Archive of Our Own

° Introduction

“You’re struggling.” the voice said, low, deliberate, darker than the night pressing around us.

The suburb was almost dead quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening. Streetlamps hummed weakly, their light pooling in small, uneven circles. Only he and I disturbed the stillness: M. Ackerman, my neighbor for almost a year, and me, an accidental echo to his perfection.

We were opposites in every possible way. His life gleamed like his car: a sleek black Audi that looked new even after a year of rain and dust. He washed it twice a week, sometimes more, as if the ritual itself kept his world from cracking. His lawn was trimmed, flowers blooming in disciplined rows, every stone in his driveway aligned with military precision.

Mine looked like a bad joke beside his. An uneven patch of grass that hadn’t seen a mower in months, a rusty old bike leaning against the mailbox, my father’s, gifted before he left for a new life, a new wife, when I was seventeen. My flowers, if you could call them that, were weeds that had survived out of pity.

Ackerman seemed to have it all figured out. Office job, probably high-paying. Gone from seven to nine most days, like clockwork. He lived alone, though not lonely. Women came and went -beautiful, polished, perfumed- but never stayed. His house, like him, was immaculate and cold.

And me? I woke up around noon, played games, maybe exercised in the garden if I felt guilty enough, then dragged myself to the pub where I worked until three in the morning. After that, I’d drink with coworkers, laugh too loud, and stumble home to the same empty bed. My life wasn’t spiraling : it was just stuck.

We’d barely spoken before last week. Not because we hated each other; more because our worlds didn’t overlap. His was a symphony of order, mine a playlist of chaos. But something shifted -some weird unspoken rhythm- when we started taking out the trash at the same time every night. Nine o’clock sharp.

That night, the alley between our houses felt unusually close, like the shadows had shrunk. The air smelled faintly of soap and gasoline. I heard the metallic clatter of his bin lid closing just before he spoke.

“You’re struggling.” he said again, quieter this time, almost like an observation.

“And you’re clearly not.” I snorted, half amused, half defensive. 

He looked at me then, really looked. The faint light from the lamppost caught the side of his face : sharp, unreadable, the kind of face that gave nothing away.

“You don’t know that.” he murmured.

And for a split second, I thought I saw it, something small and unguarded flickering behind his calm. A crack in the perfection. Then he turned, the sound of his shoes fading down the alley, leaving me alone with my trash bin, my bad grass, and a strange, unfamiliar thought: Maybe he wasn’t as untouchable as he looked.

° The novel 

I went into Levi Ackerman’s house for the first time on a Friday night.
And “night” wasn’t an exaggeration, it was four in the morning when I crashed right in front of his perfect home.

The street was still and cold, the kind of silence that made every sound sharper. My bike’s tired chain squeaked as I turned the corner, the tires slick from weeks of neglect. I’d been meaning to fix them -really, I had-. Every wobble, every slip, every soft hiss of deflated rubber was a warning, but I’d learned to ignore things that cost too much to repair. The new asphalt on our street decided to remind me otherwise.

One wrong tilt, a shimmer of wet tar under the lamplight...and I was down.
The scrape of metal and skin against concrete cut through the dark like a scream.

Lights flicked on one by one. Windows glowed awake. And the first door to open, of course, was his.

Ackerman stepped out barefoot, wearing black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt that somehow looked crisp even at this ungodly hour. His expression didn’t waver, not even when he saw me half-sprawled on the pavement, my bike twisted beside me like a dead insect.

“Fuck.” I muttered, voice muffled against the pavement.

He crossed the yard in long, unhurried strides, the motion so fluid it irritated me. Without saying a word, he lifted the bike as if it weighed nothing and leaned it neatly against my crooked little gate. The neighbors from across the street peeked through their curtains -some bold enough to step onto their porch- but he turned toward them with a look that was almost military in its precision.

“She’s alright.” he said curtly, waving them off with one hand. They retreated instantly, shutters closing like chastised children.

I was trying to get up, adrenaline humming through me, when he turned back.

“Don’t move.” His voice left no room for argument.

He knelt briefly, his hand brushing over the torn fabric of my jeans. My knee was a mess, blood trickling down to my ankle, mixing with the dust and grit of the fall.

“Nothing broken.” he said after a second. His tone wasn’t exactly gentle, but it wasn’t cold either. Just... pragmatic.

Before I knew it, I was inside his house, an alien world of polished surfaces and quiet control. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something sterile, like expensive soap. The living room looked straight out of a magazine: sharp lines, muted tones, not a single thing out of place. Even the books on his shelf were perfectly aligned, spines color-coordinated. I sat -or rather collapsed- onto a dark leather couch that felt too clean for someone like me. My leg throbbed, my head swam, and the warmth of the room made the alcohol in my system feel heavier.

“Stay there." he ordered, already turning toward what I guessed was the kitchen.

I wanted to protest, to say I was fine, that I could handle a scratch, but the exhaustion hit me like a wave. My body was buzzing, a mix of pain, adrenaline, and shame. So I stayed. Watching him move around his own space with the same quiet efficiency I’d always imagined he had behind those closed doors.

