Chapter Text
Shadow Milk had not intended to learn you.
It had occurred inadvertently, the way all significant observations did, with patience, proximity, and silence. He had been attached to you for only a handful of days, and yet the patterns had already revealed themselves with startling clarity. He was, above all else, observant. It was a trait sharpened by centuries of strategy, deception, and survival. You, unfortunately for your privacy, were transparent in ways you did not seem to recognize.
The first and most perplexing discovery: you were a nervous wreck.
This, he could not reconcile.
From his measured and deeply informed perspective, the Vanilla Kingdom stood among the safest territories one could inhabit. Its infrastructure was stable, its people loyal, its magical wards well-maintained. While its defenses lacked the austere militaristic severity of the Dark Cacao Kingdom, they were nevertheless formidable. Its ruler, infuriatingly benevolent, had cultivated a realm where threats were rare and swiftly extinguished.
You knew this.
On his fourth evening in your home, you had launched into a near-lecture about guard rotations, magical boundary seals, knight patrol routes, and emergency protocols, speaking with the fervor of someone reciting sacred doctrine. You had assured him, repeatedly, that the kingdom was secure.
And yet, every night before sleep, you inspected every door and window in order.
Not casually. Not lazily.
Ritualistically.
You moved through your home with a precision that bordered on compulsion. Each lock was tested twice. Sometimes three times. Even if you had secured them only hours earlier, you repeated the process without deviation. If he sighed audibly from where he floated near the ceiling, if he dragged a hand down his face in theatrical exasperation, you ignored him entirely.
When you left for work, at an hour so early the sky remained bruised with predawn blue, you fortified the entrance like a citadel preparing for siege. Three separate locking mechanisms were undone and redone with painstaking care before you finally stepped outside. More than once, you had hesitated after closing the door, stared at the handle, and then reopened it to repeat the sequence again.
At night, you locked your bedroom door as well, no matter how much he tried to argue. “That,” he had informed you coolly one evening, “is a fire hazard.” “And what if someone breaks in?” you had replied without missing a beat. “No one will break in.” “You don’t know that.”
He had paused.
He did know that, statistically speaking.
But logic did not soothe you.
You startled at the smallest disturbances. Even when he announced his presence from across the room, having learned that sudden manifestations resulted in dropped objects and near-collapse, you still flinched. A knock at the door drained the color from your face. A settling beam in the ceiling made your shoulders stiffen.
And then there was your sleep.
He had entertained, briefly, the notion that his presence might quell your nightmares. That something steeped so thoroughly in shadow might consume lesser terrors by mere proximity.
It had not.
You either lay awake, eyes fixed unblinking upon the ceiling until exhaustion overtook you, or you succumbed to dreams that left you trembling and damp with tears. Shadow Milk was intimately acquainted with nightmares. No imagined horror could rival the tangible devastation of his own lived history. But witnessing you shiver, your breath caught unevenly in your throat, stirred something disquieting within him.
He did not intervene.
He simply remained nearby.
The second revelation, however, was far more agreeable: You were an extraordinary cook.
This discovery had startled him in a manner he did not care to examine too closely.
Flavor, for him, had long since dulled into abstraction. Sustenance had become functional, mechanical, devoid of novelty. Yet within your modest kitchen, amid simmering broths and the careful layering of spice, he found himself confronted with sensation anew.
Your dishes were not merely palatable, they were delicious, balanced with an intuition that could not be taught. He understood now why you owned a restaurant. It would have been a profound waste of talent had you not.
The final observation, perhaps the most predictable of all— You did not let things go.
He watched as you groaned into your hands for what appeared to be the fifth time that afternoon alone.
“My dear,” he remarked from his place near the ceiling, his voice dry and impeccably composed, “do not tell me that you are still mourning the tragedy of your misplaced bag.”
You dragged your hands slowly down your face, as though attempting to smooth away the frustration etched there. “What else would I be thinking about? I cannot believe I just ran out and left it there! I am actually so stupid! It had everything in it—my keys, my wallet, my records! My entire life was in that bag.”
He exhaled softly. They had rehearsed this exchange at least ten times over the past several days.
“Yes, it was undeniably foolish,” he conceded coolly. “However, unless you have recently acquired the ability to manipulate time, which I assure you, you have not, it remains a fixed event. Pure Vanilla has not arrived at your doorstep accompanied by knights. Your home stands intact. The kingdom has not descended into chaos.”
You groaned again, turning back to the pot before you.
Though your culinary skill was exceptional, you had admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that you rarely ate properly when alone. That habit, at least, had shifted. Whether due to obligation or the strange tether binding you together, meals were now prepared with two in mind.
He still had not deciphered the exact nature of that tether. Why distance unsettled him.
Why separation caused a subtle but distinct disruption in his magic. He had, however, devised a plan.
An invitation had arrived from an old acquaintance, an elegant and calculating cookie who had summoned the Beasts to her mansion under the guise of reunion. He suspected that answers might lie there. It was not ideal. Your presence would be required by default of attachment. Nevertheless, if a solution existed, he would uncover it.
