CRAVES

THE MAN WHO SHOULD HAVE LEFT

Morning arrived without sunlight. Clouds lingered over the city, pressing low against the rooftops. Rain had eased into a quiet drizzle, leaving beads of water clinging to the windowpanes.

The apartment was still. A kettle whistled softly from the kitchen.

Bryan opened his eyes. For several seconds, he didn't move. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. Cream paint. A tiny c***k near the corner. Water stains that had been painted over more than once.

His gaze drifted across the room. A bookshelf leaned slightly to one side, crowded with novels whose edges had softened from being read again and again. Beside it stood a small wooden table with a chipped leg, carefully balanced with a folded piece of cardboard underneath. Nothing matched. Nothing was expensive. Yet everything was clean. Someone had cared enough to make little things last.

He sat up slowly. Pain tugged at his side. His hand found the bandage beneath his shirt. Fresh. Carefully wrapped. Not by a doctor. The knot was uneven. He stared at it for a long moment.

The bedroom door stood half open. From where he sat, he could see part of the kitchen. A young woman stood with her back to him, stirring something in a small pot. Her hair was tied into a loose knot that had almost given up holding itself together. A few strands escaped, brushing the back of her neck whenever she moved. She hummed under her breath. Softly. Not a song he recognized.

The apartment smelled of ginger.

She reached for a jar on the highest shelf. Her fingertips barely touched it. She rose onto her toes. Still too far. Bryan watched in silence. Another attempt. The jar slipped. She caught it against her shoulder before it could fall, smiled to herself, then stretched again. The shelf won.

Bryan stood. His footsteps made almost no sound against the wooden floor. He crossed the room. Reached over her shoulder. Lifted the jar down. Placed it gently on the counter.

Only then did Amelia realize she wasn't alone. She spun around so quickly her elbow knocked against the kettle. A sharp hiss. Hot water splashed over the stove.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

"You..." Her eyes widened. "You're awake."

Bryan inclined his head once. "Thank you." His voice was deeper than she'd expected. Calm. Almost too calm for someone who had nearly bled to death a few hours earlier.

Amelia blinked. "I wasn't expecting... I mean..." She glanced at the bedroom. "I thought you'd sleep longer."

His eyes followed hers. Then returned. "You treated my wound." It wasn't a question. She nodded. "It looked painful."

A pause. "You should've gone to a hospital."

"I know."

"You didn't." Amelia replied sharply

"No."

Another pause settled between them. Oddly... it wasn't uncomfortable.

Bryan lowered his gaze to the small kitchen. A single pan. Two mugs. One of them had a c***k running through the handle. The refrigerator hummed loudly every few seconds before falling quiet again. The floorboards creaked beneath Amelia's slippers. Life had left fingerprints on every corner of the apartment. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been inside a home that actually felt lived in. His own manor echoed. This place breathed.

Amelia noticed him looking around. "It's small." She smiled apologetically. "But it's home."

Bryan's eyes rested briefly on the windowsill. Three tiny flowerpots. One held a thriving basil plant. The second was beginning to bloom. The third contained nothing but dark soil. Even so... it sat beside the others. Waiting.

"You should eat." The words left Amelia before she could think about them. She pointed awkwardly toward the table. "I made porridge."

Bryan looked at the bowl. Steam curled gently into the air. He hadn't eaten human food in centuries. It wouldn't nourish him. But refusing would invite questions. He sat. The chair complained beneath his weight. Amelia placed a spoon beside the bowl. Then quietly sat opposite him.

Neither of them reached for the food immediately. Rain tapped against the glass. Somewhere downstairs, a child laughed before being called inside. The ordinary sounds settled over the silence like a blanket.

Bryan picked up the spoon. He tasted one mouthful. Warm. Faintly sweet. Ginger. His expression didn't change. Amelia watched him anyway. "...Is it terrible?" He looked up. "No." "You hesitated." "I was thinking." "About?"

Another small pause. "I've never had porridge." She laughed. Not loudly. Just enough to wrinkle the corners of her eyes. "I don't believe you." "It's true." "Not even as a child?"

Bryan lowered the spoon. "I don't remember being one."

The smile slowly disappeared from Amelia's face. She searched his expression for a sign that he was joking. There wasn't one.

Before she could ask another question... a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. Three knocks. Firm. Measured.

Bryan's gaze lifted toward the door. His face remained unreadable. Only his eyes changed. They sharpened. Like a hunter hearing something far away.

Outside... someone waited.