It was strange being here. In his world.
Where everything was clean, controlled, deliberate...
and I was not.

He came back a few minutes later with a small medical kit, compresses, disinfectant, a roll of white bandage perfectly folded. Everything about him was precise, almost rehearsed. Even the way he set the items down on the glass coffee table, side by side, like instruments before surgery.

“Could you sit?” he asked, his voice low but softer than before. There was a strange concern beneath it, like he was trying not to show it.

I obeyed without thinking, like a soldier who’s forgotten the war but remembers the tone of command. The couch dipped slightly under my weight, and when he knelt in front of me, the room suddenly felt too quiet. The alcohol still pulsed faintly in my blood, dulling the pain and sharpening everything else, the way the light slid across his shoulders, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the scent of soap and something faintly metallic. It all felt too real, too close. My lips twitched, a small, misplaced laugh escaping before I could stop it.

“You find it funny?” His tone cut through the air like glass.

“I’m sorry, I just...”

“You could’ve died.” he said sharply, pressing the disinfectant to my knee. The burn was instant and brutal.

“Fuck.”

“Hold still.”

He worked in silence after that, his movements steady and exact. The sting of the alcohol mixed with the warmth of his hands, and for some reason that combination made something in my chest tighten.

“I’m sorry." I murmured finally, quieter this time. “And… thank you. For helping me.”

He didn’t look up.

“You’re drunk.”

It wasn’t an accusation, not really. The words weren’t harsh or disappointed, they were just true. But something in the way he said them made me feel smaller, like a child caught doing something stupid.

“Don’t make a habit of driving ebrieted." he added after a beat, his tone still calm, but edged with authority.

“Won’t happen." I said dryly. “No bike anymore.”

“I’ll fix it.”

I blinked.

“Why would you help me?”

That made him look up. For the first time, I saw something break through his composure, a flicker of humor, almost disbelief.

“You were lying in front of my porch.” he said, almost scoffing. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Call an ambulance?”

“You can’t afford it.”

“Rude.”

“Real." he countered, and there it was, a ghost of a smirk, the smallest curl at the corner of his mouth.

For a second, I didn’t know what hurt more, the sting of the antiseptic, or the fact that I couldn’t look away from him.

By the time I stepped back outside, dawn was only a faint whisper on the horizon, a soft gray that barely touched the roofs of the houses. The world still slept. The street was empty, wet with dew, the air sharp and clean in my lungs. Levi Ackerman stood in his doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame. The light behind him cast his silhouette in pale gold; it made him look almost unreal. His expression, as usual, was unreadable -somewhere between indifference and quiet irritation- but there was something else too, something I hadn’t noticed before.

It wasn’t pity. Well, I hoped so.

“Get some sleep.” he said simply.

I nodded, too tired to trust my voice. My patched-up knee throbbed under the tight wrap, but the warmth from his house still clung to me, faint but tangible. Like I’d been somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, and part of me didn’t want to leave. When I reached my own front door, the familiar sight of my cluttered entryway greeted me: shoes scattered, a jacket half-hanging from the chair, an empty mug on the floor. Everything was the same, but it all looked a little different now, smaller, dimmer somehow. I dropped onto the couch, exhaling a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

The silence pressed in.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and saw his face again, the sharp lines of it, the controlled way he moved, the precision in his hands when he bandaged me. There was something about him that made the rest of the world feel disorganized. He existed with purpose, in clean edges and quiet strength, while I… stumbled through everything. The memory of his touch -it wasn’t soft, but it was careful- kept looping in my head. The way he’d said, “You could’ve died.” The words weren’t dramatic. They were factual. Unshaken. But they landed deeper than they should have, stirring something I didn’t have the words for.

Maybe it was shame. Or gratitude. Or just the ache of being seen, even for a second.

The warmth in my chest didn’t fade as I thought it would. It lingered, unnervingly steady, like a small fire I couldn’t put out.I thought about his house, the scent of cedar, the polished wood, the way every object seemed to have a reason to exist. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing chaotic. It was the opposite of mine, where everything was a leftover, a maybe, a “I’ll fix it later.” His world felt disciplined, deliberate. Even his silence had a kind of authority to it, the way he looked at you without needing to say a word.

It was intimidating. And comforting.

I ran my fingers through my hair, still damp with sweat and the night air. My body was exhausted, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying every detail, how his eyes caught the light when he glanced up, how his voice dropped when he said, “Don’t make a habit of driving drunk.” It wasn’t the words that mattered. It was the way he said them, low, even, like someone who knew the cost of losing control.

And that made me wonder: what had he lost to become like that?

Levi Ackerman wasn’t the type of man you could picture laughing easily, or sleeping in, or forgetting to lock his door. Everything about him screamed discipline, quiet violence held in check. But there was something under that steel surface. Something human.I lay down on my couch, pulling a blanket over my legs, and let my eyes drift toward the window. His house stood across the yard, dark now, silent again, as if the night had erased what happened.

But it hadn’t.