And then—
He would remove himself from your life entirely.
You added a measured pinch of spice to the pot, stirred thoughtfully, tasted, frowned in contemplation, and adjusted once more. After a brief pause, you scooped a small portion onto the same spoon and turned toward him.
“Here. Taste.”
He noted, of course, that it was the same spoon you had tasted just a second ago.
He did not comment on it, though.
You had not.
Why, then, should he?
Though eating did not particularly interest him, he descended from his hovering position and drifted closer. He accepted the spoon with deliberate composure and sampled its contents. The flavor unfolded immediately, layered, complex, harmoniously constructed.
It was exceptional. “Acceptable,” he pronounced evenly. You huffed in annoyance, rotated the spoon in your hand, and then flicked his forehead.
The audacity.
He stilled. Under any other circumstance, such an action would have warranted immediate consequence. How dared a mortal cookie lay hands upon the great Shadow Milk, Beast of Deceit? He should have been incensed. He should have retaliated without hesitation.
He did neither.
Instead, his gaze lingered, unintentionally, upon your profile. Your brows were drawn together in concentration, lips pressed lightly as you adjusted the flame beneath the pot. A faint dusting of flour marked your wrist.
At the library, he had been irritated, genuinely irritated, by the way Pure Vanilla Cookie had regarded you.
He had rationalized his irritation as strategic. Pure Vanilla was his adversary. Suspicion was logical. If you came to see the kingdom’s revered ruler as he did, if your naïveté fractured, perhaps you would understand the truth of the world.
And then what?
Would he draw you into shadow? Bind you to deceit? Reshape you into something aligned with him—eternal and unyielding?
Would you accept that transformation?
He attempted to imagine your expression. fear, defiance, revulsion—
The crash from upstairs shattered the thought entirely. This was no settling timber. No idle creak.
It was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.
You froze.
The spoon slipped from your grasp and clattered against the floor. You rushed to lower the flame beneath the stove, but your hands trembled visibly. Shadow Milk’s expression shifted. This was not paranoia. From the diminished remnants of his magic, he sensed them clearly.
Two foreign presences. Inside your home.
Annoyance flickered first.
Then something sharper.
He descended fully to the ground, relinquishing the effortless levitation he typically favored. The air around him seemed to tighten, shadow coiling subtly at his feet despite his weakened state.
You stood pale and shaking, eyes fixed toward the staircase. Without another word, he moved past you. His steps were quiet.
For the first time since becoming bound to you, Shadow Milk did not feel detached curiosity.
He felt something far less comfortable.
Uncontrollable anger.
Shadow Milk had not yet placed his foot upon the first step when you lunged forward and seized his arm with startling urgency.
The motion was so abrupt that he nearly turned to snap at you, an instinctive reprimand poised upon his tongue. Yet the words stalled before they could be delivered. His attention shifted instead to the pressure of your grip. Your fingers were firm. Desperate.
And trembling.
Even through fabric, he felt the tremor running through your hand. It was not faked fear. It was not exaggerated hysteria.
It was real.
“You don’t expect me to let you go up there alone, do you?” you whispered fiercely, your voice pitched low but vibrating with panic. “What if they split up? What if one of them comes downstairs while you’re up there? What if—what if they’re armed? We need to leave. We need to leave now!”
“Leave?” he echoed, one brow arching with faint disbelief. “And allow strangers to ransack your home at their leisure?”
“Yes!” you hissed. “Objects can be replaced. Lives cannot.”
His gaze sharpened. “Though I am reluctant to permit your accompaniment,” he replied with cool restraint, “I will not stand idle while intruders treat this house as an open marketplace.” You stared at him as though he had just proposed something entirely unhinged.
“This is not the time to posture,” you whispered harshly. “I don’t understand why you keep hiding like some dramatic recluse, but this… this is not bravery. It’s reckless. We don’t know who’s up there.”
Shadow Milk exhaled slowly and dragged a hand down his face, as though attempting to smooth away the inconvenience of your logic. Ordinarily, he admired defiance. He respected willpower. But your brand of vigilance, your endless locking of doors, your nightly inspections, your pale face at the sound of a knock, had worn thin.
He did not understand why you recoiled from your own shadow.
He did not understand the nightmares that left you shaking.
He did not understand the instinct that always drove you to expect the worst possible outcome.
And he had no intention of dissecting it.
Without further debate, he moved his hand to your wrist, the one gripping him, and carefully pried your fingers free.
Only to replace them with his own. His hold was firm.
“If you would like to come, you’re welcome,” he said evenly. “Quietly.”
“Ow,” you muttered under your breath as he began ascending the stairs, pulling you with him. “You could at least pretend to be gentle.”
“You were the one who insisted upon participation.”
“Actually, I insisted on leaving.”
“A distinction without value.”
Your heart pounded violently as you climbed. Each step felt heavier than the last. Your mind spiraled wildly. Your stomach twisted painfully. Shadow Milk felt your pulse racing beneath his fingers and suppressed an audible sigh.
