Damien
Deepfrost here wasn’t Halo’s Deepfrost. The cold bit, sure, but not like a wolf at the throat—more like a dog nipping at your ankles. Damien wore half the layers he’d need back home. A wool sweater over a thick shirt, and even that felt close to overkill as he ate up the shoreline in long strides. Aria bounded at his heel, paws kicking up sand in sprays, bright-eyed, tail flicking like a banner.
It had been a while since he’d walked this way. Theea’s place lived in fragments in his head: the roll of the waves, the tilt of the porch, the memory of sweat and sawdust from the day they’d manhandled that bastard couch through the door. He wandered more than once, jaw set as he squinted at palms and rocks, until the silhouette finally pulled itself out of the coast. The porch was still standing, windows still looking new. That was a good sign, at least. But the couch—outside now—slumped against a palm tree like it had been exiled, waiting for its last rites in fire.
Damien squinted at it, mouth tugging into a half-frown. “Thought you’d have burned the damned thing by now,” he muttered, mostly to Aria. The cub chirruped, as if she agreed, before darting ahead and circling back.
In his hand, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine, he carried a housewarming gift. Something practical, something she’d use. No flourishes, no preening—just thought given shape. He shifted the package once in his palm, testing its weight like a habit, then mounted the porch.
At the door, he rapped twice, firm and even. A pause. Then a low whistle slid out of him, rising and falling in a tune that sounded suspiciously like a wordless 'yoo-hoo.' And he waited to see if there would be an answer.
Someone else was a little less patient, though. Aria found purchase with her overly large forepaws on a front-facing windowsill and peered inside like the curious, nosy little cat she was. Her loud, probing mrrow was muffled against the glass.
It had been a while since he’d walked this way. Theea’s place lived in fragments in his head: the roll of the waves, the tilt of the porch, the memory of sweat and sawdust from the day they’d manhandled that bastard couch through the door. He wandered more than once, jaw set as he squinted at palms and rocks, until the silhouette finally pulled itself out of the coast. The porch was still standing, windows still looking new. That was a good sign, at least. But the couch—outside now—slumped against a palm tree like it had been exiled, waiting for its last rites in fire.
Damien squinted at it, mouth tugging into a half-frown. “Thought you’d have burned the damned thing by now,” he muttered, mostly to Aria. The cub chirruped, as if she agreed, before darting ahead and circling back.
In his hand, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine, he carried a housewarming gift. Something practical, something she’d use. No flourishes, no preening—just thought given shape. He shifted the package once in his palm, testing its weight like a habit, then mounted the porch.
At the door, he rapped twice, firm and even. A pause. Then a low whistle slid out of him, rising and falling in a tune that sounded suspiciously like a wordless 'yoo-hoo.' And he waited to see if there would be an answer.
Someone else was a little less patient, though. Aria found purchase with her overly large forepaws on a front-facing windowsill and peered inside like the curious, nosy little cat she was. Her loud, probing mrrow was muffled against the glass.
i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again
so i can never feel alone again
