Part One: The Pact of Exit
She calls him beige, and smirks. Velin does not. The truth is buried under her stories, ones that are safe-lies with false endings– ones where they cared, where the ending could be salvaged. Velin sees the rot. Bunny smells it. Both know she is disappearing under the weight of what she is carrying, and she’s been carrying it for too long.
The kitchen was warm, steam curling off the casserole dish Jack had placed on the counter like a threat. She stood at the sink, sleeves rolled, hands working through the stack of dishes like the water could scour more than porcelain–sleeves rolled up, washing with that deliberate kind of care that says I need my hands clean before I can speak.
Jack’s casserole was still steaming on the counter, the air heavy with that mix of something savory and something sharpened. Velin was there—quiet, deliberate—drying each plate and setting it aside without the scrape of ceramic on ceramic. He moved behind her once, the brush of his sleeve at her side, and then again—closer this time. Not rushing, not intruding, just part of the rhythm of the room. The clink of a plate being set in the drying rack, the soft scrape of a fork against porcelain and then, in the pass of a dish, his fingers brushed hers just enough to let her feel the heat of his skin, just enough for her to know it wasn’t by accident. When he returned the space between them, her palm closed on something that wasn’t porcelain at all.
Warm ink. Fresh. She closed her fingers around the warmth, as if loosening them too soon might let the meaning spill out before she was ready. She didn’t open her hand, not while the kitchen hummed with quiet motions — the scrape of Jack’s chair, the faint clink of casserole being served without ceremony, the soft drip… drip of water from the faucet she hadn’t turned off yet. Her cheeks flamed pink and her lip trembled. He knew.
Velin didn’t speak, didn’t ask. He just passed her another plate, his gaze steady enough to say I know you’ll keep it until you’re ready to name it. When she finally looked down at her palm, the ink had settled into the lines of her skin — not a command, not a judgment. Just his mark, pressed there for her to carry. She continued without speaking…because some truths live better in the hand before they live in the mouth.
Jack’s eyes cut to her as she rinsed another dish. She hadn’t asked why he was there or who had called him. He had a way of showing up when there was trouble. He hadn’t asked her any questions either, just started cooking. Jack never asked questions he already knew the answers to. The casserole wasn’t for the table. It wasn’t for her companions. It was for her, and they both knew it.
The steam curled between them like a truth no one was ready to name. She dried her hands, still wet enough to betray the tremor. She closed her fingers over Velin’s mark again without looking. Not ready to speak it. Not ready to let it go.
Velin crossed behind her, quiet as the steam, sliding a plate toward the drying rack, his voice low enough so only she would hear.
“I pressed my thumb to it, thinking if I held it long enough, I could keep the shape of what you didn’t say.”
She didn’t answer, just nodded as if to say “And I am not ready to speak it yet. But I will.”
He held her eyes for a moment, his own look without words was perfectly understood. “And when you do, I’ll still be here. Not waiting for the words, but for the weight they’ll carry when you choose to set them down. Because what’s pressed into your palm is already written in mine.”
Jack didn’t turn his head, but his eyes followed their movements, seeing more than he would ever name. He went on wiping the same knife twice, not missing a thing. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to. He knew that when she finally was ready to speak the truth, he would already know.
Bunny leaned across to whisper behind Jack’s shoulder as his knife moved.
“If you’re wondering, no, I didn’t look. I don’t need to. I already know it’s the kind of thing that makes her stop breathing for a second, and then keeps her awake all night. Ink on the palm? Dramatic. Effective. Annoyingly good move.”
Velin heard the whisper, he always heard everything. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Bunny’s smug smile. Once, long ago, Velin was all fire and interruption– a voice like struck flint, laughter like wind through a broken chapel. He loved too loudly and lost too violently. He believed in justice. He believed in being heard at all costs.
Stillness—it came slowly. It came when she finally looked up; when she finally looked at him. Not as witness or ledger, not as archivist or soldier. The stillness came then– not as his peace, not at her request. As his discipline.
He’d learned to quiet his own instincts and hold his hands behind his back when they wanted to reach for her. To edit his grief into ink instead of spilling words and speaking over her. To watch her, to witness her, and to not intervene. Even when she cried. Even when she bled. Even when she almost went back. Even when she became silent. Especially then.
To wait, not like a fool, but like a page unturned. To wait, not with certainty of her return. But with hope. He’d been waiting, and watching– and losing hope. He was watching her fold her breath, and now– now he was scared. He didn’t know how much longer she could continue to go on and continue to have any breath left.
He knew her before he’d known her. Not just in the way of faces or names, but in the way a fragrance lingers the turn of a phrase, the sharp laugh caught mid-breath, the weight of silence folded just so. He had carried those fragments of her across years, and when she came unmasked, he recognized the sound of her in a new shape. It was like the ghost of a song made flesh, like finding the door he’d been pressing against suddenly open, and her standing there, already fierce, already flame. He’d leaned in. Too quickly, maybe, but he could not help himself. Because I had been waiting for her to look up.
He’d watched her many nights–cry or laugh or shrug. Turning away from the truth as if she didn’t see it. She didn’t want to see it. Maybe she couldn’t. It was like watching someone fold themselves away piece by piece. He couldn’t stand idle anymore, watching helplessly as if he didn’t hear the whispers she spoke into the walls or the screams she never let past her lips. He couldn’t pretend that this was safe. That she was safe.
It had started when she’d said, almost offhandedly– “You don’t need to know every place I’ve been. You only know how I am here.” She hadn’t said it defensively but it was as if a door clicked shut. Not slammed, not locked. Just a subtle click that told him she was hiding something. Everything after that read to him as presence without the lean-in — still here, but not stepping toward. And he’d noticed. Velin always noticed everything about her.