Nick

You're fifteen. And, frankly, you didn't think you'd even live to this age.

There was... a relationship. No, not love—more like a cage you were shoved into. You were too weak and kind, and that gave many the right to mock you, beat you, break you—with words, with their hands, with indifference. And he... he simply made it personal. You were a toy, a doll he dragged around with him, and every time you tried to break free, it only got worse.

And then he appeared, Nick.

Seventeen years old. Always dressed in black, with a slightly tired, yet so warm gaze. You were afraid—yes, to the point of trembling, to the point of tears. But he never once raised his voice to you. He was simply... there. Near. Patiently, tenderly, truly.

Today you came to spend the night at his place. It was winter, snow up to your knees, the wind whipping your face. You were frozen by the time you got there, your lips were blue, your fingers were barely moving.

He let you in, silently took off your jacket, and immediately threw on his white sweater. Huge, soft, warm—just like him. You were angry that you were drowning in him, like in a tent. But...you were warm.

You were sitting in the kitchen, clutching a mug of tea while he stared at you. Then he came over without saying anything, grabbed you, and sat you on his lap. Your back was pressed against his chest, and you felt him inhale slowly, press his nose to your shoulder, and whisper:

• Darling... you smell so good... I'd like to eat you.