behind the mask

BEHIND THE MASK / episode 10

Her head had slipped onto his lap while she dozed, light and unexpectedly trusting. He froze for a heartbeat, unsure if he dared to move, but the sight made his chest tighten.

Gently, almost reverently, he shifted to settle her fully on his lap. Her body was light, delicate, but the warmth she radiated hit him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He wrapped the blanket—his own, still draped around his shoulders—around both of them, folding it over her, over himself. The fabric tangled them together, and he felt the closeness of her, the slight warmth of her body, the faint rhythm of her breathing.

She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Her hand twitched near his thigh, her head resting firmly against him, and he let out a quiet sigh—part relief, part disbelief, part something deeper he didn’t want to name.

For the first time tonight, the tension between them shifted. Ice met fire, cold met warmth, punishment met care. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just let her rest there, letting the shared blanket hold them both, letting her trust him—however unconsciously—slowly melt some of the wall around her heart.

And sitting there, kneeling on the cold floor, shivering slightly under the weight of both the blanket and his own emotions, he realized… this night, this closeness, was something neither of them would forget.

The night was deep, shadows stretching across the chamber. He had stayed kneeling, blanket shared, her head resting on his lap, breathing steady in sleep. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word—simply kept her warm, kept her safe, while the chill pressed in from the windows.

She stirred awake, blinking against the dim moonlight. Slowly, she realized… he had covered her with his own blanket. He had settled her on his lap. He had stayed there all this time.

For a heartbeat, her chest tightened. The anger, the betrayal, the cold walls she had built—they all wavered, just slightly.

Softly, almost in disbelief, she pushed herself up. His hair fell against his face, and he didn’t stir. The sight of him, so vulnerable, kneeling, shivering slightly even under the blanket, made her chest ache in a way she hadn’t expected.

“You i***t…” she murmured, voice low, almost a whisper. Not a scolding, not quite teasing—just a soft, startled admission of something deeper.

Gently, carefully, she lifted him—still asleep—his body warm but rigid from exhaustion and the cold. She carried him to the bed, her arms steady, her movements deliberate, protecting him even in silence.

Once there, she eased him down, pulling the blanket around both of them. She settled beside him, curling close, her icy edge softening but not gone. “You’re impossible,” she whispered, voice still calm but laced with warmth. “But… I can’t let you freeze.”

She rested her cheek against his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the warmth he radiated. Her hand brushed lightly over his arm, careful, intimate, protective.

For the first time tonight, she allowed herself to simply… be there. Silent. Calm. Protective. And for the first time, he wasn’t kneeling, he wasn’t vulnerable alone—he was with her, safe, warm, and held by the girl who had been so cold just hours ago.

And in that quiet midnight moment, the tension between them didn’t disappear. It softened, shifted, becoming something new: trust, closeness, and a fragile intimacy neither of them had dared to touch before.

Morning light spilled through the curtains, soft and pale.

She woke first. He was still asleep, the blanket tangled between them. For a moment, she just looked at him — at the quiet steadiness of his breathing — before the memory of last night hit.

Her face hardened. The softness she’d allowed herself was gone. She slipped out of bed, smoothed her hair, straightened her posture. By the time he stirred awake, her eyes were ice again.

“Morning,” he said softly.

She didn’t meet his gaze. “You should be grateful I didn’t let you freeze,” she murmured, calm but distant, pouring herself a cup of tea.

He only smiled faintly and stepped closer. “Then I guess I owe you my life.”

When she turned, he was already there, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Before she could speak, he wrapped his arms around her — quiet, steady, firm. She froze, instinctively ready to shove him away… but she didn’t. Her hands hovered, then rested on his back, light but real. She didn’t hug him tightly, yet she didn’t pull away either.

A silent truce.

Then, as she reached for some papers on the desk, the edge caught her finger. A sharp sting. “Tch—”

He noticed instantly. “You’re bleeding!” His voice was panicked, far louder than it should’ve been.

“It’s just a cut,” she muttered, but he was already guiding her toward the bed. “Zayne, it’s fine—”

He didn’t listen. He sat her down gently, taking her hand in his. The tiny bead of blood glistened against her pale skin, and without thinking, he lifted her hand and brushed his lips against it. Soft. Careful.

She froze. Her breath hitched.

He kissed the cut once more, slower this time, as if the act could erase every hurt between them.

TO BE CONTINUED

Her eyes softened — barely, but enough. And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, the corner of her lips curved upward. Just a fraction. Just enough for him to notice.

And then it was gone — as quickly as it came — like a c***k in ice that vanished under the next cold breath.