Chapter 61 Monsters Like Us
MONSTERS LIKE US
Mind Games - Sickick
Kookaburra
By late morning the room smells like laundry soap and toast.
Not the stale hotel kind – something cleaner, sharper, like effort. Fresh clothes sit folded on the chair by the window, neutral colours, soft fabrics. Chosen. Considered. I don’t ask where they came from. I already know better than to pull at threads when I’m being given space to breathe.
Nightshade is at the desk, sleeves rolled again, dismantling something small and unimportant with methodical focus. A loose hinge. A rattle. The kind of task that doesn’t matter unless you’re trying to convince a room it’s allowed to be calm.
I watch him without hiding it.
He doesn’t look up. He always knows.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m observing,” I reply.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Same thing.”
“Not to me.”
That earns a quiet huff of amusement – restrained, like everything else about him right now.
I move slowly, deliberately. No rushing. No testing my limits. I brush my teeth, wash my face, pull on the clothes he left out. They fit. Of course they do. Nothing pinches. Nothing pulls. My body cooperates like it’s always belonged to me.
That’s the part I don’t trust.
But I don’t flinch. I don’t spiral. I make tea.
He joins me at the small table by the window while the kettle clicks off, the city below us doing its own unremarkable thing. Traffic. Pedestrians. A man arguing into his phone like nothing in the world has shifted.
I pour. He waits.
“You’re letting me do things,” I say quietly.
“I always let you do things,” he replies.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
We drink in silence for a while. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just…there. I feel the steady weight of him across from me, the way his attention never fully leaves the room even when it looks like it has. Guarding without hovering. Present without pressing.
Normal. Or close enough to fake it.
“I don’t want to be wrapped in cotton wool,” I say eventually.
He sets his cup down carefully. “You’re not.”
“Good.”
“I’m not interested in making you smaller,” he continues. “I’m interested in making sure you don’t have to fight every second of the day.”
I consider that. The honesty of it. The restraint.
“Stay,” I say, surprising myself with how easily the word comes.
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He stands, steps closer, stops just inside my space – close enough that I can feel his warmth, not close enough to crowd me.
“I am,” he says.
I lean in first.
It starts the same way – my forehead resting against his chest, breath syncing, my hands flat against him like I’m reminding myself he’s real.
Solid. Still here. His body responds immediately, a subtle shift that brings him closer without crowding me.
One hand settles warm and steady at my back, fingers splayed like an anchor.
The other rests at my nape, light enough to feel like permission rather than restraint.
My body exhales.
The baby shifts, calm and unbothered, like this proximity has been weighed and approved.
For a moment, that’s enough.
Then I tilt my head up.
Not rushing. Not asking with words. Just lifting my gaze, closing the distance a fraction at a time until my mouth is a breath from his. I stop there, suspended, letting the moment stretch – giving him the chance to pull away if he’s going to.
He doesn’t.
His hand slides from my nape to my jaw, thumb brushing slowly along my cheek, deliberate, almost reverent.
When he kisses me, it’s unhurried – his mouth firm but careful, like he’s measuring the impact as much as I am.
There’s no rush, no claiming. Just the steady press of his lips against mine, warm and grounding, the contact held long enough for my breath to hitch before it settles again.
I make a soft sound before I can stop myself and lean into him fully, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like letting go would undo the moment.
The kiss deepens, not in urgency but in certainty. A subtle shift. A longer press. His thumb tilts my chin just enough to keep me there, attentive, present. He tastes like coffee and something darker underneath – familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.
It’s not desperate. It’s not about forgetting.
It’s about anchoring – about confirming that this is real, that we’re still allowed to touch each other gently after everything else has been sharp.
When he breaks the kiss, it’s slow, controlled, his forehead resting against mine again as our breaths tangle in the narrow space between us.
“Still okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “More than okay.”
Something pleased and dangerous flickers in his eyes. He kisses me again – shorter this time, softer – a promise rather than a demand. When he pulls back, his hand lingers at my jaw for a second longer than necessary, thumb brushing once more before he lets go.
I stay close, my hands still fisted lightly in his shirt, like distance would be a mistake.
“I could get used to this,” I murmur.
“Careful,” he says, voice low.
“Why?”
“Because they don’t let monsters like us keep it.”
“It?”
“Peace. Happiness.”
I look up at him. “Then we take it anyway.”
Something sharp and approving flashes in his eyes. “That,” he says, “is my favourite thing about you.”
We don’t push it further. We don’t need to. The kiss has already done its work – settled something restless inside me, grounded me in the present instead of the threat horizon.
Later, we sit side by side on the bed, shoulders touching, reading different things, silence stretching without snapping.
This is the lie, I realise.
Not that we’re safe – but that safety looks like warm mouths and steady hands and the choice to stay.
I let myself have it anyway.
Because whatever comes next, I refuse to meet it untouched.
For now, this is mine.
And I keep it.