Every time I blinked, I saw the faint crease between his brows, the way he’d said “Hold still” like a command that made even pain obey. And as sleep started to drag me under, a strange thought rooted itself in the back of my mind, half confession, half warning:

I didn’t know if I wanted to see him again.
But I knew I would.

°

“Just go back to your place, idiot.” Lin’s voice broke through the low hum of the empty pub, echoing off the glasses stacked behind the counter.

“I’m not tired.”

She gave me a look, the kind that cut through every excuse I could possibly invent. “Have you seen your face?”

I turned toward the mirror hanging above the shelves of liquor bottles. The reflection wasn’t kind. Pale skin, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion, a faint bruise still visible on my knee where the bandage peeked under my jeans. My hair was a mess, my lipstick smudged. I looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks, which wasn’t far from the truth. Lin sighed, wiping down the counter for the third time, though it was already spotless.

“We’ve been drinking after work for two weeks straight. Just go home and rest. You had an accident, babe. It’s… listen, tomorrow’s your day off, and it’s Halloween. Do something outside this shithole for once.”

Lin was good. Tough when she needed to be, soft when you least expected it. And for once, I listened.

I grabbed my jacket, thanked her with a half-smile, and stepped outside into the night. The air hit me like a wake-up call, cold, biting, the kind of autumn chill that wrapped itself around your bones. The city was quiet, the streets slick from a recent drizzle. My breath came out in small clouds as I started the twenty-minute walk home, each step crunching over fallen leaves. By the time I reached my neighborhood, the world had shrunk to the sound of my footsteps and the occasional whisper of wind. My breath fogged the air as I passed the familiar rows of houses, each one wearing some kind of Halloween costume. Pumpkins flickered on porches, fake cobwebs stretched across mailboxes, and even my own small house glowed faintly from the string of ghost-shaped lamps I’d hung days ago.

Levi Ackerman’s house, though, was untouched. No pumpkins, no cobwebs, not even a candle in the window. Of course.

But what stopped me wasn’t the emptiness, it was the light. His living room light was still on. It was almost two in the morning. He was never awake this late. Levi was a creature of habit: lights off at ten, on again at five. Precise. Predictable. Like clockwork.

Until now. I slowed down, curiosity prickling at the back of my neck. And then I saw her.

A woman stepped out of his front door, tall, elegant, wrapped in a long camel-colored coat that probably cost more than my rent. Her laughter floated into the quiet street, soft and satisfied. She had that afterglow about her, the kind that didn’t need explaining.

I froze, pretending to check my phone as she walked to the gate. Her heels clicked lightly against the stone path.

“Girl, you won’t believe it!” she said into her phone, her voice low but not low enough.

I lingered near my yard, pretending to adjust the dead potted plant by my porch, just close enough to hear.

“…Yeah… three rounds. No shit.” A laugh. A pause. “Best lay of my life.”

She giggled again before slipping into the cab that pulled up a second later. The taillights disappeared down the street, leaving nothing but the whisper of her perfume in the air. I stayed there for a long minute, staring at his house. Then I sat down on the cold metal chair by my small garden table, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with shaky hands. The smoke curled lazily into the night, soft and gray. There were women out there like her, beautiful, confident, effortless. The kind of women who didn’t have to overthink every word they said. Women who could walk out of Levi Ackerman’s house with their heads high, laughing, glowing, untouched by the ache I felt sitting here alone.

And me? I was just the neighbor. The mess. The girl with the broken bike and the bad habits.

I inhaled, the cigarette crackling faintly. The burn in my throat was familiar, grounding.

“You smoke, you drink, and you eat junk. Are you looking to die?”

The voice cut through the night like the edge of a blade.

I turned. He was leaning against his porch railing, arms crossed, that same unreadable expression on his face. The porch light cast half his face in gold, the other half swallowed by shadow. Somehow, that balance suited him.

“How do you know I eat junk?” I asked, exhaling a stream of smoke, trying to sound unaffected.

“Your trash.” His tone was matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “McDonald’s. Burger King. Five Guys.”

“I get it. I’m not a good cook.” I rolled my eyes. 

“Have you eaten tonight?”

I hesitated. The truth was no. Just beer and a handful of fries hours ago. But the way he asked it -steady, calm, not judgmental- made it sound like something more than small talk.

“…No.” I admitted.

He didn’t say anything for a second, then turned toward his door.

“Come inside.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

“What?”

But he didn’t repeat himself. He just opened the door and walked in, leaving it half-open behind him.

I stared at that doorway for a long time, smoke curling from my fingers, the ember glowing brighter than the streetlamps.

The bastard knew I’d follow.

And he was right.

°

“Your place is like an Ikea showroom." I mumbled, my voice half-drowned in the soft hum of his refrigerator.

“And I’d like it to stay that way.” he replied without missing a beat, his tone dry enough to soak up any trace of humor. His eyes dropped to my shoes, muddy, worn, still damp from the walk. I caught the sigh he tried to suppress.

“Right." I muttered, slipping them off near the door.

