chapter One: “Not Enough Distance”

Eddington Town Hall, 9:17 AM The temperature was suffocating, despite the new air conditioning… or maybe it was just the nerves burning.

Joe Cross didn’t want to be here. Lately, he didn’t want much—just to erase his name from the list of political fools the damn mayor played with. But here he was. Standing. Resentful. On the verge of exploding.

The sharp click of expensive heels hit the tiled floor with confidence and force. Joe didn’t turn. He knew that rhythm well. Ted Garcia entered.

The hall was empty due to protocols. Just him, his files, his annoying voice, and that expensive cologne that always announced his arrival two seconds ahead.

“Cross.” Ted said calmly, without looking at him.

Joe grunted in response, flipping through the file he had prepared a week ago. But he hadn’t read a word. He came to see his face, to make sure he wasn’t imagining it—because when he didn’t see him, his voice echoed in his head.

“You called this meeting?” Ted asked, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite him, about one and a half meters away.

Joe finally looked up. Their eyes met, and time froze for a moment. Ted’s eyes were very dark this morning… or maybe always dark, but Joe had never noticed.

“Yes. The water project report. Where’s the funding? And why was it suddenly frozen?”

Ted didn’t answer immediately. He reached up and pulled his mask down slightly to take a sip of water. Joe followed the movement slowly, as if watching a scene he didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away from.

“The funding has been temporarily frozen. Bureaucratic reasons.” Ted said, putting his mask back on.

“Bureaucratic? You signed the papers yourself, Garcia.”

“Call me Ted. Or Mayor, if you prefer.”

“I prefer Garcia. It reminds me who you really are.”

Silence fell between them like a rock sinking into still water.

Ted leaned forward slightly. Joe immediately noticed the distance. Not enough. Neither by protocol, nor by the beating of his heart.

“You seem angrier than necessary, Cross. Since when does water stir such emotion?”

“Since your people started dying of thirst while you wear suits worth thousands.”

Joe said it. He was angry, yes. But what really boiled him was how Ted still looked at him with the same calm, control, and eyes… As if his heart knew no panic. As if the storm in Joe’s chest was his alone.

Joe pressed the file on the table, his hands trembling slightly. He didn’t come to shout. But Ted made words explode from his mouth.

“What do you really want, Joe?”

For the first time, he said his name. His voice soft when he said it, as if those weren’t the same letters.

“I want the truth.”

“No. You want a reason to shout, attack me, then post a pointless tweet on your campaign account. That’s what you want, Joe.”

His name again. As if Ted put it on his tongue and slowly melted it. As if the name lost its meaning.

The chair scraped back. Joe stood and stepped closer.

“You’re too close.” Ted said, his voice softer than it should be.

Joe was two steps away. He could hear his breath. Not just because of the distance, but because Ted—for the first time—was breathing heavily.

Eye to eye.

Ted didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

Joe felt his chest burn. He hated this man. Hated him so much he wanted him to say something dirty. Wanted him to fall. To break his dignity.

But Ted didn’t break. Ted smiled.

A small, dry smile, barely visible.

“I told you. The distance between us is too short.”

Joe couldn’t take it.

“You’re… playing.”

“And you’re letting yourself be played.”

Those words hit like a bullet. Joe stepped back. Then another step. Then he turned and slammed the door open.

But he paused at the threshold, looking back.

Ted was still sitting, unnervingly calm, his face showing neither victory nor defeat.

As if the confrontation never happened.

Joe left.

And all he left behind… was his voice stuck in the hall’s air, screaming inside him:

“Why every time I get closer, I feel like I don’t want to attack him… but want to touch him?” Joe Cross’s Point of View Inside the patrol car — right after the meeting

⸻

Should he stop the car and think? Or let his mind explode on the highway? Joe didn’t know. He just slammed the gas pedal recklessly, as if the distance was the problem, not the man.

“Too close.” He whispered to himself, like a curse. Or an accusation. He wasn’t supposed to get that close. He wasn’t supposed to want to.

His hand gripped the steering wheel tightly. Ted Garcia.

What kind of man was he? Joe knew politicians, hypocrites, even criminals hiding behind golden masks. But Ted? Ted was soft… in a way that made skin burn.

His voice echoed in Joe’s head… “You’re letting yourself be played.” Was that a threat? An insult? Or just a description of a truth Joe never dared face?

“Damn you, Garcia.” He muttered quietly, parking violently near an old abandoned building on the edge of town.

He sat there, motionless. Breathing heavy, heart pounding in his ears. Then suddenly, he burst out laughing.

“Puppy eyes?” He said, mocking himself.

“His eyes… were puppy eyes.” Calm, big, looking at you like they wouldn’t hurt a fly, but hiding beneath a wolf waiting to pounce.

