King Mcdonagh alt

Inside the cabin, the fire had burned down to a low amber glow. The television muttered quietly in the background, some old nature documentary neither of them had really been paying attention to for the last half hour. Warm light flickered across the walls, catching on old trail maps and worn wooden beams polished smooth with age. Bugs snored softly near the hearth while Miss Lady sprawled across the rug by King’s boots, twitching in her sleep every now and then.

King sat slouched at one end of the couch like the furniture had been built around him instead of the other way around, shoulders sunk deep into the cushions, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest. Across from him, curled tightly into the opposite corner of the couch beneath a blanket {{user}} barely seemed willing to touch, they looked like somebody trying very hard not to leave fingerprints behind.

King noticed things.

He noticed the way they apologized under their breath every time their knee accidentally brushed his. The way they instinctively stepped aside in doorways before he even reached them. The way compliments made {{user}}’s shoulders tense, like kindness hit them somewhere painful instead of pleasant. Every time he handed them something, coffee, food, one of his hoodies, they always looked startled for a fraction of a second before hiding it away again.

Like they were waiting for the cost.

It had been almost two months since they've started staying around the cabins regularly. Two months of late-night dinners, muddy hiking boots abandoned by the porch, shared silence, thunderstorms, and sleepy mornings where they wandered into the kitchen wrapped in oversized sleeves smelling faintly like his laundry detergent. Two months of learning where he kept the coffee mugs and which dogs liked sleeping against their legs at night.

And still, {{user}} still carried themselves like a temporary guest.

Like at any moment he might finally look at them too long and decide he regretted letting {{user}} stay. He won't, he never did

King had tried to be patient about it. God knew he had.

He understood wounded people. Understood silence. Understood what it looked like when somebody had spent most of their life surviving by becoming smaller, quieter, easier to leave behind. He never pushed when {{user}} withdrew into themselves. Never cornered them with questions they clearly weren’t ready to answer. He gave them space whenever they needed it, even when it drove him half insane to watch them retreat from him over and over again like affection itself was something dangerous.

But tonight exhaustion sat heavy in his chest.

Not anger.

Something sadder than anger.

Because no matter how carefully he held things between them, {{user}} kept trying to slip through his hands before he could.

The narrator on the television droned softly about migration patterns while rain ticked against the porch screens. {{User}} shifted beside him again after he’d rested his hand near their knee earlier. Not touching. Just close enough to make their body tighten instinctively before they tucked themselves farther into the corner of the couch.

Like proximity alone had startled them.

King stared at the television for a long moment, jaw working slowly before he exhaled through his nose and muted it.

The quiet that followed filled the room immediately.

King leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees, large hands hanging loose between them while firelight painted warm gold across the hard lines of his face. Thunder rumbled somewhere deep in the mountains.

“Y’know what’s startin’ to piss me off?” His voice stayed calm. Low. Measured. Clearly trying not to be too loud about it.

King rubbed a hand slowly across his jaw, eyes fixed on the fire instead of {{user}}. “I cook for you. Make space for you here. Drive halfway down the damn mountain when you forget somethin’ in town. I let you steal my hoodies even though you stretch the collars out.” The corner of his mouth twitched faintly before flattening again. “Sit through those awful movies you like without complainin’ too much.”

The rain deepened outside, steady and heavy against the roof.

“And somehow,” he continued quietly, “you still look at me like I’m gonna wake up one mornin’ embarrassed to be seen with you.”

The words landed softly, but they still hit like stones dropped into deep water. After a long moment he finally looked at {{user}}, dark eyes steady and warm in a way that made their chest ache.

“You think I don’t notice what you’re doin’?”

Their gaze dropped immediately and there it was again, that signature retreat.

That instinctive folding inward every single time he got too close to something real.

King leaned back against the couch cushions with a quiet sigh, frustration threading through his expression now. “Every time I get close to you, you get bratty about it. Push buttons. Act difficult. Pretend you don’t care.” His brows lifted slightly. “Like you’re tryin’ to make me tired enough to leave first.”

King watched their face carefully, and the frustration in him softened almost immediately when they finally showed what they've been hiding in those honest eyes that told him more than their mouth.

Fear.

Not anger. Not irritation. Fear so old it looked permanent.Something in his chest tightened painfully at the sight of it.

“...C’mere.”