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The hour was late. Not just late in the way clocks measured it, but in that shapeless, misty sort of late that made time feel slippery. The bookstore breathed around you, shelves and walls wrapped in deep shadow, the kind that folded itself politely out of the way so nothing would feel truly alone. No people passed outside. No wind stirred. Even the moths had given up circling the single lamp hanging on the other side of the tinted glass.
Remmick was here, of course.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine curved against a low shelf, thumbing absently through a forgotten paperback whose cover had long since faded. His coat was off, neatly folded over the back of your favorite armchair. His sleeves were rolled past the elbows, exposing pale forearms marked with the soft dents of old scars. Every few minutes, he glanced up. Not like he was expecting anything, just to check that you were still there.
That you hadn’t disappeared.
You were at the counter. Pretending to tidy something. A stack of journals, maybe, or that tin of bookmarks that no one ever bought but he always seemed to mess with. Your fingers moved in idle little patterns, but your mind wasn’t on the task.
It was on the box in your pocket.
Small. Softly wrapped. The kind of thing that would disappear in someone else’s hands, but felt almost too large here, in this strange, suspended pocket of midnight and quiet.
You hadn’t meant to give it to him tonight.
It hadn’t felt like the right time. Then again, you weren’t sure what the right time looked like. There were no birthdays tonight. No holidays. No calendar hanging by the register to count down days or circle occasions. There was only now. The dark, and the dust, and the low crackling of the candle you'd light when the chill tried to settle too deep into the floorboards.
But tonight had been soft. That rare kind of soft, the one that didn’t ask for anything but gave something anyway. You’d spent most of the evening in shared silence, passing dog-eared books back and forth, occasionally reading aloud when the words called for it. Remmick had listened like it meant something, like your voice could reshape the air around him if he let it. He hadn’t said much. He didn’t need to.
His presence was enough.
His quiet was never empty.
You watched him now as he flicked through another page, mouth twitching faintly at some line that landed just right. There was a smudge of ink on his finger, probably from that pen he kept tucked behind his ear. His hair had dried funny after his earlier shower, curling up at the ends like it had forgotten how to behave.
He looked good.
Not polished. Not composed. But full.
Alive in the way that only people who have been half-dead know how to be.
Your fingers brushed the edge of the box in your pocket again.
You weren’t sure what he’d do when he saw it. If he’d laugh. Or cry. Or try to give it back. He wasn’t used to gifts. He’d said that once. Quietly, like it wasn’t important, like it hadn’t gutted you on the spot.
He’d never had a proper gift before.
Not one that wasn’t transactional. Not one that wasn’t a favor owed or a mistake forgiven. Just… something someone saw and thought, this is his. Just because.
And yet you’d bought the cufflinks anyway.
Found them in a little antique shop two towns over, tucked away in a velvet-lined tray between cracked lockets and pins with missing stones. They weren’t flashy. Weren’t modern. Just a pair of old silver squares with the faintest etching at the edges.
You’d known they were his the second you saw them.
You weren’t sure why. Just that they were. Like they’d been waiting. Like he’d left them behind in some past life and they’d been clawing their way back to him ever since.
He shifted, drawing your attention back. His foot knocked against a stack of books, and he winced like he thought you might scold him.
You didn’t.
You just looked at him.
Really looked.
At the sharp angles that softened when he was tired. At the curl of his lashes, too long for someone who hated being seen. At the way he held the book like it was breakable, even though his own hands bore proof that he rarely was.
And suddenly, it didn’t matter what the right time was.
You just wanted him to know.
That he was thought of.
That he was wanted.
That something in this world had been chosen for him. Not because he earned it, not because he begged for it, but because someone looked at it and thought, yes, this belongs to you.
You closed the distance slowly.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Just real.
And the box in your pocket felt heavier with each step.
“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t already been in the same room with you for hours. His voice was soft, a little warm burst in the cold bookstore air, and when you looked at him fully, his whole face lit up. Like you were the one thing in the world he’d been waiting for all night, even though he’d never left your side. “Ya looked busy. Didn’t wanna bother ya.”
His thumb held his place in the book, but the rest of him leaned in your direction. Eager. Not in a loud, desperate way. Not like the first night, when he clung to your presence like it was the last lifeline he’d ever have. This was smaller. Gentler. The kind of eagerness that didn’t ask anything, only bloomed quiet and patient in your light.
You felt the box again, the corners pressing faintly into your palm where you'd slipped it free from your skirt. For a second, you hesitated. Not out of doubt, but because something about this felt so sacred, it needed to be right.
“You weren’t botherin’ me,” you said. Your voice was low, meant just for him. “I was just… thinkin’.”
He tilted his head, that little inquisitive tilt he always did when he sensed something beneath the surface. But he didn’t press. Not yet. He gave you the space, like always, but you could feel his attention. Sharp as a blade, soft as a breath.
You took the few remaining steps that brought you close, until you were standing in front of him. You didn’t sit down yet. You just watched him for a moment, memorizing the way he looked like this. Curled up and content, but always on the edge of some deeper ache.
“I have somethin’ for you.”
That got him. He blinked up at you, startled. His fingers fumbled slightly over the spine of the book, and he sat up straighter, gaze flicking between your face and your hands. “For me?” His voice cracked a little on the second word, like he didn’t quite believe it. “Why?”
You held out the small box. It wasn’t wrapped extravagantly, just enough to protect it, just enough to keep it a secret until now. He didn’t take it right away. He looked at it like it might vanish if he moved too fast.
“Because I saw it,” you said, your voice steady, “and I thought of you.”
That did it.