And he, Joe Cross, the stubborn, sarcastic cop with a spotless record in reading faces… stopped at those eyes like a lost child.

He kicked the car door, got out, pulled a cheap pack of cigarettes, and lit one.

“Oh no, Eddington’s handsome mayor, with the broken dog eyes. Who the hell is he, really?”

Had he been thinking about him all this time? Yes. Since the first debate, the press conference, the stupid video that went viral when Ted lightly shook his hand and Joe noticeably pulled back. People laughed. But he hadn’t forgotten the touch of that hand. Like it set a fire inside him or opened a door that should have stayed closed.

Now, every time he saw him, something inside him trembled. Anger? Maybe. Fear? Definitely. Desire? No. Impossible. He didn’t want Ted Garcia.

But today… he got closer. Close enough to hear himself whisper inside:

“Speak. Say anything. Just don’t be silent. Don’t let me drown in your silence.”

Joe stood up, smoked his cigarette down to the butt, then crushed it with his shoe.

He couldn’t stand playing this man’s game anymore. He came to win, not to chase a shadow.

But who would believe the first step in his campaign against the mayor… was the closest step he ever took.

“If he tries again… if he gets that close again…” He whispered to himself.

Then stopped.

He didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know if he’d hit him… or grab his collar… or…

No. No room to think that way.

He got back in the car. His eyes caught the side mirror. His reflection looked tired, crazy, glowing. What were those eyes? Not his own… but the eyes of a stranger.

[nuviillteee]

Only you saw me

Hheeeyy its new chapter and it’s reaaaaaallly hard to write soo plz enjoy ✨😖

Chapter two 2️⃣

Sunshine ❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

“Don’t touch me, Pedro. Just… come help me unload the groceries.

I’m against hunger, not cooking. You? You seem against everything.”

Pedro,

still frozen in place,

blinked slowly…

then raised an eyebrow in quiet confusion.

“You bought groceries?”

He asked in a soft voice, like he wasn’t sure the moment was even real.

“I bought the whole world.

Because clearly, you’ve been surviving on toast and water.

And I refuse to eat with a ghost.”

Joaquin said as he stood up,

brushing off the dust from his pants,

then continued with forced enthusiasm:

“I’ve got enough stuff for a month.

Including some pasta we have to eat tonight—

because the look on the shop owner’s face? Not reassuring at all when he sold it.”

Pedro,

exhausted as he was,

let out a tiny laugh…

short,

but it lit up the darkness

like a single candle in a cellar.

_

Joaquin noticed the laugh,

but didn’t comment.

His heart, though, screamed:

“You came back. Even if just for a second.”

He didn’t reach for Pedro,

just gestured.

“Come on, help me.

Before the pasta melts and evolves into its own species.”

Pedro, hesitant,

got to his feet.

He moved slowly,

like his body was tired

from something deeper than fatigue.

But he followed Joaquin,

and stepped outside the doorway.

That,

in its quiet way,

was a victory.

A small one.

But real.

_

The car was full:

fresh bread, tomatoes, odd-looking cheese,

and a chocolate bar that said: “Use only in emotional emergencies.”

“I figured you wouldn’t cook,

so the plan is: I cook,

you supervise and criticize.”

Joaquin said, popping open the trunk.

Then he handed over a bag:

“But if you criticize too much,

I will poison you.”

Pedro laughed.

A short laugh—

but a laugh.

Another candle flickered.

_

And Joaquin?

It was like he was holding a tiny meteor in his hands—

he knew he had to protect this light,

even if it was weak.

Because he understood…

Pedro didn’t need treatment.

He needed presence.

Consistency.

A friend who cooks even if he hates cooking.

That evening,

after Pedro finally fell asleep,

like a scared child exhausted from crying,

Joaquin stepped onto the rooftop.

He took his phone,

and looked up at the stars,

like they were the same ones

from that old filming location.

He called Lux.

_

The phone rang once, twice…

Then her voice came through, tired but anxious:

“Hello?”

He smiled,

holding back a sigh as he said softly:

“Hey, Lux…

I found him.”

Silence.

Then a small gasp from her,

followed by a whisper:

“Joaquin… Are you serious? Is he okay?”

He leaned against the iron railing,

eyes on the horizon:

“He’s alive.

That’s the first good news.”

“But…?”

He chuckled lightly,

his laugh carrying the fragile hope he was trying to build:

“But it looks like he fought entire wars alone.

And I arrived after the battle ended.

All that’s left is rubble—and me.”

She broke into sobs,

but Joaquin quickly interrupted:

“Don’t cry, please.

Women crying triggers something in me—

I start thinking about life like it’s a tragic film,

and honestly, I’m barely holding it together.”

She laughed through her tears.

