Touch-Starved Tension
His heartbeat doesn’t slow.
It hammers against my cheek like a war drum, wild and unfamiliar. I wait for him to let go. He doesn’t. His arms stay locked around me, fingers splayed across my back like he’s mapping the ridges of my spine. The forest holds its breath.
Finally, I push against his chest. “Okay. *Okay*. We’re done here.”
He releases me so fast I nearly faceplant into the moss. I scramble upright, brushing dirt off my dress. My palm still tingles where he touched me.
“What was that?” I demand.
He sits back on his heels, sigils dimming. His gaze drops to my hand.
“Don’t,” I warn when he reaches for it again.
He freezes.
“You can’t just—grab people. We’ve talked about this.”
A lie. We haven’t talked at all. But he tilts his head like he’s replaying the words, committing them to memory.
I retreat to the moss bed, putting the campfire between us. My ribs ache where the bond-thread hums. *Not magic. Something older.* I hate how I know that.
---
He builds me a bath.
Not a metaphor. One minute I’m sulking by the spring, picking leaves from my hair. The next, shadow vines erupt from the ground, weaving a basin into the rocks. Steam rises as the Reaper dips his hand into the water, heating it with a red glow.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
He flicks a droplet at me. It hits my forehead, warm and startling.
“Real mature.”
But when he leaves—vanishing into the trees like smoke—I strip fast. The water smells like lavender. *Actual* lavender. How? I sink up to my chin, sighing as the heat unknots my muscles.
His cloak hangs nearby. I ignore it.
Halfway through scrubbing three days of grime off, I feel eyes.
“If you’re peeping, I’m feeding your fancy hair to badgers.”
Silence. Then a huff—almost a laugh—from the shadows.
---
He’s everywhere.
Not suffocating, just… present. When I wake, he’s mending my boots with meticulous stitches. When I forage for edible mushrooms, he materializes to pluck a deathcap from my grip. When I snap at him to quit looming, he leans against a tree. Still watching.
The third time I catch him inhaling near my neck, I whirl on him.
“What’s your deal? Do I stink?”
He blinks. Sniffs the air deliberately. Shakes his head.
“Then *back up*.”
He takes one step back. His shadow still drapes over me.
I throw my hands up. “You’re impossible.”
A corner of his mouth twitches.
---
Nightmares don’t care about bonding magic.
I wake gasping, clawing at phantom hands. The Reaper’s there before my next heartbeat, crouched beside the moss bed. Moonlight sharpens his features, turning him into a statue of ice and shadow.
“Don’t,” I pant, recoiling.
He stays. Doesn’t touch. Just… exists. His gaze flicks to my trembling hands.
“I’m fine.”
He tilts his head, clearly not buying it.
“*Fine*,” I repeat, lying back down.
He doesn’t leave. Settles against the petrified oak, long legs stretched toward the fire. I pretend not to notice him mimicking human posture—elbow on knee, chin propped in hand. Like he’s practicing.
“Why?” The word slips out.
He waits.
“Why keep me alive?”
His throat works. For one insane second, I think he’ll speak. Then he lifts his hand, palm up. Offering.
“No more grabby hands,” I warn.
He nods.
I hesitate before sliding my hand into his. His fingers close carefully, leaving air between our skin. The bond-thread vibrates, warm and insistent.
“Show me,” I whisper.
He exhales.
Cold floods my veins, followed by a vision—a barren throne room, centuries of solitude, the crushing weight of guarding a forest that fears him. Then *me*. Bright and blazing in the gloom. A lifeline.
I jerk my hand back. “You… feel that? All the time?”
He rubs his sternum, jaw tight.
“Oh.” My face burns. “That’s… a lot.”
He gestures at me like *you’re telling me*.
---
The next touch is an accident.
I trip over a shadow vine while reaching for a book. He catches me, one hand splayed across my stomach. His thumb grazes the underside of my breast.
We both freeze.
A sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan. His nostrils flare. The shadows *ripple*, vines curling like cats around our ankles.
“Let go,” I say weakly.
He does. Too fast. I stumble, catching myself on the shelf. His chest heaves like he’s run miles, sigils blazing.
“You felt that?” I ask.
He stares at my mouth.
“Right.” I adjust my dress, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my gut. “Boundaries.”
He flees.
---
He brings me gifts.
A comb carved from bone. A dagger with a hilt wrapped in his hair. Blackberries so sweet they stain my lips purple.
“I don’t need bribes,” I tell him, eating a berry anyway.
He watches my tongue catch the juice. His claws puncture the log he’s sitting on.
“Stop that.”
He blinks innocently.
“You know what you’re doing.”
A shrug. But there’s a smugness to him now, a predator circling prey he has no intention of eating.
---
The storm breaks on the seventh night.
Rain sheets through the clearing, hissing in the fire. I huddle under his cloak, reading by witchlight. He’s across from me, whittling another flute. Or maybe a weapon. Hard to tell.
Lightning flashes. I flinch.
He’s at my side before the thunder hits.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
He hesitates, then lifts his arm—an invitation.
“No cuddling.”
He rolls his eyes.
But when the next bolt strikes, closer this time, I inch toward him. His arm settles over my shoulders, tentative. Cold seeps through my dress.
“You’re freezing.”
He starts to pull away.
“Wait.” I press closer, shivering. “Just… share the cloak.”
He tugs the fabric around us both. His thigh brushes mine. The bond-thread hums, insistent.
Rain drums harder.
“Why don’t you talk?” I ask.
He traces a claw over his throat. Shakes his head.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
He taps his chest—where a heart would be—then mine.
“You… lost your voice?”
A nod.
“Because of the curse?”
He hesitates. Nods again.
I swallow. “Does it hurt?”
His fingertips brush my windpipe. Gentle. Questioning.
“You can touch.”
His hand settles warm and heavy on my throat. Not squeezing. Just… holding. My pulse kicks against his palm.
“See?” I whisper. “No pain.”
His thumb strokes my jugular. The world narrows to his eyes, his breath, his hand.
The storm fades.
When he leans in, I think *finally*. But he pauses a hair’s breadth from my lips, waiting.
“Do it,” I breathe.
He crashes into me.
Cold lips. Hot tongue. The taste of lightning and pomegranate. I fist his hair, dragging him closer. He growls, hauling me onto his lap. His hips roll up, and I feel him—*all* of him—hard and insistent through the layers of clothes.
Shadow vines erupt around us, coiling up my legs. I moan into his mouth. He tears away, panting, sigils burning white-hot.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
He grips my waist, holding me still. His whole body shakes.
“Kaelith—”
He flinches at his name.
“You’re not hurting me.”
A ragged sound escapes him. The vines tighten, lifting me off his lap. He sets me aside like damaged goods and vanishes into the rain.
---
I find him at dawn, soaked and still shaking.
“Hey.”
He won’t look at me.
I sit on the wet log beside him. “I wanted that.”
His jaw clenches.
“I’m not scared of you.”
He snorts.
“Okay, maybe a little,” I admit. “But not… not like that.”
Slowly, he turns. Raindrops cling to his eyelashes. He’s beautiful in the gray light—a ruined angel.
I touch his knee. “Try again?”
He stares at my hand.
“No vines. No magic. Just…” I swallow. “Just you.”
He stands.
For one terrible second, I think he’ll bolt. Then he scoops me up, cradling me against his chest.
“Where are we—?”
The shadows swallow us whole.