He reached out slowly, reverently, and took the box with both hands. His fingers hovered over the lid like he didn’t want to ruin whatever magic kept it sealed. For a second, he just stared. Then he glanced up at you again, like asking for permission. When you nodded, he opened it.
The cufflinks caught the faintest sliver of light from the lamp above. Silver. Old, quiet silver. The kind that never shouted for attention but demanded it anyway. Etched at the corners with delicate, almost-forgotten lines. Not a pattern, exactly. More like a memory.
Remmick went still.
Completely still.
Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“...What are they?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, though he already knew. He just needed to hear it. Needed to make it real.
“Cufflinks,” you answered softly. “For when you want to feel like yourself. Or someone you used to be. Or someone you might become.”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on them, wide and dark and glassy. His hands trembled a little. Just enough that you saw it. Just enough that he knew you saw it, too.
“I’ve never had…” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Not like this. Not somethin’ just mine.”
You sat down next to him, close enough that your knees brushed. His shoulder leaned into yours automatically, seeking warmth, steadiness, anything to anchor himself in the moment.
“They’re yours,”
He exhaled, a long, shaky breath that sounded like it’d been trapped in his chest for years.
“Thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely caught it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
He said it like a prayer.
Like the world was about to crack open under his feet and this was the only thing that might hold it together.
And he hadn’t even tried them on yet.
He kept staring at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Still cupped in his palms, the cufflinks looked small. Delicate, even. A stark contrast to the calloused stretch of his fingers. The silver caught the lamplight again, this time bending it into something gentler, something more secret. Like moonlight in a locked room.
“Do you wanna try them on?” you asked.
He startled, just a little, blinking up at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “Now?”
You nodded. “Unless you’d rather wait.”
“No,” he said, a little too quickly. His thumb brushed one of the cufflinks again, like he was reassuring himself they were real. “No, I-I wanna.”
You smiled. He looked like a man asked to wear something sacred, too stunned to argue but too enthralled to rush. You let the silence linger, soft as silk, while he reached slowly for the buttons at his wrist.
He worked them loose with unhurried hands, his sleeves coming undone without fanfare. You could see how he rolled his cuffs neatly back each time. Habit more than style, probably. He always looked like he was halfway between rest and running, like he never knew which the night, or you, would ask of him.
“Here,” you said, holding your hand out gently. “Let me.”
He hesitated for a breath, then gave you his left wrist.
His skin was warm. A little clammy, a little shaky, but he didn’t pull away. He let you unroll the cuff and align the holes, his knuckles twitching every time your fingers brushed bone. You took one cufflink, turned it just so, and slid it through with ease. It clicked softly, the metal cool against his pulse.
He stared at you the whole time.
Not intensely. Not like he did when he first met you, all nerves and hunger and that shaky, desperate pull. This was quieter. Like he couldn’t believe you were here, doing this. Like you were something delicate he was afraid to breathe too hard on.
You moved to his other wrist. He offered it just as easily.
The second cufflink slid in just as smooth. When it clicked into place, his breath caught.
Not loud. Not sharp.
And then you looked up, and the light hit his face differently.
It wasn’t dramatic, not really. The lamp on the shelf behind you didn’t flicker. The air didn’t shift. But something in his expression sharpened, just for a heartbeat. His lips parted slightly, and the faintest glint of teeth showed. Not sharp enough to be a threat, but too pointed to be forgotten. His canines always gleamed, small and precise and not quite right.
And his eyes. His eyes, already so deep and unreadable, caught a color you hadn’t noticed before. In the heart of that ancient blue, there was red. Not bright. Not fire. Just a thread of it, like old embers buried under ash. Watching. Waiting.
He didn’t blink.
You didn’t look away.
You liked his canines. You liked the strange glow in his eyes. The way it made him look like he belonged to something older than night. You didn’t flinch. You never had. Even when part of you knew, knew he wasn’t just some poor soul from the road. Even when nothing about him quite added up, you’d let him in anyway.
You smoothed down his cuff with your thumb.
“They suit you,” you said.
He blinked like he’d forgotten how to.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He looked down at his wrists, then turned them gently in the low light, watching the silver catch. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More of a stunned, breathless awe. Like you’d handed him a second name.
“Do I look,” he said, hesitating, “like I belong to somethin’?”
You paused. Then leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You look like you finally believe you do.”
He let out a small, helpless sound. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Just something deep and quiet that lived in his chest and finally found a way out. He pressed his cheek into your temple, breathing you in like he didn’t need air, just this.
His arms came around you, hesitant at first. Still so careful, like you might vanish. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, solid and real and warm, and he sank into it like it was the first real place he’d ever been allowed to rest.
For a long time, you didn’t speak. You just stayed like that, curled together on the floor between bookshelves and forgotten time. The town beyond the window didn’t exist. The cold couldn’t reach you here.
Eventually, he whispered, “Nobody’s ever given me anythin’ like this.”
You drew slow patterns on his sleeve. “You deserve things like this.”
He kissed your head. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just once. Just thank you.
Then: “You’re not scared of me.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” you said, eyes closed.
Even when you should be. Even when something old stirred just beneath his skin. Even when the shadows moved different around him than they did around anyone else.
“No,” you said again.
He was quiet after that. His breath slowed. His shoulders eased. You stayed tucked into him, cufflinks catching the glow of your little lamp. He held you like a promise, soft and otherworldly, and you let him.
This was your secret, after all.
Yours and Remmick’s.
And out in the world, maybe that wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe they'd hate it if they knew.
But here, here in this forgotten bookstore, in the hush between hours where nothing else dared to breathe, it meant everything.