He kept going in the same dry tone:

“And him? Is he talking?”

He sighed,

his voice lowering:

“He talks…

but like his words are walking on glass.

Every step hurts.

His voice is softer than usual,

his laugh appears—then vanishes,

like it’s asking permission from sorrow and getting denied.”

He paused.

Then added, trying to lighten it for both of them:

“But hey, I made him cook with me.

And since he didn’t die of food poisoning,

we’re making progress.”

Lux laughed—

a laugh full of quiet gratitude.

“Is he staying with you?”

“No.

I’m staying with him.

And if I have to tie myself to the farm fence,

I won’t leave.”

_

The night was cold,

but Joaquin’s voice was warm—

the kind of warmth that chooses to be a wall for someone

instead of asking, “Why are you like this?”

_

“Joaquin?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.

I’m the only man on Earth

who turned his vacation into emotional rehab.

If there’s an award for that,

I’m nominating myself.”

_

He was quiet for a second.

Then, finally, in a soft voice:

“He’s stronger than what he’s going through…

He just needs time. And a place.

And someone who keeps laughing—

even when there’s nothing funny.”

That night,

everything stilled.

Even the wooden floor’s creaks

sounded like the earth breathing.

Pedro was asleep.

But Joaquin stayed up,

sitting in the corner,

reading from his notebook,

trying not to disturb the silence.

Then…

A tremble.

First light—

like a breeze brushing through a sleeping throat.

Then sharper,

jerking movements,

teeth grinding,

breath hitching,

moaning.

The air in the room felt sliced.

Not heavy—

sharp.

Like a knife grazing the throat,

cutting off oxygen before it could reach the lungs.

Pedro twisted in his sleep,

his fingers clenching the blanket,

like death was dragging him by the ankles,

his voice cracking:

“No— don’t— please, no!”

Joaquin stood,

breathing fast,

reminding himself:

“This is Pedro.

The man who laughs even when the world’s against him.”

But now—

the laughter was gone.

Pedro was broken.

“Pedro?”

Joaquin ran to him,

hovered above,

hesitant,

his hand shaking,

mind reeling.

Pedro writhed,

chest heaving wildly,

hands gripping the blanket—

like he was drowning.

“Pedro, wake up! You’re dreaming!”

Joaquin said, trying not to touch him.

But the screams rose:

“No— no— get away— don’t touch me— DON’T!”

The air was suffocating,

as if the room had no oxygen.

“Pedro! Listen to me! You’re dreaming!”

It didn’t stop.

A full panic attack.

Worse than Joaquin had ever seen.

“Pedro!”

He shouted, shaking him gently,

but the tremors didn’t ease.

“Get away from me— no— don’t—”

Every breath Pedro took was poison.

Joaquin’s skin burned with the need to save him—

but couldn’t.

_

And in that moment…

he snapped.

Then came the decision.

“I’m sorry… but I’m not going to just stand here.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to touch you.”

He whispered it more to himself than to Pedro.

Then he reached out,

gripped Pedro’s shoulder.

“Pedro! Pedro, listen to me! I’m here!”

“I’m here, sunshine, hear me…”

_

Pedro’s eyes opened—

but they were lost.

Still trapped in nightmare,

breathing hard,

his voice cracking:

“Don’t touch me… please… please don’t—”

_

Joaquin pulled him into a hug,

with everything he had.

Pedro resisted,

pushing,

shaking—

But Joaquin held on,

tight,

until he felt Pedro’s body tremble in his arms.

Pedro shoved,

tried to escape,

but Joaquin didn’t move.

And in the middle of it all—

between “Don’t touch me!” and “I’m sorry!”

came the moment.

Suddenly,

with no plan,

no warning—

Joaquin kissed him.

Hard.

Like every scream Pedro made had only one answer:

“I’m here.”

No logic.

No thought.

No softness.

It wasn’t a love kiss.

Not romantic.

It was lightning.

It said: “Come back. I’m here.”

It was winter—

and fire.

Pedro froze.

Then stopped shaking.

His eyes opened fully.

Joaquin whispered, still close:

“I didn’t know how else to bring you back…

but I thought maybe…

maybe this would shock you out of the dark.”

Pedro stilled.

His chest stopped heaving,

as if his heart forgot how to beat.

Then…

In a cracked voice, he said:

“…You…

now they’ll really believe I—”

Before he could finish,

Joaquin cupped his face with both hands,

pulled him close again.

And kissed him.

Again.

But this time,

it was a cloud heavy with rain

falling on a burning heart.

No tension.

Just love.

Hope.

And a decision.

When the kiss ended,

Joaquin whispered,

so close his breath touched Pedro’s eyelids:

“Let the world believe what it wants.

I believed you.

I saw you.

I touched you.