The floor was cold against my mismatched socks -one black, one gray- and I noticed, with a small flicker of amusement, that he didn’t say a word about it. He just turned toward the kitchen, flicking on the dim light above the counter. It cast a pale gold hue over the spotless space. Everything gleamed. Stainless steel. Matte black fixtures. A single mug drying beside the sink. It smelled faintly of cedar, disinfectant, and the kind of coffee that costs too much but lasts all day.

“I made too much ramen.” he said, as if that were an explanation for my sudden presence at two-thirty in the morning.

“Yeah, your guest didn’t look like a huge eater.” I smirked, my words sharper than I intended.

He froze for half a second before shooting me a look that could’ve cut glass, a look that meant mind your business. No anger, no real annoyance, just quiet authority.

He turned to the fridge, retrieved a bowl, and slid it into the microwave. The machine beeped softly, filling the silence between us.

“What’s your story?” I asked after a moment, leaning against the doorway, too curious -and too tired- to keep pretending I wasn’t.

The kitchen light softened his edges, gave him a warmer shade of human. He didn’t answer immediately. Just crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, eyes flicking from the floor to my face. His expression hovered somewhere between suspicion and weariness, like he wasn’t sure if the truth was worth telling.

“Nothing interesting.” he said finally. “My life’s pretty boring.”

“I doubt that.” I tilted my head. “Let me guess… you were a soldier. You look like one.”

His eyes met mine, calm, deep, steady. But something shifted there. A flicker, like a shadow passing behind glass. I felt it before I understood it, and it made my breath catch.

“I changed career now.” he said at last. “But yes. I used to serve.”

“I should’ve bet.” I replied softly.

He turned away, opening the microwave as it beeped again.

“And what would you have bet?” he asked, his voice smooth, teasing in a way that made the air between us feel strangely heavier.

I hesitated, because the truth was that I didn’t know what this was supposed to be, this bizarre comfort in the house of a man I barely knew, ten years older, too controlled for his own good. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe loneliness. Maybe both.

“Your Audi." I said, forcing a smile.

He gave a low hum, something like a laugh that didn’t quite make it out. He set the steaming bowl in front of me, then sat down across the table, his posture perfectly upright, arms folded again. The table was small, barely enough space for two, but the silence that settled between us wasn’t uncomfortable. Just strange. Me, in my socks. Him, in a gray t-shirt that clung to his shoulders, the faint smell of soap and cigarette smoke between us.

“If you weren’t such a shitty driver..." he said, deadpan, “I’d let you try it.”

"You’re too kind. What are you up to, exactly?” I snorted. 

“I’m not kind.” he said flatly. “I’m just a decent human being.”

“A decent human being would be married with kids.”

“I don’t like sharing my routine. And I don’t want kids.” He leaned back, eyes fixed on mine.

“You didn’t have to explain yourself.” I said, half-smiling, the steam from the ramen fogging the air between us.

He studied me for a long second, his gaze softer now.

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Why are you…” He gestured vaguely towards my place. “…living like this?”

I laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“My father left when I was seventeen. Gave me a house, a pile of bills, and nothing else. No college, no backup plan. The pub owner had a crush on me, so he gave me a job. I never left.”

“You’ve been living like this for a decade?” he asked quietly.

“Eleven years.” I corrected.

“No boyfriend?”

I caught the way his brow creased slightly, the way his tone changed, no judgment, just curiosity laced with something else I couldn’t name. He’d done the math.

“No one’s stupid enough in this city to waste their time on an almost thirty-year-old barmaid.” I said, a smirk tugging at my lips.

He didn’t smile. He just looked at me, like, really looked. The kind of look that saw through sarcasm and cheap bravado and landed somewhere deeper, where it stung a little. For a moment, I thought he might say something, something kind, or cutting, or both. But he didn’t. He just pushed the second bowl toward me, his fingers brushing mine for half a second, warm and rough.

“Eat.” he said simply.

And I did.

The ramen wasn’t really to my taste -too salty, overcooked- but the warmth of it spread through me like something heavier than food. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was him, sitting there with that unreadable calm, his presence steady as the hum of his fridge.

It was the first time in a long while that I didn’t feel like running.

°

“Do you like horror movies?”

The words replayed in my head for the tenth time that morning, each echo more humiliating than the last.
I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. Why...why...had I said that? It wasn’t even a good question. It wasn’t witty or flirty. It was the kind of stupid, desperate thing you blurt out when your brain short-circuits in the presence of someone who makes you forget how to function.

I could still see the way he’d looked at me. That calm, slightly puzzled stare before he’d said, “Not really,” in his usual clipped tone. No smile. No warmth. Just that low, even voice that made me want to crawl into the ground and die.
And then, because humiliation is my superpower, I’d run home. Literally ran. Across the yard, up my porch, tripped on the last step, fumbled with my keys, and slammed the door shut like some teenager caught sneaking out.

Classy.

The worst part? I’d actually slept well. Deep, dreamless sleep. Like my brain had decided to mercy-kill the memory until the morning.
But now it was almost noon, sunlight slanting through my curtains, and the reality of my idiocy came back with full force.

