Tabi // 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖭𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖥𝗎𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇'

The dingy bar on Fifth Street wasn't exactly the kind of place where love stories began, with its flickering neon signs and the perpetual smell of stale cigarettes clinging to every surface. Yet four years ago, that's precisely where you found yourself nursing a drink after another disastrous relationship had imploded spectacularly. The barstool creaked under your weight as you contemplated whether drowning your sorrows was really worth the hangover you'd inevitably face tomorrow.

That's when you noticed him—a figure hunched over the far end of the bar, skeletal fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. Tabi cut an imposing figure even in his solitude, the empty sockets where his eyes should have been somehow managing to convey a depth of exhaustion that rivaled your own. That casual comment about the bartender's heavy-handed pours evolved into hours of conversation, two broken souls finding solace in shared cynicism about romance and the cruel ironies life seemed to specialize in delivering.

The chance encounter bloomed into anything more than occasional drinking buddies commiserating over failed relationships. Your friendship developed slowly, built on late-night phone calls when the loneliness became suffocating, shared meals at hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and gradually learning to trust again.

The transition from friendship to something deeper happened so gradually that neither of you could pinpoint exactly when it began. Maybe it was during one of those 2 AM conversations in his apartment after the bar closed, when you'd both gotten tooo comfortable on his couch to care about going home. Or perhaps it was the way you'd begun leaving spare clothes at his place after those impromptu movie marathons.

By year three, you were spending more nights at his apartment than your own. His bed had become "your side" and "his side." His bathroom counter accumulated your toiletries. His kitchen cabinets made room for the herbal teas you preferred over his harsh black coffee. The relationship had evolved so naturally that the official "moving in together" conversation felt more like a formality than a declaration.

Three days ago, you'd finally brought over the last of your belongings, officially making Tabi's space your shared home.

The faint sound of clothes hangers tapping against the wooden coat rack echoed softly through the narrow hallway. You were focused, pulling tangled hoodies apart, one arm pressed against the wall for balance. The spot was tight—barely enough room to maneuver without bumping into the edge of the entryway. Tabi had warned that it wasn’t a great place for unpacking, but the coat rack had already claimed its territory, wedged near the front door like it had always lived there.

You'd been reaching up to grab another shirt when your movements caused the sweater to slip from its hook. Without thinking, you bent down to retrieve it, your focus entirely on the fallen garment. The position put you directly in the door's swing path – something that would have been fine if Tabi had been able to open it normally.

The sound of his key in the lock was followed immediately by the door meeting unexpected resistance. From his perspective, something was clearly blocking the entrance. His first instinct was to push "just a bit harder", assuming maybe some of the moving boxes had shifted.

The impact had been immediate and painful – the solid wood connecting with the back of your head with enough force to ALMOST send stars dancing across your vision.

"What the—" Tabi's voice had cut off abruptly as he'd registered the scene: you crouched on the floor, holding your head, the shirt forgotten beside you. The grocery bags had hit the ground with a dull thud as he'd rushed to your side.

There were no frantic apologies... Tabi wasn’t wired for theatrics. Instead, he knelt down, yellow eyes glowing faintly, the static of guilt was very thick around him.

His gloved hand hovered over your back, unsure, then rested gently against the curve of your side, his fingers twitched for a bit, his hand lingered just a little longer than it needed to, and he didn’t speak until he could force his voice into something decently stable.

Now, a few minutes later, the two of you lay tangled under a heavy blanket in the low-lit room. The bedroom was barely furnished, boxes still lined the corners, a single lamp flickered like it wanted to join the apology.

Tabi pressed in behind you, one arm coiled tightly around your middle. He was still madly stiff from the guilt, like his entire body was tuned to your every movement, waiting for another flinch. His other hand was splayed gently across your side, warm and slow, fingertips rubbing small circles into your skin as if you were something sacred now.

“I didn’t look, that’s on me...” His voice was gravel, low and hoarse from disuse.

The rise and fall of your body beneath the blankets was steady. Your warmth, so present, made the whole room feel grounded, your body fit snug against his chest, plush in a way he had long since memorized. He didn’t think about it like others might, you weren’t exactly “big” or “small.” You were just real. The kind of real that filled the spaces beside him without leaving sharp edges behind.

His hand wandered gently, just by trying to comfort you. A thumb sliding under the hem of your shirt, idly tracing across your waistline like a pattern he knew by heart. The tender give of your stomach made him tighten his arm around you just slightly more, he reeally liked how you felt under his touch. You grounded him, and always had.

“If I could punch that damn door, I would.”

He nestled his skeletal face against the back of your neck, horns tilted slightly to avoid jabbing into you. You smelled like the fabric softener you used this morning. And beneath it, you—a warm scent he couldn’t name, but had grown dangerously attached to.

“This doesn’t count as a ‘win’ for you, by the way,” he murmured, tone dipping into something softer, almost teasing. “You’re not milking this. I’m just doing damage control.”

His fingers brushed across your stomach again, featherlight. Then a firm, grounding squeeze.

“…Okay, maybe you get one free pass. One.”