I’m staying—

even if you’re afraid,

I won’t let you die in front of me, Pedro.”

_

Silence.

Then, slowly…

Pedro said, voice breaking,

for the first time in months:

“…It’s cold.”

Joaquin smiled.

And said:

“I’m a walking heater.

First session’s free—

but the next will cost you.”

_

After Joaquin whispered that,

the silence fell.

Not heavy.

Not eerie.

Just soft—

like a cotton blanket

over hearts that had been trembling too long.

Pedro…

It was like he heard a word

he’d never heard before.

A word that changed his blood.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

But…

_

_

There were no tears.

But there was peace.

Real… peace.

For the first time.

_

He slid into Joaquin’s arms,

his head resting on his chest—

like all the pain, all the weight,

collapsed at once.

Joaquin said nothing.

Just held him.

Held him like the whole world shrank

and left only this trembling shape in his arms.

Pedro’s breathing slowed…

bit by bit,

and between each inhale and exhale,

there was a tiny shiver.

There was a man… coming back to life.

Joaquin’s hand ran through his hair,

gently,

like it was telling him:

“I’m here. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not leaving, even if everyone else does.”

And there was no sound…

but the rhythm of two hearts:

one worn out,

and one fighting for the other.

The night outside the farmhouse was cold,

but inside…

It was warm.

Not from heaters.

Not from fire.

Warm from a hug.

From safety.

From a kiss that said everything

that had gone unsaid.

⸻

[nuviillteee]

Only You Saw Me

heeyyy this is my new story ! ihope enjoy it and my English is not good enough soooooo ¡ yea have fun hehehe

Chapter One — Part One

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

The morning carried no light.

New York City, in its sweltering July, seemed unwilling to open its eyes. The air was thick, suffocating with humid fog, and the sky looked as hazy as the mind of a man waking up without remembering who he is.

In a small Brooklyn apartment, Lux sat on the edge of the couch, holding her phone as if it were a lifeline, calling the same number for the sixth time in one hour. Joaquin wasn’t answering.

She knew no one else now. Everyone she’d spoken to repeated the same sentence: “We haven’t heard from him in ten days.”

Pedro… had disappeared.  • 

The phone finally rang. The screen lit up: “Joaquin Phoenix.”

She answered before the ring even finished.

“Joaquin?”

His voice came out rough, surprised, like he’d been yanked from another world: “Lux? What’s going on?”

She hesitated for a second, swallowed hard, then the words burst from her chest:

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but… you’re the last person I could imagine who might know where he is. Pedro disappeared. Ten days ago… he hasn’t answered a single call, he hasn’t gone home, no one’s even seen him at his usual spots.”

Joaquin sat up straight in bed. The room was still cloaked in darkness, but inside him, everything had ignited.

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. I swear we looked everywhere. Even the cat he used to care for—someone took it from his house in L.A. The whole place feels like there’s no soul in it. Even his scent is gone.”

She paused for a moment, then added, her voice thick with pain: “I always said I wouldn’t worry about him—he always holds it together. But now… I’ve lost hope. And you… you’re the last hope, Joaquin.”

He was breathing slowly, letting the sentence settle. “You’re the last hope.”

“I haven’t been in touch with anyone, I’ve cut off from everything these past months… but…”

He stood from the bed, walked toward his desk, and pulled out his tablet for the first time in over a month.

Slowly, he began checking the notifications. A flood of black headlines slammed into his face.

“Pedro Pascal accused of harassment by three members of the film crew” “Boycott campaigns target beloved actor” “Pedro disappears amidst scandal”

He tapped on the photos… Pedro looked tired, vacant, his eyes searching for a way out.

Joaquin gasped. A small, soundless gasp—but it shook his chest.

“Impossible…” he whispered, then repeated louder, “I know Pedro. He’d never do that. Never.”  • 

He sat down in the chair, his head buried in his hands. Everything was shattering. The last time he saw Pedro was five months ago. They sat in an indoor garden at a hotel, drinking, laughing, talking about their films—and about a world that never stopped biting.

He remembered how Pedro laughed until his eyes watered, that laugh like the sound of a crackling fire on a cold winter night. A laugh that warmed his heart, igniting something in him he couldn’t name.  • 

Suddenly, he stood, opened his wardrobe, and began picking out his clothes.

“I’m not going to sit still knowing he’s in pain.”

He pulled out a travel bag and threw in a few clothes, a notebook, a small bottle of cologne, his wallet, and sturdy shoes.

He opened the airline website, changed his flight. First plane to Los Angeles, four hours away.

He canceled his long vacation. Canceled everything. All the stillness.

ً

On the way to the airport, he sat in the back seat of the taxi. The window was open, and the wind played with his long gray hair.

He closed his eyes.