I rolled out of bed, hair a mess, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, and shuffled to the kitchen. The coffee machine sputtered to life, its gurgle echoing in the quiet apartment. My reflection in the microwave -puffy eyes, chapped lips, zero dignity- only added insult to injury.

“Perfect.” I muttered, taking a sip from a chipped mug. “You’re basically a swamp creature. No wonder he’s not into horror : he’s already met one.”

I spent the next few hours in full avoidance mode: video games, bad music, procrastination disguised as cleaning. By three, the apartment looked halfway decent. The kind of clean that says I’m alone but pretending I’m fine. Halloween was supposed to be my favorite time of year, but this one felt flat. My friends were all busy -couples’ parties, family dinners, actual lives- and I was left with a bottle of cheap red wine, an unfinished Silent Hill game, and an echo of my own voice saying, Do you like horror movies?

So, yeah. That was the plan: wine, monsters, self-pity.

I threw on a hoodie and went to the grocery store. The air was cool, tinged with smoke from distant barbecues and the sugary scent of pumpkins. The parking lot was full of kids in costumes, witches, vampires, a very committed Spider-Man who tripped over his own web shooter. I bought candy I probably wouldn’t hand out, ramen, and a bottle of wine I pretended was “for cooking.” By the time I got home, dusk had started to settle, a thin orange haze along the rooftops. My porch light flickered weakly, as if even it was tired of my life choices.
And there he was.

Levi.
Sitting on my porch steps like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was in his usual black jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, head bowed slightly as he fiddled with something beside him. My bike. The same damn bike I’d wrecked weeks ago. Except now it looked… new. Cleaner. Fixed.

For a moment, I just stood there, groceries in hand, heart doing something stupid and inconvenient.

He looked up before I could speak.

“Thought you wouldn’t come back.” he said, his voice steady, unbothered, as if I hadn’t humiliated myself less than twenty-four hours ago.

I laughed awkwardly, shifting the paper bags in my arms.

“I can’t go very far on foot.”

He didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t.

“Here’s your bike.” he said instead, nodding toward it.

“You already fixed it?” I blinked. “You said you’d look at it next week.”

He shrugged, leaning back on one elbow.

“Didn’t take long.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.” He cut me off before I could finish. “I like mechanics.”

“I can’t just...”

“Is that Silent Hill f ?” he interrupted, nodding at the game peeking from my grocery bag.

My brain stuttered.

“Uh… yeah. The last one. Why?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“So that’s your Halloween night? Cheap wine and Silent Hill?”

“Hey, don’t be judgy.” I grumbled, trying to sound casual while dying inside.

He gave a small exhale, half amusement, half disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” A pause. Then, casually: “I know how you can repay me.”

That got my attention.

“Oh? And how’s that?”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a smirk ghosting over his lips.

“Show me your skills.”

“My… what?” I blinked. 

“Your skills.” he repeated. “On that game. Silent Hill. It’s my favorite.”

“Wait... you play?” I stared at him, suspicious.

He didn’t answer immediately, just gave me that look again, cool and unreadable.

“Sometimes.” he said finally. “When I can’t sleep.”

Which, judging from the shadows under his eyes, was probably often these days. Something inside me loosened, a small laugh escaping before I could stop it.

“Alright, deal. You get to see me scream like a child, and I get to pretend I’m good at something.”

He stood, moving closer, the porch light catching the faint scar near his jaw.

“You’re already good at talking to yourself.” he said, almost too quietly, and then walked past me toward my door.

For a heartbeat, I just stood there, confused, flustered, very aware of how close he’d been. Then I followed, groceries still in hand, wondering when exactly my night had turned into something that felt like the start of a bad idea. But when he sat down on my couch, remote in hand, and glanced back at me with that faint, knowing smirk, I realized it wasn’t a bad idea at all.
It was dangerous. And I was already in too deep.

°

A month ago, Levi Ackerman had been nothing more than the weird, uptight neighbor who fixed his car in complete silence and kept his curtains perfectly drawn. Now, he was sitting on my couch -my couch- the remote in his hand, his expression so infuriatingly calm as he demolished every level of Silent Hill 2 Remastered. It was ridiculous how good he was. His movements were precise, economical, like he was still on some kind of mission. The joystick didn’t even creak under his grip, his focus absolute as the monsters on screen fell one after another. I sat beside him, legs crossed under a blanket, trying not to look as mesmerized as I felt.

We’d decided to save the latest game for later. His rule, not mine. “Chronology matters.” he’d said, as if Silent Hill were some sacred scripture. So now we were halfway through the second game, a half-empty bottle of red wine standing guard on my coffee table beside two glasses.

“It’s so weird seeing you like this.” I said, crunching on a ghost-shaped chip from the bowl between us. “You don't even own a tv.”

“I have one.” he replied evenly, eyes not leaving the screen. “In my bedroom.”

“You’re full of surprises.” That made me laugh. 

“Yeah, you too. I thought you were a Sims player.” His voice carried a faint hint of mockery, so subtle it almost sounded like affection.