By the time you reached the landing, the sounds were unmistakable, muffled voices drifting from behind your closed bedroom door.
Not whispers.
Arguing.
You stopped cold. Your instinct screamed at you to flee. To turn and run. To abandon dignity and self-respect alike in favor of survival. Shadow Milk did not pause. He continued forward as though approaching a mildly inconvenient social call.
“Shadow Milk,” you breathed urgently, “please. We can go out the window downstairs. We can call for help. We don’t have to—”
“Help?” he repeated flatly. “From whom? The knights? Shall we invite them into your living room for tea as well?”
“This isn’t funny, you jerk!”
“It was not intended to be.”
He halted before the door and stilled, eyes narrowing slightly. Though his magic remained weakened, he could still sense it, two presences within.
Familiar. Unmistakably so.
His jaw tightened. Unlucky, he decided. Whoever they were, they had selected the wrong house. A flicker of fury coiled in his chest. No, fury was too simple a word. This was insult.
Someone had dared intrude here. In your home, and possibly endanger you.
(Yes, he had done precisely the same upon his arrival, but the conditions had been entirely different.)
He placed his hand upon the doorknob. You swallowed audibly. “If we die,” you whispered faintly, “I swear to the witches, I will bring you back just to kill you with my own hands.”
“How tiresome.” He turned the handle sharply and pushed the door open in one fluid motion, flicking the light switch as he did. The room flooded with brightness.
And Shadow Milk went very, very still. What he had anticipated were petty thieves, insignificant figures he could dismantle with what little magic remained to him.
What he had not anticipated, Were Candy Apple Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie crouched amidst shattered glass. Your window lay broken inward. Soil from your overturned potted flower scattered across the floor like debris from a poorly staged crime scene.
Black Sapphire had one hand clamped firmly over Candy Apple’s mouth, as of an attempt to shush her. Both stared up, wide-eyed.
You leaned over Shadow Milk’s shoulder. “…What?” You muttered.
Silence thickened.
Then Shadow Milk spoke, voice flat and edged with weary resignation. “What,” he asked carefully, “are you two doing here?”
Black Sapphire rose immediately, releasing Candy Apple and clearing his throat with dignified composure. He adjusted his microphone staff and straightened the jewel at his collar as though this were a formal audience rather than the aftermath of a break-in.
Candy Apple scrambled upright beside him. “Master Shadow Milk!” she cried, visibly flustered. You blinked.
Master?
Black Sapphire inclined into a smooth, deliberate bow. “It is a relief,” he said, voice velvet and polished, “to see you unharmed.” “Yes!” Candy Apple added rapidly. “We were so worried! You vanished from the domain and we couldn’t find you anywhere!”
Shadow Milk pinched the bridge of his nose. “You broke her window,” he said slowly.
Candy Apple glanced at the shattered glass. “…Technically.” She giggled. Black Sapphire offered a charming smile. “An unfortunate necessity.”
You stared between them. “Am I hallucinating?” you asked faintly. “Do burglars usually greet people like this?”
Candy Apple’s gaze finally shifted to you. Black Sapphire followed her gaze.
His smile sharpened. “And who,” he asked pleasantly, “is this lovely being?” You blinked at him. “I live here.” Candy Apple’s eyes widened further. “You—live here?” she repeated. “Ah-hah… wow. this is awkward.”
You shook off Shadow Milks grip at once. The motion did not go unnoticed. Candy Apple’s posture straightened immediately. Black Sapphire folded his hands neatly before him.
Shadow Milk’s demeanor shifted like a curtain rising upon a stage.
“My loyal companions,” he began lightly, spreading his hands with theatrical grace, “what an unexpected delight! You appear… invigorated.”
Candy Apple quickly smoothed her skirt.
Black Sapphire brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.
“We received Dark Enchantress Cookie’s invitation,” Black Sapphire continued smoothly. “Naturally, we assumed you would be leading us.” “Yes!” Candy Apple chimed in. “But when you didn’t appear, we tracked your last magical signature here. We came to bring you back.”
“Bring me back,” Shadow Milk repeated.
You stiffened. “Dark… Enchantress?” you echoed quietly. The name felt heavy in the air.
Shadow Milk’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.
Black Sapphire’s gaze flicked toward you, then back to him. “Master,” he said carefully, “we must prepare. She expects all Beasts present.” Candy Apple nodded vigorously. “You can’t miss it! It’s been so long! Some new plan of hers!”
You looked at Shadow Milk, confusion bleeding into unease. “What the fuck are they talking about?” you asked, voice almost angry and edged.
Shadow Milk’s jaw clenched.
Black Sapphire’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. Candy Apple watched you with something that was not quite hostility, but close.
Shadow Milk inhaled slowly. Then exhaled.
“…I can’t,” he said at last, the words clipped and restrained.
Candy Apple blinked. “…Can’t?”
Black Sapphire’s smile faltered by a fraction. “Master,” he said softly, “surely you do not intend to remain… here.”
The silence that followed was no longer merely tense.