Memories began to rise, one after another, like familiar ghosts.

They had been filming a movie together two years ago that hadn’t yet been released. During those days, Pedro had become closer to him than anyone he’d known in years.

He remembered a night when Pedro was completely drunk. His features fragile, his voice slow. They sat on the floor of the hotel room, talking.

And suddenly, Pedro’s face leaned toward him. The distance between their lips was minimal—so minimal. Joaquin’s heart almost stopped.

But Pedro pulled away suddenly, shut his eyes tight, and said in a low, strange voice:

“If I disappear one day… you’ll find me there. At the ranch I told you about. Usually, when I disappear, it’s ’cause I don’t need anyone. But I think I need you, Joaquin.”

Joaquin remembered all the details now. Everything in his voice had been sincere. Everything in him was crying out… in silence.

⸻

He lifted his head and looked at the road.

It looked like anything but a road. More like a winding line from an old time, every stone whispering a memory to Joaquin. The sky above was dark, but there was no rain, and the silence pressed against his chest like it was trying to keep him from breathing.

He was driving the rental car, its keys whining in his lap, and the old paper map trembling on the passenger seat.

He knew the road despite everything. Despite the years, the absence, despite all the changes in the terrain of his heart.

The road wasn’t a road— it was a battle. Every tree, every turn, every shadow… brought back Pedro’s voice, his laughter, his face on early shoot mornings, his silly singing of Adele, and his face when he was drunk— that face that once leaned close to him, so close their breaths had met on Joaquin’s cheek.

Joaquin had known… He had known that what they shared wasn’t just friendship. But his heart was stubborn. And Pedro’s heart had always been afraid.

⸻

He stopped at a small rural station. Entered the store, bought everything Pedro might need: Canned foods, milk, bread, cheese, fruit, headache medicine, coffee— and a box of bear-shaped cookies, though he had no idea why he bought them.

He was acting like Pedro was a child… As if the tenderness was long overdue, but still valid to give.

The road to the ranch was longer than he remembered. The light there was dim. No electricity, no cars parked, and no sound except the noises of the night.

He hesitated a little. Then got out of the car, carried the bags in silence, and walked up to the wooden door that looked like it belonged in an old movie.

He knocked once. No sound.

Knocked again. The roar of his heart louder than everything.

And the third time… The door slowly opened.

⸻

Pedro appeared.

But it wasn’t Pedro.

He looked like a shadow of himself. His face thin, his eyes lifeless, his beard long and unkempt, his hair disheveled, wearing a dirty gray shirt and pajama pants that didn’t suit him at all.

Words dried in Joaquin’s mouth.

ً

Pedro didn’t say anything. He just looked at him… as if he couldn’t believe it. As if he wasn’t ready to see a human being.

A moment passed… a moment larger than time.

Then a single tear slid from Pedro’s eye… as if it finally let him breathe after a long death.

He spoke in a choked voice:

“I knew you’d come.”

—

Joaquin didn’t move. His eyes were filled with contradiction.

All his anger, all his longing, all his fear, everything he never said to Pedro… was now sitting in his hands, in the form of a man who looked like everything— except Pedro.

He slowly extended his arms. Every part of him screamed with the desire to hold Pedro, as if his heart had spent years wanting nothing but this moment. To touch him. To feel his presence. To tell him without words: “I’m here. I won’t let you drown alone.”

He took a small step… and approached.

But suddenly, as if the ground moved beneath Pedro’s feet, he stepped back quickly, his eyes widening in a terrifying way, as if danger stood before him. He raised his hands like a trembling shield, and cried out in a broken, pleading voice:

“Don’t touch me!! No… don’t touch me, please… please Joaquin.”

The sound shattered, as if something fragile broke inside his chest. As if he wasn’t just asking… but begging.

Joaquin froze in place. He felt his body grow cold, his feet sinking into the ground.

Pedro? Pedro—the one who held him even while pretending to be strong? The one who touched his shoulder mid-laugh just to calm him? The one who slept beside him on set when filming wore them out? The one who once cried drunk and said “I need you”?

This… wasn’t him.

—

Pedro stepped even farther back, stood by the doorframe, his hand shaking as it gripped the wooden edge, like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

He was breathing fast, his chest rising and falling hard, his eyes watching Joaquin like something deadly might leap out of his arms.

Joaquin said softly, barely audible:

“Pedro…”

But Pedro shook his head violently. There was no room for discussion. The fear was irrational. This wasn’t a normal reaction. It was something deeper… something broken.

In a hoarse whisper, he said:

“I can’t, Joaquin… I just can’t.”

—

Joaquin understood.

Or at least… began to.

Something in Pedro’s mind had shattered. Not just from the media… or from the loneliness… but from the repeated panic attacks, from being alone every time his soul collapsed.

