Warmth

Rhett:

I lay at the edge of her bed—if you could call it a bed—more like a narrow slab of wood with a mattress that groaned under every breath. I'd built a makeshift nest from a tangle of borrowed blanket and pillow, all of it carrying faint scents that wrapped around me like ghosts: lavender, old ink, and something else—something sharp and soft and unmistakably her.

The dorm room was quiet now. Dim. The corners swallowed in shadow. The only sound was the low hum of wind slinking through her cracked window, brushing the old panes like fingers on glass. A full moon hovered outside, pouring silver light across the worn floorboards and casting soft shadows that danced when the curtains stirred.

Nights like this used to wreck me.

When the moon was full and bright like this, it hurt. It pulled. It whispered in my veins and lit every nerve with wildfire, whispering things no human ear should ever hear. Run. Shift. Hunt. Destroy. It clawed at the inside of my skin like it wanted out.

I used to be scared of what I’d become when I couldn’t hold it back.

Still am, sometimes.

Because I’ve seen what I turn into. What I’ve done.

What I’ve lost.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the storm inside me is still.

The rage, the ache, the endless pressure to let go and give in—it’s just… quiet. Like the presence of her in this creaky dorm, in this room that smells like chamomile tea and candle wax and her shampoo, was enough to soothe the beast inside me.

She’s breathing just a few feet away.

Curled into a ball on her narrow mattress like some storybook thing—small, vulnerable, but somehow impossible to ignore. Her breaths are soft and uneven, catching now and then like she’s dreaming too hard or holding back something even in her sleep.

The bed creaks.

I lift my head instinctively, and my eyes find her through the dark.

She shifts, curling tighter under the weight of her covers. I hear the faintest rustle as she shivers.

And something primal stirs in my chest.

She’s cold.

She shouldn’t be cold. Not with me here.

I sit up, slow and silent. My back’s already stiff from the mattress, and there’s a twinge in my neck from where I’d been lying awkwardly. But I ignore it. My eyes stay on her.

She looks so small like this.

Too small.

I hesitate—just for a second.

Because I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t crawl into to her bed like it’s mine to share. I shouldn’t let myself get close. I’ve spent so long building a wall between myself and everything I care about, and I know what happens when that wall cracks.

But I do it anyway.

Because she let me in tonight. She didn’t flinch when she saw what I was. When she heard the panic in my voice and saw the raw edge of fear in my eyes. She just… let me follow her in.

And now she’s shivering.

I slide onto the other side of her with the care of someone trying not to wake a sleeping bird. The springs groan beneath my weight, and for a heartbeat, she’s still.

Then—

She shifts.

Scoots back.

Until her spine is brushing against my chest and her legs tuck instinctively toward mine.

It steals the breath straight out of me.

She fits.

Right there, in that impossible space between wanting and restraint—she fits.

Like her body was always meant to curve back into mine. Like she was carved out of the same shadows and longing that I was.

I don’t move. I don’t even breathe at first.

Just press my eyes shut and try to memorize the feel of her. The heat of her. The way her scent wraps around me, all honey and wildflowers and something ancient that sits just beneath the surface. It tastes like magic on my tongue. Like memory. Like sin.

My hand hovers at my side.

Shaking.

But it lifts.

Slow.

And I wrap it around her middle, careful not to press too hard. My palm rests just along her ribs, where her breath rises and falls in soft, trembling waves.

She doesn’t tense.

She melts.

Her body relaxes into mine like it’s something she’s done a thousand times before. Like she was waiting for it.

For me.

And something inside my chest—some rusty, locked-up part—cracks.

She’s so breakable. I can feel it in the flutter of her heartbeat. In the narrow space between her ribs. But she carries herself like a girl who’s spent her whole life fighting to stay intact. There’s storm in her veins. I can feel it, even now, pulsing just under her skin.

I don’t know what she is.

Not exactly.

But I know what she’s not.

She’s not ordinary.

And yet right here, with her in my arms, her breath syncing to mine and her warmth soaking into my bones, she feels like the most familiar thing I’ve ever held.

Like home.

I rest my chin lightly against the crown of her head. Her hair smells like something sweet, something soft. And it’s stupid—so stupid—how safe I feel in this moment.

Like I could stay.

Like I deserve to.

But I don’t.

Because I know the truth.

I am the danger.

I am the thing that howls in the night. That rips through flesh and bone. That can’t always tell friend from foe when the moon is too high and the blood runs too hot.

If anyone ever laid a hand on her, I know what I’d do.

I know what I’d become.

I’d stop being afraid of the monster in me—and start using him.

And I don’t think I could come back from that.

She murmurs something in her sleep, too low to make out, but I feel the shift in her muscles. The way her fingers flex, like she’s reaching for something in a dream.

I tighten my hold. Just enough that she knows I’m there.

Just enough to keep her anchored.

I don’t know what this is—what we’re becoming.

But I know this: I would burn the whole world down if it meant she’d never feel cold again.

If it meant her heart would only race for the right reasons—from laughter, or joy, or my mouth pressed to hers.

And not from fear.

Not ever again.

I press my lips to her hair. Just for a second.

It’s reckless.

Too much.

But I do it anyway.

Then I whisper the promise—one I can’t speak out loud, not in daylight, not with her eyes looking up at me like I’m something worth trusting.

But I say it here, in the dark, with my arm wrapped around her and her breath brushing against my wrist.

I’ll keep you safe.

Even if it means becoming the very thing she should run from.

Even if it means losing myself.

I’ll protect her.

Even if it means breaking every part of me that’s still human.