Chapter 9 - Chapter 9

🎶 "Every time it rains, it rains... pennies from heaven." 🎶

The deep, velvety baritone echoed off the water, carrying through the quiet forest night with haunting clarity.

Tobey had just been humming at first, scrubbing the soap suds from his broad chest as he stood waist-deep in the cold river. The water felt refreshing against his heated skin. Without thinking, he let the hum evolve into words, slipping into an old tune he used to hear on the radio in his past life.

He hit the final note with a rich, sustained vibrato that would have made a professional opera singer jealous.

Then, he froze.

He clamped his mouth shut, staring at the rippling water in horror.

Wait. Was that me?

He touched his throat. I can sing?

In his past life, Tobey's voice had been rough, gravelly—the voice of a man who smoked too much and yelled orders over gunfire. He couldn't carry a tune to save his life. But just now? That sounded like a studio recording.

Shit! Is this also an effect?

A memory surfaced from the void—the mechanical, booming voice that had welcomed him to this world.

[...YOUR BODY IS NOW CAPABLE OF PEAK PERFORMANCE IN EVERY ASPECT.]

Tobey wiped a splash of water from his face, looking down at his hands. Peak performance in every aspect?

He didn't know whether to be happy or terrified. It explained the sudden mastery of cooking. It explained the god-tier drawing skills. And now, apparently, he was a crooner.

What else can this body do? he wondered, lathering his arms. Ballet? Brain surgery? Knit a sweater in five minutes?

He shook his head violently to dislodge the musical thoughts and went back to scrubbing his body with aggressive vigor. He decided to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the bath. The last thing he needed was to accidentally start a musical number in the middle of a boar-infested forest.

He hadn't brought a light down to his section of the river. He left the lamp with Peony out of respect—and for her safety. Besides, he didn't need it. His enhanced vision pierced through the gloom as if it were high noon. The darkness held no secrets from him.

He glanced down to ensure his boxer briefs were secure. He wasn't completely naked—he wasn't a savage—but being this exposed still felt vulnerable.

But the cold water couldn't cool down the heat of his embarrassment.

Fuck! Why?! Why did I say that?

The memory of his own voice played on a loop in his head: "You can stay in mine. It's big enough for two."

I sound like a creep! he raged silently. She probably thinks I'm some desperate pervert trying to lure her into my lair.

He scrubbed his arm hard enough to turn the skin red.

No! It's her fault! he rationalized desperately. Why did she agree so quickly? A normal person would say, 'No thanks, I have my own tent.' If she had just refused, this wouldn't be awkward!

He groaned, splashing water over his face. The duality of his existence was tearing him apart.

Mentally, he was Tobey—a forty-one-year-old ex-gangster who had seen the ugly side of life. To him, Peony was just a kid. She was twenty-five, sure, but he felt a generation apart from her. He felt a paternal instinct to protect her, to feed her, to keep her safe.

But this body? This damn vessel named Timothy Gray? It screamed the opposite.

His biology was screaming that she was a woman, and he was a man in his absolute physical prime. The Vitality of the Ancients wasn't just fixing his eyesight; it was amplifying every fucking hormone, every instinct, every drive.

My brain wants to adopt her, Tobey thought miserably, plunging his head underwater. But my body wants to...

He stayed under until his lungs burned, hoping the river would wash away the confusing thoughts.

Up on the bank, Peony stacked the clean utensils on the table, but her attention was focused entirely on the darkness down by the river.

The splashes of water, the low grunts of exertion, the slight coughs—every sound traveled clearly through the quiet night. And then, there was the humming.

She paused, a plate in her hand.

He's singing.

It wasn't just a casual hum. It was a rich, deep baritone that vibrated with perfect control. A gorgeous man with a movie-star face and a voice that could melt butter? If he walked into a talent agency in the city, he would be signed on the spot. He could be an idol adored by millions.

But as that thought crossed her mind, a frown tugged at her lips. A strange, selfish urge rose in her chest.

I don't want millions to see him.

She wanted to withhold him. She wanted to keep this discovery—this strange, gentle giant—all to herself.

