When they arrived back home, it was already past midnight. The village lay shrouded in darkness, with only the faint light of the moon casting soft shadows across the cobbled path.
Alina, her thoughts still swirling from her encounter with the monster, barely noticed the way the cold air bit at her skin as she walked beside Killian. She paused when she saw the silhouette of a familiar figure standing by the cottage's gate.
It was Nana, pacing restlessly back and forth, her eyes flicking toward every passing shadow. The worry on her face was unmistakable, and her lips were tight, as if she had already anticipated something terrible.
"Nana!" Alina called out, her voice shaking slightly, betraying the exhaustion she had been too busy to feel until now.
At the sound of her voice, Nana froze, her eyes locking onto Alina as though she were seeing a ghost. The breath she had been holding escaped in a slow, relieved sigh, but it was tinged with lingering anxiety.
"Good heavens! Where have you been?" Nana asked, her voice tight with concern as she hurried to Alina's side. Her eyes flicked briefly behind her, finding Killian just behind. "You're both hurt!"
Alina looked at her grandmother, feeling a wave of guilt for making her worry her. She opened her mouth to explain, but the words wouldn't come. The weight of everything that had happened was too much to put into words.
How could she explain the monster—the terror, the glow—without sounding completely mad? How could she even begin to make sense of it all?
"We… we ran into a group of thieves," Alina said finally, her voice faltering slightly as the lie slipped out. Well, not exactly a lie, but not the full truth.
Is hiding the truth really the best choice? she thought, but she couldn't bring herself to reveal the full extent of what had happened. She didn't want to burden Nana, or the other villagers, with the terrifying reality she had witnessed.
Not yet.
Nana's eyes softened, though a deep concern still flickered in them.
"Thieves?" She paused, clearly trying to process this new information. "And you're both injured because of them?"
"Yes," Alina nodded quickly, her gaze dropping to the floor to avoid Nana's searching look. "We… we managed to get away," she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
Nana didn't seem entirely convinced, but she didn't press further. "You should rest," she said, her tone gentle yet laced with an unspoken reprimand. "We'll tend to those cuts in the morning. Let's get you both to bed."
Alina nodded and followed Nana inside, but not without glancing back at Killian, who looked back at her.
The air between them felt thick with unspoken words, a shared understanding lingering in the silence. It was a look that spoke of everything they had faced together—and the quiet bond that had formed in the midst of the chaos.
Alina's heart fluttered, a mix of fear, gratitude, and something she couldn't quite name all at once.
The door closed behind her with a soft click, and Alina stood for a moment, leaning against the wood, her breath still unsteady from the night's events.
Nana's voice calling from the kitchen drew her back into the warmth of the cottage, but her thoughts lingered on Killian and the strange, uncharted territory they had entered.
The night was over, but the questions were just beginning.
…
Alina had stood in front of his door for approximately ten minutes, shifting from one foot to the other, arms crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed again. She told herself—more than once—that she was only here to check on his injuries. That was all.
A simple neighborly concern.
Nothing more.
But still, she hesitated.
The morning sun filtered softly through the village trees, and the world felt deceptively calm. Birds chirped as if monsters hadn't stalked the woods just hours before. As if nothing had changed.
Finally, she knocked.
The sound echoed louder than she expected, and she instantly regretted it. What if he was resting? What if he didn't want to see anyone? What if he opened the door and just... stared at her again with his impossible silence?
She almost turned to leave.
Then the latch clicked.
There he stood, just beyond the door, his messy hair tousled in a way that confirmed she'd woken him.
His shirt hung loose over one shoulder, collar askew, and he blinked at her slowly—more from the sunlight than surprise. His expression was unreadable, but the shadows behind him made the daylight around her feel almost rude in comparison.
Alina cleared her throat, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. "I, um... just wanted to check on you."
Killian didn't respond right away. He didn't move either, just kept looking at her with that same half-lidded stare, like he was still caught somewhere between a dream and waking.
Then his gaze dropped—briefly—to her bandaged cheek, before flicking back up.
"You're the one who got hurt," he said at last, voice rough with sleep.
Alina shifted her weight. "You're not exactly scratch-free either."
A long pause. Then, with the smallest sigh, Killian stepped aside and pushed the door open farther—not an invitation exactly, but not a rejection either.