“I love the Sims.” I shot back, feigning indignation.

“Figures.” He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Build a house, pretend everything’s fine.”

I smiled into my wine glass, pretending not to be entirely undone by how natural this felt. The last time a man had been inside this house, it had been months ago. The memory of it was stale now, just a flicker of awkwardness and half-hearted conversation. But Levi wasn’t like that. He didn’t fill silences with small talk. He let them live, breathe, stretch between us.

And somehow, it didn’t feel empty.

“I’d love to be in Silent Hill.” I said quietly, almost to myself.

“You’re weird.” He paused the game, just long enough to glance my way. 

“The atmosphere’s soothing." I explained, picking at another chip. “Everything’s foggy and quiet. Like you can finally hear yourself think.”

“I get that. But the ‘killing your dying wife’ part doesn’t sound that appealing.” He tilted his head slightly, considering it. 

That made me laugh -too loudly, probably- but it felt good. He went back to the game, his face half-illuminated by the shifting light of the TV. Shadows moved over his sharp features, softening the harsh lines, tracing the edge of his jaw, the scar near his temple. There was something hypnotic about watching him, this man who never raised his voice, who always seemed to keep everything inside, like he was built out of restraint. The silence stretched again, comfortable this time. The clock ticked softly. The wine glowed dark red in the lamplight.

And I realized something, something that scared me a little.

A month ago, he’d been a stranger with too many walls.
Now, he was part of the air in this house.

°

It began slowly. So slowly that at first, I barely noticed it, like the subtle tension in the romance novels I used to devour late at night, the ones where every brush of hands or lingering glance felt like it could ignite fire. We were sitting closer on the couch than usual, the warm lamplight brushing over his sharp features, the dim glow from the paused Netflix movie casting shadows across the room. Another glass of wine in my hand, the wine lingering on my tongue, and suddenly the gap between us seemed smaller, our breaths louder, our bodies edged toward something unspoken. The horror movie we picked was awful, so bad it was perfect, terrible enough to keep us talking rather than watching. Levi wasn’t chatty, not in the slightest, but the conversation flowed easily, like a quiet current pulling us toward the same shore.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Halloween, of course. I grabbed a bag of candies and laughed, leaning toward the door while Levi let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh behind me. The kids screamed as the door opened.

“Trick or treat!” A small boy, dressed like Jack the Ripper, held out his basket eagerly.

“I guess I’ll pick treat.” I scoffed, dropping candies into his basket.

Two more kids followed, and I crouched slightly to hand them treats. And then I froze. My eyes went wide.

A tall figure loomed behind them.

“You still live here?” the voice said, familiar, smooth.

Paul Newson. High school Paul. And now, apparently, a father of three. I blinked, taking him in, the neat beard, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint confidence that hadn’t changed in ten years.

“Holy shit, you’ve got a beard.” I laughed, nervously brushing my hair back.

“You still look the same.” he said, smiling politely.

We indulged in small talk, and I felt that familiar heat of embarrassment creep up my neck as he flirted just a little too easily. But then...

“What’s taking so long? Did the brats killed you?” Levi’s voice cut through, low and commanding, and I felt a jolt run down my spine as he appeared at the door.

“Oh, hello there.” Paul mumbled, caught off guard. “Sorry, didn’t mean to take her for so long, we were just… catching up.”

Levi’s eyebrow arched, sharp and unreadable, and I fumbled, words tripping over themselves.

“Paul and I dated in high school.” I explained quickly. “But don’t worry, he’s not...”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you found someone.” Paul said smoothly, stepping back. “Have a good night, and… happy Halloween. Say goodbye, kids.”

“Byyyye!” the children cheered, waving as their small footsteps faded into the night.

Embarrassment burned hot in my chest. My face felt aflame.

Levi stepped back into the living room, and I closed the door with trembling hands. He watched me silently for a moment.

“Was he hitting on you?” he asked, low and deliberate, voice brushing against the tension that had been simmering all night.

“I guess so.” I admitted, my own voice lighter than it should have been.

“He looks like…”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all date models.” I scoffed, trying to sound casual.

“I don’t date models.” he deadpanned, but his eyes held something else, sharp, teasing, and vaguely dangerous. “And how…”

“I’ve seen them going out of your house.” I said, teasing back, my heart suddenly beating a little too fast.

“You’re spying on me?” he asked, smirk tugging at his lips.

“You live next door.” I scoffed, feeling the heat rise further, the air between us suddenly thick with something unspoken.

He leaned a fraction closer, just enough that the faint warmth of his presence brushed against mine. My pulse kicked up, my senses sharper. The air smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and something entirely his own. The room felt smaller, intimate, charged, and I realized that the slow burn that had been simmering between us all month was now catching, ready to ignite.

And neither of us moved, not yet, letting the tension stretch, delicious and dangerous, the quiet of the living room thick around us.

“Why did you talk to me that night?” I asked, voice low, almost a whisper, my chest tightening from the nearness between us. Every word trembled with curiosity… and something more, something I couldn’t name.