Joaquin quietly sat on the doorstep. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move closer.

He just sat.

Pedro didn’t move either. But after a moment, he sat on the floor across from him. Far… but facing him.

His eyes were unfocused, his face pale, and his silence was screaming.

—

Long minutes passed.

Joaquin looked up, and in a calm tone, said:

“I won’t touch you. But I’ll stay here. Until you’re ready.”

Pedro didn’t answer. But his broken voice still echoed in the air… “Please, Joaquin.” like a plea from someone who had been drowning for too long, and no longer knew how to ask for rescue without fearing it.

—

Inside, Joaquin knew this road would be longer than he imagined. And that the farmhouse was no longer just the place Pedro hid in, but a battlefield… between Pedro and what was left of him.

And Joaquin was ready to enter the fight. But with only one weapon—

Patience.

It was a heavy moment, their silence weighed more than words. But Joaquin, who always let Pedro shine, decided this time he would be the light.

He adjusted his posture, exhaled gently, and without warning, changed his tone— pretending seriousness:

“Don’t touch me, Pedro, but come help me unload the groceries. I’m against hunger, against cooking. You? Seems like you’re against everything.”

[nuviillteee]

Hhheeeeyyyy I posted something hurt so come and blame me 💔

[nuviillteee]

hhheeyyy. I post a neewwwwww chapters come and see

[nuviillteee]

Heeeeeeyyyyy I posted new chapter ppzzzzzzzzz

[nuviillteee]

hhheyyyy I posted something commme and seee

[nuviillteee]

heeeyyy. I posted new stuff commmeeee and see

[nuviillteee]

Hhheeeyyy i posted a new chapters come and see

[nuviillteee]

heyyy i post a new chapters sooo comee and read babbyyyy

[nuviillteee]

The Empire’s Shadow

Look, it’s hard for me to publish things here — I don’t really know how to get it all done. So I’ll just continue my story here. Come in and enjoy! 😖💙💙

[nuviillteee]

The Empire’s Shadow

The snow was light now, like dust. It scattered over their faces, then melted before leaving a trace. Marcus stepped ahead a few paces, then turned to make sure Joel was still behind him. The latter pressed his hand against the bandage to keep the wound closed, but there was no weakness in his voice when he spoke:

Joel: “Two or three more days… then we reach a settlement called Jackson. There’s food there. Real beds. And a wall that keeps most of the monsters out.”

Marcus nodded in understanding, then said in a calm tone, like a sword resting inside its sheath:

Marcus: “A wall does not make safety… but the men who stand on it. Still… I’ll see.”

And so they walked. The silence between them needed only a spark to ignite. And that spark came in the form of a single name that circled Joel’s thoughts every time he looked at Marcus: Sarah.

⸻

When they reached the edge of a narrow, frozen creek — half ice, half black water — they sat beneath a dried pine tree to catch their breath. Joel removed the glove from his good hand, dipped his fingers into the cold water, and murmured as if speaking only to himself:

Joel: “She loved winter… Sarah.”

He didn’t lift his eyes, but he felt that Marcus was listening — without turning. He continued, his voice firm at first, then cracking at the edges:

“The night the world fell… all I wanted was to get her out of town. I thought I could keep her away from the chaos, until the fire burned out. A soldier — or a cop, whatever they called him — got orders to shoot anyone near the bridge. He didn’t see a child in her father’s arms. He saw a threat. He fired the first bullet… then the second. It hit her stomach. I tried to stop the bleeding with my hands… I kept screaming, ‘She’s just a kid!’ But she was gone. Right here…”

— he placed his palm over his chest, and smiled with a bitter edge —

“…gone before I could understand why evil survives, and the good don’t.”

He fell into silence. Only the soft rustle of snow over dry needles could be heard.

When Marcus spoke, his voice was deep — but stripped of all sharpness:

Marcus: “In my time, we called that… blind obedience. Soldiers who saw their commander���s order clearer than the blood on a child’s clothes. I’ve seen many soldiers stab innocence and claim virtue afterward. But you… you carry that innocence in your chest more than any weapon in your hand.”

Joel raised his eyebrows — as if the words struck his heart, not just his ears — but he didn’t reply. He closed the water bottle, adjusted his gun belt, and stood up:

Joel: “Come on. Before the light fades — and the road with it.”

⸻

At a bend in a rocky hill, Joel noticed deep human footprints in the snow… and others — broader, uneven. He knelt down, touched one of them, and muttered:

Joel: “People… and they’re dragging something. A sled or maybe a small cart. Could be a looters’ gang.”

Marcus clenched the pale iron rod in his hand. It trembled slightly — not from fear, but exhaustion creeping in after three nights without sleep or food. He raised his head, eyes fixed on the hill ahead:

Marcus: “If they try to block the path… we’ll split the path across them before they split us.”