Is it just physical attraction? she wondered. Probably.

She rarely felt this kind of magnetic pull toward men. Usually, they were the ones chasing her. But when she did feel that gravity, that undeniable spark, she never ran from it. Her philosophy was simple: Savor it until it runs dry.

In her previous relationships, she had ridden that wave of attraction until the man gave her a reason to stop. And they always did. The rock always cracked.

But right now? With "Timothy"? The gravity is strong.

She needed a push.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she scanned the campsite. Her eyes landed on the massive cooler. She threw open the lid, rummaging past the sodas until she found the stash of canned alcohol Tobey had stocked.

She grabbed a can of strong craft beer, cracked the tab with a sharp hiss, and downed a massive gulp.

"Urk—shit! Bitter!"

Peony squeezed her eyes shut, shuddering as the liquid fire burned down her throat. She clutched her chest, feeling the heat bloom instantly in her stomach. She had a notoriously low alcohol tolerance; the buzz hit her brain almost immediately, dulling her fear and replacing it with a reckless, fuzzy warmth.

She stared at his back down in the river, the moonlight catching the definition of his shoulders.

A frown deepened on her face. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

What is wrong with me? she thought, genuinely bewildered.

She was Peony Haven. She had co-starred with the "Sexiest Men Alive." She had dated models with chiseled jaws and billionaires with power. She knew what attraction felt like—it was usually a fun, flirty spark. A little butterfly in the stomach.

But this?

This wasn't a butterfly. This was a black hole.

I've seen muscles before, she argued with herself, her eyes tracing the way the water sluiced down his broad back. I've seen V-lines. I've seen strong arms. So why... why does looking at him make my mouth water?

It was a terrifying, foreign sensation. It felt less like sexual desire and more like starvation.

It was as if her cells were screaming at her. She felt like a traveler who had been wandering in a desert for years, and he was the first glass of ice-cold water she had seen. It wasn't just that she wanted to touch him—she felt physically ill standing this far away from him.

Is it the trauma? she rationalized desperately. Am I just clinging to the man who saved me?

But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. She wasn't scared right now. She was ravenous.

This isn't me, her rational mind whispered. I don't chase men. I don't strip naked for strangers.

Go to him, her body commanded, silencing the voice. He is the source. Go.

She shook her head, trying to clear the fog, but the scent of him—that crisp, electric smell of ozone and deep earth—drifted on the wind, and her knees went weak. The confusion melted into a single, singular drive.

Okay. Let's do this.

With clumsy fingers, she shed her coat, her jeans, and her shirt, letting them pile onto the camping chair. Underneath, she wore a simple, apple-green two-piece bikini—a remnant of the beach vacation she was supposed to be having before the boar attack happened.

She grabbed the lantern and marched toward the riverbank.

She placed the light carefully on a flat rock, illuminating the water's edge, and stepped in.

Splash.

The water was freezing, swirling around her ankles, but she pushed forward until the water reached her knees.

"Peony."

Tobey's voice drifted over the water—gentle, calm, and completely unsurprised.

He didn't look back. He didn't need to. Thanks to his heightened senses, he had tracked her approach long before her foot touched the water. He had heard the rustle of clothes, the clink of the lantern, and smelled the sudden, sharp spike of alcohol on her breath mixed with her sweet perfume.

He was just finishing up, rinsing the last of the soap from his shoulders. He froze slightly as he felt the ripples of her movement in the water.

She's getting in?

Tobey closed his eyes for a brief second, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever god was listening. Thank fuck I kept my underwear on.

"I-I thought you were going to bathe after me?" he stammered, his voice tighter than usual. Is she testing me?

Peony didn't reply. She just kept walking, the water rippling around her thighs.

Tobey knew he should move away. He should step out of the river. But his body, acting on its own accord, remained rooted to the spot, waiting for the collision.

And then, she was there.

Without wasting a moment, she closed the distance and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist from behind.

"Fuck!"

The curse hissed through his teeth.