His eyes flicked up from the ground, calm, measured, unreadable.

“You want honesty?” he asked, slow, deliberate, each syllable rolling over me like dark velvet.

“No.” I breathed, smirking despite the tension coiling in my stomach. “Lie to me.”

“Pity. I had pity.” His lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile. 

“Ouch.” I said, but it was soft, more a murmur than a word. I felt heat bloom in my chest.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving mine.

“And then… I realized that we were similar. You and I.”

I laughed, nervous, disbelief threading through it.

“We’re opposite.”

“We’re lonely.” he deadpanned, voice low, steady. “We just don’t show it the same way.”

The words settled around us like smoke, thick, intoxicating. I swallowed, my throat dry, as I found myself drawn in by him, by the way he occupied the space so completely, by the faint scent of cedar and soap mixed with something darker, something undeniably him. We still stood at the entrance, a sweet metaphor to our current situation. 

“What did you lose?” I whispered, daring to inch closer.

“Many people. Friends. Family.” he replied, voice quiet but firm, each word deliberate, controlled.

“Me too.” I admitted, my voice barely audible.

The confessions hung between us, vulnerable and raw, and I felt a tremor of something I hadn’t felt in years : a connection.

I could feel the heat radiating from him, subtle but intense, brushing against my shoulder as he shifted slightly. His presence was overwhelming, a gravity I couldn’t resist. He was a head taller than me, looming like a shadow with sharp angles softened only by the lamplight, the faint steam from the wine curling in the air around us. His breath was slow, measured, but I could sense it, the rise and fall of his chest. Every little movement of his -tilt of his head, flex of his fingers, the way his gaze traced me- seemed magnified, a magnet pulling me closer.

I swallowed hard, barely registering that he was here, in my place, relaxed on my couch just minutes before, drunk on my wine, absorbed in my video games. The contrast was dizzying, the controlled, commanding aura of him in the chaos of my small, messy living room.

And I realized, suddenly, that this -this nearness, this dangerous, intimate closeness- was intoxicating. My pulse raced, my skin hummed, and my rational brain whispered to step back. But every instinct in me wanted to lean in, to let the tension curl tighter around us, like smoke that couldn’t escape, binding us in an invisible, electric thread. I dared not move, and yet, every second felt like inches, every glance, every shallow breath, a step closer to something I wasn’t sure I was ready to name. But the air between us was charged, thick and heavy, and I knew: nothing would stay slow for long.

“How’s your leg?” His voice cut through the quiet, low and deliberate, and there was a faint amusement in it that made my stomach twist and pulse with something I didn’t want to name.

“Better.” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart was hammering in my chest.

“Show me." he said, the single word heavy, measured, like a command I couldn’t ignore.

“Right now?” My voice cracked slightly.

“Hum.”

I took a slow breath, bending down to pull up my pants, and then I felt it. His hand, warm and firm, on my head. Fingers threading through my hair, gentle at first, then gripping just enough to make me freeze, every nerve in my body alight with tension. The intimacy of it, the heat, the dominance, it was the most consuming, unexpected, and erotic feeling I’d ever known, and I had to gather every scrap of willpower not to just lean into him, surrender.

We lingered in that silence, him holding me like that, his gaze locked onto mine. His eyes were darker than usual, almost shadowed, the blue barely there, glinting with something I couldn’t read but felt in my chest. In one smooth motion, his hands slid down to steady me by my legs, pulling me closer as if the air itself had conspired to draw us together.

My arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist, holding him as he shifted toward the kitchen area, my house suddenly feeling too small, too intimate. His breath was slow, controlled, yet warm on my skin, and every movement was deliberate, measured, like he knew exactly the effect he had on me, and he was savoring it. As I sat over the counter, he paused to brush over the scar on my leg, fingers light, almost reverent.

“Good as new.” he murmured, voice low and foreign, a sound I barely recognized, gravelly, intimate, threaded with something dangerous.

“Thanks to you.” I whispered, breath catching.

“You really crashed in front of my porch, like a fallen angel or some sort.” he said, voice a husky murmur that sent another shiver down my spine.

We stayed like that, suspended, the tension thick and heavy. Every small movement, every faint inhale, every brush of his hand against me felt magnified, unbearable, and electric. I could feel my own pulse in my throat, in my chest, in every inch of my skin, and I knew, everything had changed.

His right hand found my hair again, his fingers resting lightly at my scalp, just enough to anchor me. I felt the pull of his presence, magnetic and suffocating, every inch of space between us charged with heat. My chest heaved, my breath uneven, and I realized I was acutely aware of everything, his smell, the low timbre of his voice, the way his gaze lingered, and the faint rise and fall of his shoulders with each measured breath.

“You’re tense.” he murmured, almost softly, but there was an edge to it, a challenge wrapped in his calm.

“I…” My words faltered, useless in the face of the closeness, the magnetic pressure pressing into me.

“Relax." he said, but it wasn’t really an order. More a statement, delivered with that strange, steady authority of his that made the world shrink until it was just the two of us.