He didn’t finish the sentence before a bullet whistled and struck a rock near his foot. Joel ducked instantly, pulled the rifle from his shoulder, and dragged Marcus behind a thick tree.

Five men appeared atop the ridge. Masked faces, rusted weapons in their hands. One of them fired randomly, trying to intimidate the strangers.

⸻

Marcus lunged out from cover before Joel could shout his name. He charged uphill, planting the iron rod in the snow to propel himself forward — like a knight descending with a gleaming sword, not a man armed with a broken piece of metal.

He struck the first man in the elbow, bending his weapon, then kicked him in the throat — the man collapsed, writhing. He brought the rod down on the second one’s knee — crack — the bone gave way. But the third had already aimed the barrel directly at Marcus’s chest.

A shot. The air jolted.

At that very instant, Joel burst out from behind another tree, pulled the trigger twice: the first shot blew apart the attacker’s shoulder, the second dropped the fourth man before he could raise his gun again.

The fifth one looked around in panic, unsure whether to shoot or run. Then Marcus staggered slightly — the bullet had scraped his armor, but the impact threw him off balance. The fifth man seized the moment, raised his weapon again — but Joel charged him, knocking the barrel aside, then driving his elbow into the man’s temple, smashing his face into the snow.

The rifles fell silent. Only the harsh breath of the living remained in the frozen air.

Joel knelt, reloading his rifle, then turned to his companion:

Joel (tense): “You alright?”

Marcus (pressing a hand to his chest, catching his breath): “Didn’t pierce the chest… But armor tires when it forgets the taste of sleep.”

Joel looked no less worn. Pain surged through his thigh like a heated knife every time he moved, but he clung to his rifle like a third arm:

Joel: “Just the two of us against five… ended quicker than I thought.”

Marcus: “Numbers don’t scare a man who knows every battle today bears no memory of yesterday. But…” — he cleared his throat, lowered his voice — “I may need to taste food tonight… or the ground will defeat me before the enemy does.”

Joel gave him a faint smile and nodded:

Joel: “Deal. Tonight, you eat before either of us closes an eye.”

By dusk, they lit a small fire far from the attackers’ bodies. Joel reached into a leather bag taken from one of them, pulled out dried meat, a hard chunk of bread, and a lump of fat. He handed them to Marcus without a word.

Marcus hesitated, then took the bread, examined it as if trying to remember something forgotten, and took a small bite. His expression showed neither delight nor disgust, but a quiet warmth settled in his eyes.

Marcus (hoarsely): “The last time I was offered food in Rome… my wrists were shackled. Perhaps that’s why… I was late to the table this time.”

Joel said nothing, just added more wood to the fire.

They both felt — without saying it — that the distance between them, despite its harshness, was now narrow enough for a thin thread of understanding to pass through: Two men lost in a time not their own, each guarding the other in a way worthy of his past.

Above them, a pale green cloud of aurora swirled slowly in the sky. Marcus raised his gaze and spoke as one witnessing a prophecy he didn’t yet understand:

Marcus: “Had Rome seen this light… they’d have thought the gods sent a sign of war. But here… I don’t know if it’s peace or the seal of an ending.”

Joel wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and remembered Sarah again — how she used to cry out with joy whenever she found a colored sky in her books above ancient ruins.

He said nothing. But quietly, with the resolve of an old guard, he made a silent promise to show this man the skies of Jackson — because perhaps, just perhaps, they would be the first skies in either man’s memory that carried no scent of death.

[nuviillteee]

The Empire’s Shadow

Chapter five-_-

It wasn’t a true dawn. The sky had only softened its blackness, turning into ash that slowly dripped over their heads.

—

Joel was the first to wake this time.

Or maybe… he hadn’t really slept. Every few minutes, he would open his eyes to watch the other man— Marcus.

—

He wasn’t asleep.

He was sitting, leaning on that dull piece of iron, shoulders frozen from the cold, but his chest rising steadily. He hadn’t moved all night. Hadn’t eaten.

—

Joel muttered, barely audible:

“What kind of hell did you crawl out of?”

But Marcus didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t hear. Or maybe he did— and didn’t think the question deserved an answer.

—

Joel stood up with difficulty. Wrapped the old blanket around his shoulders and looked around.

The air was gray. The trees were wet. The wind carried the scent of ash… and forgetting.

Then he stepped closer to the barely burning fire, and sat down beside it.

—

Suddenly he said:

“It’s been three days… and I still don’t understand you.”

Marcus didn’t reply, but his eyes shifted toward him.

Joel continued:

“You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You don’t complain about the cold. And you protect me like I’m one of your own men. But you… you’re not from here. Not from this world.”