The sensation was electric. Her skin was burning hot against his cold, wet back. He could feel the soft pressure of her chest flattening against his spine, the desperate strength of her grip.

Then, she pressed her lips against his shoulder blade.

Plop.

His grip on the bottle of body wash went slack. The plastic bottle splashed into the water and floated away, forgotten.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a losing battle against his own instincts. His brain was spinning, calculating a way out that wouldn't hurt her feelings or destroy his restraint.

Fucking Timothy, he raged internally. I don't know if this young body is really a fucking blessing or a fucking curse!

He was forty-one. He was supposed to be the adult here. She was drunk, emotional, and vulnerable. Taking advantage of her now wouldn't just be wrong; it would be a sin.

"P-Peony," he choked out, his voice rough. "How... how about we talk about this first?"

He gently tried to pry her hands loose from his waist.

"We should wait until you sober up," he reasoned, desperate for her to listen. "You might regret this if—"

Her grip loosened, but she didn't let go. Instead, her hands slid around to his front.

Tobey stopped breathing.

Her palms traced the rigid lines of his abdominal muscles, exploring the ridges of his stomach. It felt incredible. It felt dangerous. Then, her hand dipped lower, her fingers brushing the elastic waistband of his underwear—right where his arousal was straining against the fabric, raging and painfully obvious.

Hiss.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

That's the line.

His reflexes took over. Before her fingers could go any further, his hand shot down, capturing her wrist in a gentle but iron-clad grip. He spun around in the water, breaking the contact of her body against his back, forcing them face-to-face.

But the sight that greeted him only made things worse.

In the pale moonlight, her face was a portrait of intoxicated desire. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, and her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with a hunger she didn't need to voice.

"You are obviously drunk, Peony," Tobey said, his voice dropping to a serious, warning growl.

He was using every ounce of his willpower to keep his eyes locked on her face, refusing to look down at her wet skin, the green bikini, or the curves glistening in the water. But the sight that greeted him only made things worse.

In the pale moonlight, her face was a portrait of intoxicated desire. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, and her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with a hunger she didn't need to voice.

Her pupils were dilated, swallowing the iris. She wasn't just looking at him; she was devouring him.

Tobey's mind raced, searching for logic in the madness.

Why is she looking at me like that? he wondered frantically.

He was just a guy living in the woods. Sure, this vessel was handsome, but the intensity in her eyes was terrifying. It wasn't just a drunk girl flirting. It looked... desperate. Raw.

Is she confusing me with someone else? Is this just the alcohol talking? Or is she just this lonely?

He felt a pang of guilt. He was forty-one years old on the inside. He had lived a life of violence and grime. Peony was a shining star, a celebrity, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her. Taking advantage of her while she was in this state—drunk, emotional, vulnerable—was the lowest thing he could do.

I have to stop this, he told himself firmly. Be the adult, Tobey. Be the man you're supposed to be.

"Youuur... lips," Peony slurred softly, her gaze dropping to his mouth. She bit her own lip, a subconscious, provocative gesture that nearly unraveled him on the spot. "Kiss me."

Tobey tightened his grip on her wrists, keeping her at arm's length, though his own hands were shaking.

"No," he gritted out. "You're not thinking straight. You're drunk, and you're going to regret this in the morning."

"Kiss me, Tim."

The nickname hit him like a physical blow.

Tim.

He didn't know why, but that simple syllable—that shortened, intimate version of his stolen name—shattered his resolve.

It didn't sound like a drunken slur. It sounded like she saw him. Not the scary hermit, not the savior, but just a man standing in front of her.

The moral high ground he was standing on crumbled instantly. The forty-one-year-old's discipline vanished, incinerated by the twenty-eight-year-old body's raging hormones.

Fuck me for being weak, he thought bitterly.

He wasn't a saint. He wasn't a guardian angel. He was just a man, and he had reached his limit.

The urge to be gentle vanished, replaced by a darker, primal need to consume her, to suffocate her with the kiss she was begging for.

He released her wrists and grabbed her waist, hauling her flush against him.

He closed the distance and kissed her hard.