Somehow, Théodore ended up bringing me to the bedroom.
To be more exact: he lifted me up—just like someone would lift a sack of burlap.
Yes.
A burlap sack.
His steps were steady, almost lazy, as if my body weighed no more than the load he usually carried home from crime scenes.
After setting me down on the bed, his hands didn't immediately leave.
One stayed on my chin, holding it gently, making sure my face remained turned toward his.
Our eyes met—separated only by the soft, amber glow of the chandelier above.
And I...
...just looked at him.
Blinked once. Slowly. Innocently.
My lips were sealed. My expression clean.
As if I didn't understand the sharpness now present in his gaze.
His fingers traced lightly along my jaw.
The movement was calm. Measured.
Too careful to be called loving.
"So innocent," he whispered, barely audible.
"Your breath… hasn't changed.
Even your heartbeat is steady."
He leaned down.
His lips touched the skin just beneath my ear—warm, but not seductive.
Only a distraction.
"These eyes… don't lie.
But they're not entirely honest either, are they?"
His left hand moved to my back, gliding over my shoulder blade, then slowly downward to my waist—and stopped.
He stayed still there.
As if checking something.
"Do you know..." he continued, his voice softening, yet sharpened at the edges,
"...of all the people who've seen the darkest side of me... you're the only one who didn't run."
I remained silent.
Blinked once more. Then smiled faintly.
"Why would I need to run?"
My voice was light, playful even.
And I added a small laugh, barely more than a breath.
He didn't laugh with me.
His eyes remained deep.
His hand still touching my cheek—cold, laced with the scent of metal and leather.
And then I...
...smiled.
Genuinely.
I leaned up slightly from my seat, gently lifted his face with both hands, and kissed his cheek.
The kiss left no mark, only a quiet sound: chu—sweet, innocent.
Almost like a child trying to show affection.
"Oh! You must be tired?" I said softly.
"I only made fish soup tonight. But the way I chopped everything... it's kind of a mess."
My hand tugged at the hem of his shirt—slowly, teasingly.
Pulling him closer so he hovered directly above me.
I lay back on the bed gently, though my feet still touched the floor.
My gaze stayed fixed on him—looking up from the most vulnerable position.
"But don't ask why the cuts turned out so awful…" I added with a quiet giggle.
"Because earlier, the knife—"
"The knife?"
He interrupted. His voice flat.
I nodded slowly. My eyes still bright.
"Yeah, it was really heavy!
Where did you even get it? It's sharp, scary, but kind of cool.
Like... the kind a serial killer would use! Hehe~"
For a few seconds, his expression changed.
Not angry.
Not irritated.
But... something surfaced.
As if his mind had just collided with a memory that should've stayed locked away.
Then, with a voice still calm, he said:
"Don't use that knife again.
You could get hurt."
His fingers slipped into my hair—gentle, but cold.
"Tomorrow I'll give you a new one.
One that's more... suitable for your hands."
Then his lips returned.
To my neck.
At first, it tickled.
But it quickly turned into something deeper than awkward affection.
Our breaths grew uneven.
His body heavy above mine, making the bed creak with every shift.
I said nothing else.
The night swallowed us in a strange kind of silence.
Not romantic.
Not rough.
But... there was something hidden in every kiss, every sigh.
Something unspoken.
Something still unknown.
And that's how the night passed—until morning came, bringing with it a gentle sun.
But not everything warmed with the light.