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It wasn’t a subtle thing, by any means, especially not when it lodged itself in Muriel’s throat at the mere mention of your name. Nor was it a sudden thing, either, especially not when hardened hearts melted into metaphorical puddles after time has passed. No, this was the type of thing that slowly crept along, heavy but with great purpose ― something so small, so seemingly obscure, that if you weren’t looking for it, you could miss it entirely. Above all, it wasn’t a polite thing, because it certainly didn’t knock before it entered his heart, but Muriel didn’t seem to mind.
When the dying embers of his fireplace shone across your features, lit in such a way that made his heart skip a beat, Muriel knew something was amiss. When you clung onto his arm, the haze of sleep prevalent in your eyes and in your smile, he was suddenly a little more guarded than before. When you mumbled out his name and shuffled a little closer to him, set your tired head on his chest, entirely comfortable in the comfortable silence of the evening, he became unhinged. His heart hammered in his ribcage, his pulse pounding in his ears as he took in the sight of you, with your lips slightly parted and your chest heaving with each shallow, sleepy breath ― vulnerable and soft, two things he could never be ― something inside him ached.
Carefully, gently, Muriel lifted you from your place on his chest to the plush spread of his makeshift bed, the burning in his ribcage licking at his insides, smoldering into something new. It was at an arm’s length that he kept you, watched over you, protected you. For it was only at an arm’s length did he feel as if he could do these things. When your bleary eyes blinked out of their dreamlike stupor and gazed into his wide ones, he knew he was in danger. When your hand gingerly traced the outline of his scars, cupped the rough side of his cheek with a tender palm, the danger he felt and the fire flickering in his sternum only furthered.
The gradual descent into madness, the residual thorn in the side, the inkling of an all-consuming love ― none of these were subtle things, nor were they sudden, and above all else, they were absolutely not polite things. Muriel knew this much. He also knew that he could escape all of these things if he just held you at an arm’s length, and never closer. However, the soft, loving look in your eyes threatened to throw his plan askew, especially when you encased your small hand in his much larger one. Especially when your hushed murmuring and warm breath on his earlobe told him that he was allowed to want things, to want you, to want this.
When you cautiously wrapped your arms around his sulking shoulders ― hesitant in a way that asked first before following suite ― the kindness in your eyes flickering like the raw burning he felt in his heart, Muriel knew he was done for. When he reciprocated your physical display of affection, large hands finding the small of your back, pulling you closer to him and keeping you there, holding onto you like you were a lifeline, he knew he was a goner. With your head tucked in the crook of his neck, lips aligned with the rhythmic pulse of his quickening heartbeat, and your hands once again finding purchase in the rugged texture of his shirt, it was in this moment he knew. He knew he could no longer withhold the inevitability of this certain downfall, knew without a doubt that he was in this just as much as you were, and knew that, above all, he would never be able to hold you at an arm’s length ― without pulling you closer to him afterwards.