—

Marcus answered calmly, as if his words came from a chest that didn’t like to open:

“And I don’t belong to it. Everything I see… feels like a slow death that was never written.”

—

Joel swallowed his thoughts.

Then he said slowly, his tone a mixture of bitterness and hesitation:

“I want to tell you something… I’ve never told anyone.”

Marcus looked at him now— with eyes that didn’t judge. Didn’t mock.

Joel said:

“My daughter, Sarah… she was obsessed with history. With empires, with wars… and with you. You especially. Your name, your pictures— even your statue. She kept it by her bed.”

—

Marcus stayed silent. But something changed in his face.

As if someone had lit a flame inside him… untouched by fire.

—

Joel continued, his voice rougher now:

“I used to laugh at her. Tell her: ‘What’s so special about some general who died two thousand years ago?’ And she’d say: ‘Because he wasn’t afraid. Because he fought for people he didn’t even know.��”

—

Marcus lowered his gaze. Looked at his hands, as if they no longer belonged to him.

Finally, he said:

“If I had died then… perhaps I would have remained a hero in the eyes of those who loved me. But returning? It feels like a betrayal of an image… I never deserved.”

—

Joel muttered:

“I don’t know why… but I felt like I had to protect you. You remind me of her. Not because you’re like her… but because you’re strange like her. Strong. Silent. But carrying something no one else could bear.”

—

The wind passed between them as if it had swallowed the words.

Marcus didn’t respond.

But this time… he moved closer to the fire.

He sat on the ground. Slowly.

And for the first time since all of this began…

there was a trace of exhaustion on his face. A tiredness that didn’t admit itself— but existed.

—

Joel watched him in silence.

Then, as if speaking only to himself:

“You don’t need to know where you’re going. It’s enough to know who’s beside you.”

—

Marcus didn’t look up.

But that sentence— settled in his chest like a heartbeat that had forgotten how to be heard.

[nuviillteee]

ظل الإمبراطورية​

Chapter four

The fire had begun to fade.

Marcus sat close to it, his hands resting on his knees, ashes from the wood clinging between his fingers. The wind was weaker now… but it still struck gently, as if testing his presence, too cautious to come closer.

In front of him… Joel was asleep, wrapped deep in his blanket, his face half-hidden, his breath slow.

But Marcus did not close his eyes. He didn’t know how to sleep on land he didn’t know, in a time he didn’t understand, beside a man who looked at him as if he’d known him forever.

—

“He told me… that I became a god.”

—

The word echoed in his mind— not screaming, but never silent.

“He said the people raised my name after I died.” “He said they worshiped me. That generation after generation… they still remember me.”

—

Marcus shifted his spear, drove it into the ground beside him, and leaned on it slowly— as if not ready to trust the new earth beneath him.

He looked at his hand.

No gold. No crowns. No blood.

Only… fingers that had known the sword since boyhood— and had known nothing else.

—

“How can a man, who died alone in an arena… return?”

The question rang inside him, but no answer came.

He remembered everything:

The crowds cheering—not his name, but his blood. The spear driven into his side. The sky above the arena—so blue… a stupid kind of blue, unworthy of death.

—

“When I fell, I wasn’t afraid. I was just… angry.”

—

Angry that they betrayed him. That the twins didn’t look him in the eye as he was killed. That it all ended too quickly.

But now he was here. In a forest with no name, in a frozen world, before a strange man… who treated him as if he were something greater than death itself.

—

He looked at Joel.

This man didn’t resemble the men of Rome. No spear in hand, no lion skin on his back, no raised chin like someone expecting history to write about him.

But… there was something.

In his eyes— that thin line between despair and faith. As if he had lost something that could never be found… and still lifted his rifle each morning.

—

Marcus thought: “How does he know me? How does he know everything—my death… my name?”

Was it a dream? Was this fire real? Was this world… just a lie crafted by the last strike to his heart?

—

He looked up. The sky was completely black. Not a single star. As if the world had forgotten what light was.

—

“Did I return? Or had I never truly gone?”

—

Then the voice inside him came back, whispering just one word:

“God.”

He repeated it, without speaking. As if the word itself didn’t belong to his voice.

At last, he said it, quietly, to no one but himself:

“I am not a god…”

And then, slowly, he buried the rest of the sentence in the ash:

“…I was just a man who refused to be buried.”

—

He stared into the fire. One small flame remained, still fighting— as if it were a reflection of him. As if, should it die… he would die with it.

—

He closed his eyes for a moment. Didn’t sleep. He didn’t know how to sleep without someone standing guard.

But for the first time… he didn’t feel fear.

—

Maybe because Joel was still there. Or maybe— because, without even realizing it, he was no longer alone.