The kettle whistled over the hearth, its song a lonely, shrill cry.
Ivy stood in her small kitchen, hands trembling as she poured hot water into the mug with the bluebell pattern. Her mind had gone numb from thinking—but her body wasn't done. Her body was betraying her, stirring tea with shaking fingers like everything wasn't upside down.
Murderer.
Protector.
Monster.
Lover?
She couldn't make the thoughts stop.
He lied. He killed. He did it for you.
The forest had wrapped her in its arms, whispered promises against her skin. And it all came from him.
He never told her his name.
Did he have one?
Did things like him need names?
Ivy sat by the window, cradling her tea like it could steady her. Outside, the forest loomed—closer than it ever had before. Vines stretched near the doorstep now. Leaves fluttered even when the wind didn't blow.
He was waiting.
She could feel it.
She didn't plan to go back. She really didn't.
But by mid-afternoon, her boots were on, and her hands were full of the same herbs she always brought. Her legs moved like a marionette's—pulled forward by a string she couldn't see.
The trees welcomed her.
The shadows sighed.
And then—he stepped out.
Smaller.
She blinked.
He was no longer towering and terrible, no longer a shape made of nightmare and smoke. His form had shrunk, his limbs compacted, skin pulled tighter to mimic something more man-shaped, more human-sized. Not human—but closer.
Still faceless. Still wrong in ways that made the back of her neck itch.
But closer.
He did it for her.
"You changed," she whispered, unsure whether to be disturbed or touched.
He nodded.
"You were afraid," he said simply. "I made myself smaller so you wouldn't be."
That shouldn't have made her throat catch. Shouldn't have made her heartbeat do that flutter thing.
"You shouldn't have to change for me," she murmured.
"Would you rather I stayed as I was?"
"…No."
He stepped closer.
Close enough for her to smell the earth on him—wet moss, wildflowers, the coppery tang of blood that always lingered beneath. But he didn't reach for her.
Not yet.
"You're still angry," he said, voice softer now. A rasp, like velvet scraped over bone.
"I'm… confused," she admitted.
"Because of what I did?"
She nodded.
"Do you regret meeting me?"
That stopped her.
It hurt to think about.
"Sometimes," she whispered. "But… not always."
He reached out slowly, like testing a wild animal, and gently—so gently—touched her arm.
She didn't pull away.
His fingers were cool, but they warmed quickly, like they'd learned her temperature and decided to match it.
"I can be anything for you," he said, voice low. "Everything else is noise."
They sat together in the clearing as dusk approached.
He didn't ask her questions.
He didn't push.
He just… leaned into her side, curling his too-long limbs around her like he was trying to mimic the way humans cuddled. Awkward at first. A little off. But he adjusted. Learned. Adapted.
Eventually, it felt good.
Too good.
She rested her head on his shoulder.
"You really don't have a name?" she asked after a while.
"No."
"Didn't you ever want one?"
"No one ever spoke to me. Not like you."
Her heart cracked a little.
"Then I'll give you one."
He turned his head toward her. Not a face—still. But somehow she knew he was smiling.
She thought for a long moment.
Something about the way he clung to her. The way he hovered in her shadow. The way he wrapped around her life like ivy itself…
"Thorne," she said finally.
He tilted his head.
"Thorne," she repeated. "Because you protect… but you still hurt."
The silence stretched.
Then, quietly:
"I like it."
That night, she let him hold her.
He wrapped around her like a living cloak, like shadows with a heartbeat.
She buried her face into the place where his chest should be.
And when he whispered her name—soft, reverent, like a prayer she didn't know she needed—her fear didn't leave.
But it faded into something else.
Something dangerous.
Something sweet.