"Come in," he said, and disappeared back into the dimness of the house.
Though Alina had been the one to insist on checking his injuries, she hadn't actually planned on entering his house. And now that the door stood open before her, the weight of her own suggestion settled heavily on her shoulders.
What exactly was she supposed to do? Ask him to roll up his sleeves so she could fumble through a bandage kit she had no clue how to use?
Still, she stepped forward, hesitating only a heartbeat before crossing the threshold.
The air inside was cool and still, thick with the scent of ash and something faintly metallic—like old rain on stone. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, curtains drawn, furniture simple and sparse.
She stood by the middle of the house, arms loosely crossed, her eyes tracking Killian as he moved through the space. His steps weren't quite as sure as they usually were—like he wasn't used to someone watching him here.
He moved in silence, opening one cupboard, then another, and another, until finally, he retrieved a single chipped mug and set it on the counter like it was some great victory.
"Are you sure this is your house?" Alina raised an eyebrow.
Killian glanced at her over his shoulder, then down at the mug, then back again. "Didn't expect guests."
He then filled the mug with water from a clay jug nearby and set it down with a quiet thunk.
The house was small—sparse, really—but not cold. Lived-in, but not cluttered. The furniture looked handmade, some of it roughly, as if built out of necessity rather than comfort. A single threadbare cloak hung by the door, and a pile of books rested on the windowsill, their spines cracked from use.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—just uncertain. Like neither of them knew what the next move was supposed to be.
Alina fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, her eyes flicking down to his arm. Faint red scratches peeked through a tear in his shirt, dried blood staining the fabric.
"You should sit," she said, finally finding something solid to say. "Let me look at that."
Killian looked at her, eyes unreadable, then wordlessly pulled out a chair and sat, the faintest sigh escaping him as he did.
Carefully, she reached for his wrist, holding it steady with one hand as she examined the damage. The silence between them thickened, but not in a bad way—it just felt like everything they hadn't said was hanging in the air, waiting.
"Does it hurt?" she asked softly, her voice dipping with concern.
"Not enough to stop you," he murmured, just as soft.
She glanced up, startled—and caught his gaze, steady and unreadable, but not unkind.
Her heart fluttered. She looked back down at the wound, pretending it hadn't.
She pulled out the kit she'd brought and immediately started fumbling through it like someone who had only ever seen bandages in theory.
Gauze, ointment, something that might've been a thermometer—why had she packed that?—all shuffled around with increasing panic.
She then fumbled with a roll of bandages, unspooling it in a way that made it look like it might never roll back up again.
Killian watched her silently for a moment, then said, deadpan, "You might end up wrapped in it more than me."
Alina froze, face flushed. In a spur of embarrassment, she started applying ointment and wrapping the bandage clumsily over his arm, covering any scratches with haphazard determination.
"There," she declared, far too proudly for how lopsided the bandage looked. "Good as new."
Killian said nothing. Just kept staring at his arm with the kind of tired resignation one usually reserved for burnt toast or overwatered soup. He sighed again—slow, dramatic, utterly judgmental.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Alina asked, trying to regain her focus. She might have been useless in a fight, but she could definitely handle the aftermath—or so she hoped.
"No," he replied, far too quickly for her liking. Alina narrowed her eyes. Killian hesitated, then added with a touch more conviction, "That tiny snake's not enough to hurt me."
"Oh, really?" Alina said, arms crossed, her voice laced with a playful challenge. "That 'tiny snake' flattened a boulder and sent a tree flying. So, unless you're secretly made of stone, I'm pretty sure you're bleeding somewhere else."
Killian's eyes flicked to her, unreadable, but his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Quit being stubborn and show me," she insisted, stepping closer with the quiet confidence of someone who was trying not to sound flustered. "The sooner you do, the sooner I stop hovering."
Her words finally seemed to land, and with a resigned sigh, Killian finally moved. His hands worked the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly, revealing the expanse of his torso.
Alina froze. Her breath hitched in her chest, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe entirely.
"W-why are you undressing?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, completely bewildered by the sudden rush of heat filling her face.
"You insisted," he said, slow and smug, like this whole situation was her fault—and he was enjoying every second of it.