The Strings Between Us

The Quiet Between Us

In the midst of the aftermath, the pair soon slowly made their way back to Slappy's chamber.

They crossed the threshold of his room and the door shut behind them.

The room felt... smaller now. Or maybe— closer.

The fire was still burning in the hearth, casting golden light across the carved wood floor and up the velvet-lined walls. The tall bed stood untouched, sheets still neatly made from the night before.

Slappy stepped forward, then stopped.

Belinda watched him carefully.

"You're hurt," she said.

He blinked like he hadn't noticed.

"What?"

"Your side. Look."

His shirt was torn just beneath his ribs — not slashed with steel, but with magic. The skin beneath was bruised and faintly glowing, like something had poisoned the energy within him.

"It's nothing," he muttered, waving her off.

"Slappy."

He winced.

"I'm fine.."

Belinda crossed the room before he could object again.

"Sit."

"You're bossy when you're worried."

"And you're impossible when you're injured."

He obeyed, reluctantly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She knelt in front of him and reached for a cloth from the basin nearby. Her fingers hovered over the bruise before gently dabbing at it. It glowed faintly under her touch, like it was resisting her.

He watched her in silence, teeth clenched.

"Jonathon Chiller," she muttered, "he wanted to pull me apart. Like I was just some unfinished project."

"You're not," Slappy said. "You never were."

She paused. Looked up.

"You really believe that?"

He nodded.

"You're not perfect. You're a mess. But you're real. That's what makes you... worth fighting for."

She smoothed the cloth over his skin again. Slower, now. Less medical — more... tender.

"You always act like nothing scares you," she said. "But I saw your face. When he tried to take me."

He was quiet a long moment.

Then, finally—

"It scared me more than anything ever has."

His voice cracked at the edges. It wasn't theatrical. It wasn't sarcastic. It was raw.

"I thought... if he took you, I wouldn't get you back. Not just your body. You. The you I've come to—"

He cut himself off.

Her breath caught.

"To what?"

"To rely on," he said carefully, changing what he was about to say. "To trust. To— miss."

He turned away.

"I don't trust anyone. I can't. But you— you came here as a cursed brat in a lace dress, and somehow... you made me care."

She reached for his hand.

He let her take it.

Their fingers laced together without ceremony — and held.