Chapter Text
Sleep. That was all you wanted the moment your feet crossed the threshold of your modest home, the one you had worked so hard and tiredlessly to make yours.
Sleep, and yet, after a day like today, it almost felt too distant, too elusive, like a fragile candle struggling to survive in a gusting thunder storm. Running a restaurant was supposed to be your dream, your sanctuary, but dreams were exhausting when they demanded more from you than you sometimes felt capable of giving.
Today, one of your employees had called in sick, leaving you to shoulder double the work. The kind of work that left your muscles aching in unfamiliar ways, that made your bones hum with fatigue as though they were trying to complain through every fiber of your being.
The walk from the restaurant to your home was mercifully short, though. Not by coincidence, of course, you had chosen this particular dwelling in the Vanilla Kingdom with careful consideration. Not that the house or the restaurant was lavish; luxury had never been the goal. Functionality, proximity, and that delicate sense of autonomy you had fought so hard to carve out for yourself—that had been the priority. Here, you could breathe. Here, you could build something of your own, away from the shadows of your past, no matter how dangerous they could be.
It hadn’t been easy. Nothing worth doing ever was. But now, standing in the quiet of your home, the soft glow of the evening streetlights casting long, lazy shadows across the wooden floors, you could see it: your dream realized. Your own restaurant. Your name above its door. The satisfaction of seeing satisfied faces leave your establishment, of feeling the hum of energy when the kitchen thrummed with life, it was intoxicating.
And yes, it was exhausting. The popularity of your little haven meant that sometimes the inventory barely lasted the next day. The work left you physically and mentally drained, yet, for the first time in a long time, it was your own exhaustion. Your own creation. And that made it feel… different. Worthwhile.
You sank into your bed with the relief of someone who has carried a heavy burden for too long, finally setting it down. The sheets embraced you like an old friend, the pillows cradling your head, and the rain outside, the soft, rhythmic patter of droplets against the windowpane, wrapped around your senses with a soothing insistence. The world beyond your walls felt distant, insignificant even, as the thunderstorm rumbled in the distance, echoing through the quiet of the night.
Almost instantly, you were slipping into that precious liminal space between wakefulness and dream, where the body feels as if it has melted into nothingness, and every thought is replaced with the blissful quiet of surrender.
And just as sleep began to claim you completely, a sound tore through the calm. Not a soft, insignificant rustle, not the kind of creak you could dismiss as the settling of old wood. No, this was a crash, loud and violent, as if some weight had been hurled across your home and shattered upon impact.
Your heart lurched in your chest, and with a startled yelp, you bolted upright in bed. The warmth of the blankets had evaporated from your skin, replaced by a cold, prickling alertness that raced through your veins. Your breath caught in your throat, ragged and uneven, while your mind scrambled to make sense of the impossible.
What had made that sound?
The room seemed suddenly too large, too empty, the familiar corners and furniture now cast in an unfamiliar shadow. You blinked, disoriented, the remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to your mind like cobwebs. The rain had not stopped. It had not softened. If anything, it seemed louder, more insistent, as though the storm outside had conspired with whatever had intruded on your sanctuary.
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. The cool floor met your bare feet, grounding you just enough to push aside panic, but not enough to silence it entirely. Every instinct screamed at you to hide, to run, to escape, but another part of you, an inexplicable, stubborn curiosity, compelled you forward.
And yet, you were not alone.
The rational part of your mind searched for explanations, an animal, a branch falling from the storm, but they faltered against the undeniable weight of intuition, the primal certainty that whatever had caused the crash was deliberate, alive.
And just as quickly as the thought struck, the silence returned. The storm raged on outside, indifferent to your terror, and the house seemed to hold its breath, suspended between heartbeats, between sleep and wakefulness, between safety and danger.
You were wide awake now, the comfort of bed abandoned, the bliss of exhaustion replaced with the acute awareness of every creak in the floorboards, every whisper of wind through the eaves. Something, or someone, was here. And somehow, you knew this night would not end until the mystery revealed itself.
Your heart pounded in your chest like a drum in a storm, each beat threatening to escape entirely from its cage of ribs. What should you do? Stay here, hidden behind the fragile safety of your bedroom door, and risk whatever, or whoever, was downstairs breaking through your sanctuary? Or muster the courage, however thin and wavering, and confront the unknown directly? Rationality whispered that the former was the safer option.
Stay put, wait for dawn, call for help once the sun had reclaimed the sky. But then, then a more insistent thought forced its way in, unwelcome, impossible: Could it be “him”?
No. Absolutely not. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, find you here, not now, not ever. The idea was absurd, but the seeds of fear had already been planted, so paralyzing you couldn’t even breath. And yet… if not him, then who?
The decision pressed down on you with all the weight of inevitability. You had no choice but to act.