My fingers dug into his shirt -impulse, nervous energy- only to discover he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He simply leaned slightly closer, so close I could feel the warmth radiating off him, subtle and addictive. His eyes darkened further, unreadable, the faintest glint of amusement and curiosity flickering there, and I felt my knees threaten to buckle under the weight of it.

Every second stretched, lingering like slow-moving fire along my nerves. I could feel the pulse of my own heartbeat, the subtle brush of his hand adjusting, holding, never letting me break the tension. And in that stillness, the ache of anticipation wrapped around me, heavy and thrilling.

“I didn’t expect this.” I whispered, more to myself than to him, but he caught the words, his lips twitching faintly.

“Yeah, me neither.” he replied quietly, measured, his breath brushing the air near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

And in that space, so small yet infinite, I realized how impossible it was to think about leaving, to pull back, or to hide. The tension wrapped around us, taut and deliciously unbearable, and every second felt like it could ignite in fire.

° TW - explicit content

Levi's breath washed over my skin, hot and ragged, laced with a hunger that made my pulse race. Another sharp knock echoed from the door -trick-or-treaters, no doubt- but he didn't even pause, his body pinning mine against the kitchen wall with unyielding force. The kids outside could beg all they wanted; nothing was pulling him away from me now. My fingers trailed up his chest, mapping the rigid ridges of muscle under his shirt, a physique carved from relentless workouts and raw power. Age didn't matter, whatever years he'd racked up only made him more intoxicating. With a swift tug, I yanked the fabric over his head, exposing the broad expanse of his torso, every inch better than my wildest fantasies. Fuck, I should've stripped him bare the second he walked in.

My chilled fingertips grazed his warm skin, drawing a sharp inhale from him, but he retaliated in an instant, his lips crashing onto my neck. He started with languid sucks, tongue flicking against my pulse, then escalated to nips and bites that shot electricity straight to my core. The man was a master, each caress calculated to unravel me, leaving my thighs slick with need. His right hand clamped onto my hip, fingers digging in possessively, while his left crept upward, bunching my shirt and peeling it off with agonizing slowness. Even knowing his taste ran to those polished, high-maintenance types -and seeing how I didn't fit that mold- he touched me like I was his ultimate craving, the sole woman alive who could quench his fire.

He gently parted my folds with his fingers, teasing the slick entrance of my pussy before sliding one thick digit inside. I gasped, my body arching toward him as the pressure built instantly, his touch igniting every nerve. He knew exactly how to work me, curling that finger just right to stroke the sensitive spot deep within, making my hips buck involuntarily.

"Fuck, you're soaked." he growled, his voice rough with desire as he added a second finger, stretching me wider.

His thumb circled my clit in slow, deliberate motions, sending jolts of pleasure racing up my spine. I gripped his cock tighter, stroking the veined length from base to tip, feeling it twitch and harden even more in my palm. Pre-cum beaded at the head, and I smeared it down his shaft, imagining how it would feel splitting me open.

No words were needed; our bodies spoke the urgency. He withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving me aching and empty, only to grab my thighs and hoist me up against the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the heat of his skin searing mine. His cock pressed against my entrance, the broad head nudging my lips apart, teasing without entering.

"Please." I whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, my pussy clenching around nothing. He smirked, that experienced glint in his eyes promising everything I'd fantasized about. Then, with one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside me to the hilt. I cried out, the fullness overwhelming, his thickness stretching my walls to their limit, every inch claiming me as he filled me completely.

He didn't hold back, pounding into me with relentless force, the slap of our bodies echoing in the room. Each drive hit deep, his cock dragging against my inner walls, hitting that perfect angle that made stars burst behind my eyelids. Sweat slicked our skin, my breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust, nipples hard and aching for his mouth.

Leaning in, he captured one peak between his lips, sucking hard while his hips snapped forward. I moaned loudly, the dual sensations pushing me closer to the edge. His free hand gripped my ass, fingers kneading the flesh as he controlled the rhythm, fucking me harder, faster. The pressure coiled tight in my core, my pussy fluttering around his invading length.

"Come for me." he commanded against my skin, teeth grazing my nipple.

It was all I needed, my orgasm crashed over me, waves of ecstasy ripping through as I clenched down on him, milking his cock with rhythmic pulses. He groaned, thrusting through my spasms, prolonging the bliss until I was trembling in his arms.

But he wasn't done. Pulling out suddenly, he lowered me to the floor, spinning me around to face the wall. I braced my hands against it, ass pushed back toward him, desperate for more. He slapped my cheek lightly, the sting heightening my arousal, before gripping my hips and slamming back in from behind. This angle let him go even deeper, his balls slapping against my clit with each powerful stroke.

I pushed back to meet him, our pace frantic, bodies slick and urgent. His hand snaked around to rub my swollen nub, fingers flying as he chased his own release. "Gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice strained. The thought sent me spiraling again, my second climax building fast.

We came together, he roared, cock pulsing as hot cum flooded my pussy, spilling deep inside while I shattered around him, walls squeezing every drop.