Belle
At first, I couldn’t stop shivering.The storm had followed me in, clinging to my skin, seeping through my clothes, gnawing at my bones.But little by little, the fire worked its magic.Its warmth crept into me, slow and steady, until I could feel my shoulders loosen, my fingers unclench.I curled closer, tucking my knees up to my chest, letting the flicker of the flames lull me into something that almost felt like comfort.
I stole a glance at him.
Charlie sat in the chair across from me, hunched slightly as though even the firelight was an enemy he meant to keep at bay.His profile was cast in shadows, the flames catching on the deep lines of his face, on the jagged scars that had once made me flinch when I first saw them.
But tonight… they looked different.
The flickering light softened the harshness, painting him not as some looming figure carved from stone, but as a man.Flesh and blood.Weathered, yes.Marked, certainly.But alive.
I found myself studying the way the shadows curved over him, how the scarred skin caught the glow.Instead of frightening, it looked… real.Raw in a way I couldn’t turn away from.Those scars weren’t just marks of pain; they were proof of survival.They told a story, even if he refused to give me the words.
And for the first time, I didn’t see monstrosity in him at all.I saw humanity.
I hugged my knees tighter, chewing on the inside of my cheek, afraid that if I stared too long, he’d notice.But I couldn’t quite stop myself from sneaking another look.His jaw was tight, as though he was carrying the weight of the whole house on it.His eyes, though—when the light caught them just right—they weren’t cold.Haunted, maybe.Heavy.But not cruel.
The town whispered about him like he was something to fear, something to pity from a distance.And maybe once, I believed them.But sitting here now, wrapped in firelight and storm-song, I knew they were wrong.
He wasn’t a monster.He was a man who had been burned, broken, and left behind.A man who carried more ghosts than anyone should.
And instead of driving me away, it pulled me closer.
I leaned my head against the arm of the chair, listening to the crackle of the fire, sneaking another glance before the quiet swallowed me whole.He didn’t look back, too busy glaring at the flames, but that was all right.
Because in that moment, I decided something for myself: if he wouldn’t tell me his story, I’d learn it piece by piece.From the books, from the silences, from the way the scars caught the light.
And no matter how much he growled or pushed, I wasn’t going to run.
Not when I could see so clearly, he wasn’t the monster the town believed him to be.
He was something far more complicated—and far more human.
The fire had settled into a steady crackle, its warmth soaking into me, when I couldn’t help myself.I tilted my head toward him, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“So,” I said, breaking the quiet.“Are you ready for my hot chocolate yet?”
He didn’t even glance at me, just gave a low, grouchy sound in his throat.“Don’t know if I’ve got any.”
I raised an eyebrow.“Don’t know, or don’t want to check?”
That earned me a sideways glare, but after a long sigh, he pushed himself up and went to rummage through one of the old cupboards.The clatter of tins and jars echoed through the room, and then he held something up like a reluctant trophy.A dented tin, its label faded almost beyond reading.
“This,” he said, voice flat.
I leaned forward, squinting at it.Then I laughed, the sound spilling out before I could stop it.“I think this might be older than me.”
He grunted, as if my amusement was proof I was impossible, but he set to work, anyway.Water boiled in an old kettle, steam fogging the air.He stirred the powder in with brisk, efficient movements, no frills, no fuss.Still, when he handed me a mismatched mug—chipped handle and all—I felt a flutter of something warm in my chest.
I blew on the surface and took a sip.The cocoa was faintly sweet, a little chalky, more memory than flavor.But it didn’t matter.To me, it tasted like comfort.Like a small act of kindness, clumsy and unexpected, but real all the same.
I glanced at him over the rim of my mug.He was already sipping his, expression unreadable, as though this was nothing at all.
But to me?It mattered.More than he would ever guess.
But now… it was my turn.
The old stove groaned when I lit the burner, the flame sputtering weakly before catching.The kettle was heavier than I expected; the handle worn smooth from years of use.I filled it with water from the tap; the pipes rattling in protest as if they weren’t used to being asked to work this hard anymore.Setting it on the burner, I leaned against the counter, rubbing my hands together for warmth while I waited for the slow rise of steam.