Letting the cold wood floor meet your bare feet with a shock that pulled you fully awake. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to flee to the nearest corner of safety, but another, fiercer instinct, one sharpened by necessity and stubbornness, urged you forward. You had to face it. Whatever it was.
You waited at the threshold of your bedroom, listening, straining, trying to catch even the faintest hint of movement. Yet for all the anticipation, there was nothing. No creak of floorboards, no scuff of a foot, no whisper of fabric against wood. The silence was not comforting; it was malignant. It settled over you, heavy and oppressive, making the hairs on your arms rise in unison.
Carefully, you reached for the lamp on your nightstand. Its weight was reassuring in your hands, unremarkable yet somehow protective, a flimsy barrier against the unknown. You gripped it tightly, feeling the cool metal through the slight tremble in your fingers. One hand over the other, you tried to steady yourself, to summon a fraction of courage that might be enough to confront whatever awaited you downstairs.
The door creaked under your touch as you opened it, the noise amplified in the silence of the house. Every second stretched, elongated and taut, as you took the first cautious steps down the staircase. With each tread, your pulse threatened to outpace your brain’s ability to think. And yet, nothing. Not a sound. Not a flicker of motion. The house seemed empty, abandoned, and that very emptiness was suffocating.
At the bottom of the stairs, you halted, lamp raised like a sentinel’s spear. You scanned the room methodically, every shadow and corner, every flicker of light and reflection. Nothing unusual. Nothing to account for the cacophonous crash that had wrenched you from the cusp of sleep. Confusion coiled in your stomach. Had you imagined it? Could the storm, with its rageful winds and booming thunder, have conjured an illusion of intrusion?
You switched on the lights, the sudden glare cutting into the darkness like a knife. Warmth spread through the room, but it did little to calm the cold knot of unease that had settled in your chest. You shivered despite the glow, wishing for your cloak, wishing for anything that might make the night feel less hostile.
Then your gaze fell upon something in the corner of the room.
At first, you couldn’t make it out. The shadows had a way of playing tricks, of folding space into shapes that weren’t there. But gradually, clarity emerged. A body. Human, or nearly so, for the cookies of the Vanilla Kingdom were, by all appearances, like humans in form but exceptional in presence.
Your breath caught in your throat. Of course, this was precisely the moment to scream. How had this person entered your home? Was he… dead? The thought clawed at the edges of your mind, and yet your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you closer.
When you crouched above him, your eyes tracing the shallow rise and fall of his chest, a bitter relief washed over you. He was alive. Barely, perhaps, but alive. And yet… the state he was in was enough to make your stomach twist. Cuts marked his skin, bruises mottled his limbs, dried blood clinging stubbornly to his (rather long) hair and jawline.
A quiet shiver ran down your spine. His face… well. You couldn’t deny it. He was attractive, in a way that made your thoughts briefly betray your fear. But you shoved the distraction aside. Now was not the time for foolish musings.
Panic surged again. Should you call for help? You almost did, fingers twitching toward your front door knob, before rationality, and the hour, slammed it down. It was almost three in the morning. The storm outside had intensified, lightning stabbing the sky in jagged bursts, thunder rolling like some vengeful drum across the heavens. Anyone you called might not make it here in time. You were alone in this.
Could you wake him? Possibly. But as you studied his battered form, you realized he wouldn’t stir easily. He was out cold, utterly incapacitated, and even a whisper of sound might not rouse him.
And yet… how had he gotten in? The door was locked when you left. The windows were intact. Nothing had been broken. And yet, here he was, sprawled across your floor as though gravity itself had chosen him as a victim.
His brows were furrowed in faint annoyance, lips pressed into a line that suggested sleep, or defiance. You clicked your tongue in exasperation. Here you were, exhausted, vulnerable, at three in the morning, and this… stranger had appeared unbidden in your home.
You knew that leaving him where he lay was unthinkable. Not with the floor cold enough to numb your toes, not with the storm raging like a living thing outside. He needed help. You needed to move him.
Standing, you bent your knees and gripped him under his shoulders, attempting to lift him from the upper half and drag him, anything enough to help you move him. Almost immediately, reality struck. He was impossibly heavy. Taller than any cookie you’d ever even met. Your muscles screamed their protest as you inched him forward, a torturous, exasperating crawl across the hardwood floor.
You cursed at your own weakness, at his weight, at him, at the absurdity of the situation. Thirty minutes—or what felt like thirty hours—of grunting, dragging, and taking breathless pauses later, you finally managed to maneuver him toward the couch.
With a final, desperate heave, you lifted him onto the cushions, adjusting him so that he lay as comfortably as possible without risking further injury. A quiet groan escaped his lips, a faint acknowledgment of the movement. You exhaled, relief mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.
