The air between them had changed.
It wasn't love — not yet. It wasn't trust either. But it was something new, something raw and quiet, like the first warm wind after a bitter winter. It carried questions, hesitations, but also a strange pull neither of them could fully explain.
Aeron was careful with her now.
He didn't lock the door anymore. He brought her clean clothes — not fancy, just soft and plain. He made her tea, though he had no idea if it tasted good. He didn't speak much, but his silence wasn't cold like before. It was full of presence. Listening. Watching. Waiting.
Liora noticed everything.
He avoided touching her skin unless necessary, always cautious. His eyes were sharper than ever, yet no longer held the same deadly gleam when they landed on her. And sometimes, when she caught him staring too long, he'd quickly look away — as if ashamed of something he couldn't name.
It had been two days since the moment on the couch. Two days since her blood nearly stained the floor permanently. Two days since he'd told her she mattered.
And now, she sat at the kitchen table — free, technically, but still in his house.
Aeron placed a bowl of soup in front of her.
She looked down at it. "You cooked?"
He shrugged. "I tried."
She picked up the spoon and took a small sip. It wasn't amazing, but it was warm — and somehow, that made her feel something. "It's… not bad."
"Liar," he muttered, though a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.
She tilted her head, amused. "Was that your first attempt at smiling?"
His face went still, unsure if he should let it happen again.
"You should do it more," she said gently, "It doesn't make you less scary."
"Not the most comforting review," he replied dryly.
Silence returned, but it wasn't awkward. It was thoughtful.
"Why are you still here?" he finally asked, voice low.
She lowered her spoon. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "Maybe because you're the only person who ever really looked at me… not like a victim, not like a burden. Just… me."
Aeron swallowed hard. Her words cut deeper than any blade.
"And you?" she asked. "Why didn't you let me die?"
His fingers twitched. "Because I didn't want that to be the last thing you ever felt. Pain."
Liora looked at him for a long time. "Do you still want to kill me?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, he looked her in the eye and said, "No."
Her chest ached with a feeling she hadn't felt in years — not quite safety, but something close.
That night, the two sat together in the living room. The fire crackled quietly. Aeron leaned against the wall with a book in his hand, though his eyes often drifted to her.
Liora curled under a blanket on the couch, her head resting against the cushion as she watched the flames dance. "Can I ask something?" she whispered.
Aeron nodded without looking up.
"Do you remember all their names? The women?"
He froze for a moment. Then slowly closed the book and looked toward her. "Some. Not all. I didn't want to."
"Because it made it harder?"
"Yes."
She nodded slowly. "And me? Do you remember my name?"
He blinked once, then said quietly, "Liora."
Something about the way he said it sent a chill through her. It wasn't soft — Aeron wasn't capable of softness yet — but it was sincere. Like he was trying to keep it safe in his mind.
She stood and walked toward him, hesitantly sitting across from where he leaned. "Do you want to know what happened to me?"
He didn't answer with words. His eyes met hers and stayed there.
So she began.
She didn't tell everything. Not yet. But she told him enough — about her stepfather, about her mother who never believed her, about the nights she used to wish for someone to come save her, and how no one ever did.
She watched him as she spoke. Watched his jaw tighten, his fists clench. He didn't interrupt. Didn't ask questions. Just listened.
And when her voice trembled, he didn't look away.
When she finally stopped, tears silently falling down her cheeks, Aeron leaned forward and gently placed his hand on hers — only for a second. But it was enough.
Liora didn't flinch.
Instead, she looked down at their hands, surprised at the warmth, the connection. She hadn't been touched like that — carefully, respectfully — in years.
Aeron pulled away quickly, guilt flashing in his eyes.
But she reached for his hand this time.
"It's okay," she said softly. "I don't mind."
Their fingers stayed tangled, quiet and hesitant, like two ghosts learning how to be human again.
That night, neither of them slept much.
But for the first time, they didn't feel alone.