Glancing at the clock, reality returned in all its cruel insistence. You had to open your restaurant in a few short hours. Orders, customers, the relentless demands of your dream awaited, yet the immediate crisis now monopolized your attention. First things first. This stranger, this shadow of a man, this unexpected visitor, needed care. You needed your aid
Luckily, you weren’t careless. Not in the slightest. Your aid kit was meticulously prepared, a small testament to your habit of thinking ahead, even for emergencies you hoped would never arise. Bandages of every size, neat rolls of cotton, a small vial of cleaning alcohol, you had everything you needed to patch up this mysterious, unconscious visitor sprawled across your couch.
That in itself was strange enough, that at four in the morning, you were tending to a total stranger who had somehow ended up in your home, battered and bruised as if he’d walked through hell itself.
You carried the aid kit with a cautious reverence, settling yourself at the edge of the couch. Almost comically, you teetered on the very brink, your balance precarious as you situated yourself close enough to reach him but careful not to disturb him. The faint creak of the couch under your weight seemed unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent room, yet he did not stir.
His brows were furrowed as if sleep itself had forced a scowl onto his face, an unconscious expression of mild irritation, almost accusing, as though he silently blamed you for waking in the middle of the night to tend to him.
You frowned, brushing the thought aside, and picked up the alcohol, questioning the wisdom of dabbing it onto his cuts. Would the sting awaken him? Would he react violently? You shook your head slightly and pressed on, dipping a nub of cotton into the alcohol and gently pressing it against a fresh cut on his cheek.
He flinched. Just slightly. Just enough for you to see the muscles in his jaw tighten, but he did not wake. Relief and mild irritation mingled in your chest. Rolling your eyes, you muttered under your breath. “Stubborn…”
Carefully, methodically, you continued cleaning his wounds, letting your attention drift to the small, peculiar details that made him both unnerving and fascinating. His hair fell in long, dark (and white?) waves over his shoulders, with bangs framing a face that seemed almost too deliberate in its beauty.
And yet… there was something strange about it. Something that made your heart stumble. You swore you caught movement in the strands, or perhaps the illusion of it, eyes, maybe, just faintly visible under the cascade of hair. Your mind recoiled at the thought, but curiosity pried it open again.
Then there was his chest. You froze as your gaze fell on what you initially thought was an emblem, a marking… until your eyes traced it fully. The soul jam. It was the same as the one belonging to the king of the Vanilla Kingdom, Pure Vanilla Cookie. But this one… this one was different. A slit ran down its middle, giving the impression of an eye, and it was positioned upside down, directly over his chest. The subtle eeriness of it made a shiver run down your spine. He exuded a kind of presence that was impossible to ignore. fascinating, dangerous, and undeniably magnetic.
Your face flushed when you realized you had been staring at his face longer than you intended. You shook your head, chastising yourself silently, and returned to the task at hand, cleaning and bandaging the cut on his cheek with meticulous care before moving to the next wound.
Time passed unnoticed. Almost an hour later, you finally finished tending to every visible cut and bruise. His chest rose and fell steadily in sleep, shallow but even, betraying nothing of the storm of chaos he had endured or the mystery of how he had arrived in your living room. You exhaled, a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction threading through your voiceless sigh.
Glancing at the clock, you realized it was approaching five in the morning. The storm outside continued unabated, thunder rolling in long, jagged waves that rattled your nerves. Your own bed, warm and inviting, suddenly seemed infinitely more necessary. You stood, stretching stiff limbs and letting out a deep yawn that tugged at the corners of your eyes, leaving a faint, unwelcome tear glistening briefly.
But then a thought pricked at you, insistent and nagging: the stranger. The injured, unconscious stranger on your couch. You couldn’t simply leave him sprawled there, exposed to the cold that already nipped at your own toes. A blanket, you needed a blanket.
Grumbling under your breath, you rifled through closets, muttering curses at the absence of even a single spare. Where had you put them? The memory failed you, leaving only irritation and the faint sting of worry. Well… your own would have to do. Surely he wouldn’t complain. Not in his state.
You trudged upstairs, each step heavier than the last, and finally retrieved one of your thickest blankets. You carried it downstairs like a reluctant offering, muttering under your breath about the absurdity of the situation. The storm outside raged, the house trembling faintly under its assault, and yet here you were, carefully draping the blanket over the unconscious man. The action was simple, almost mundane, but it brought with it an odd, fleeting sense of… rightness. There. That was better.
Finally, with a long, weary sigh, you allowed yourself to turn away. The couch looked almost peaceful now, the stranger hidden under the warmth of your blanket, yet the tension in the room remained. You yawned again, this one deeper, more exhausted than the first, and made your way upstairs. Your own bed beckoned, a sanctuary after hours of unexpected labor. Sleep, or whatever remained of it, was now more necessary than ever.
As you climbed the stairs, every nerve alert, you couldn’t help but hope, almost desperately, that he would remain asleep, silent, harmless. That the night would end without further chaos, without revelation, and without the shadow of his presence following you into dreams.