Ghost of Ourselves (Twilight X Reader)

°Au revoir°

Sweet goodbye until we meet again.

The rain has softened to a gentle mist, creating halos in the grey afternoon light. Laurent's cold hand finds mine, his touch surprisingly gentle-not quite soft, but not the unyielding marble I'd expected. His thumb brushes over my rings, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks despite his cold touch.

"You should head home, ma chérie," he says softly, "before you catch your death in this cold." A slight smirk plays at his lips at the irony of his words.

"Yeah," I agree reluctantly, getting to my feet. My clothes are soaked through, hair dripping, but I find myself hesitating. "Thank you. For telling me the truth. For... everything."

He rises with that liquid grace, inclining his head slightly. "Until next time, then."

We both turn to leave, but something in me aches at the thought of ending things here. My hand reaches out before I can stop it, catching his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is surprisingly soft beneath my fingers.

"Wait," I say, my voice smaller than I'd like. "Could you... would you mind hugging me again?"

Laurent turns back, something shifting in those impossible red eyes. Understanding, maybe, or recognition of something familiar in my need.

"I'm not used to..." I struggle to explain, embarrassed by my own request. "Physical affection wasn't really... in my home, we didn't..."

Before I can fumble through more explanation, he draws me into his arms. This embrace is different from the panic-induced one earlier-intentional, gentle. One hand cradles the back of my head while the other wraps securely around my waist. Though his body is cool, it's not the unyielding stone I'd imagined vampires to be. There's a giving quality to him, like very firm clay that's been warmed by the sun.

I melt into the contact, touch-starved in a way I hadn't fully realized until this moment. My arms wrap around his middle, face pressing into his chest where no heartbeat sounds. He smells of old books and forest paths and something sweeter I can't name.

[Laurent's POV]
Her warmth seeps into me, her heartbeat a symphony against my silent chest. Such a fragile thing, this human girl who asks monsters for embraces. The trust in her touch should make the predator in me sing with triumph. Instead, it awakens something protective, something I thought died centuries ago.

[Protagonist's POV]
"You're welcome here anytime," he murmurs into my hair, "though you should be terrified of me."

"I know," I whisper back. "But I'm not."

When we finally part, I feel the loss of contact like a physical thing. Laurent tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his touch impossibly gentle for a creature who could tear trees from the ground.

"Next Saturday?" he asks.

"Next Saturday," I confirm. "I'll bring more poetry."

"And I'll bring better questions," he promises with that thunder-laugh I'm growing to love.

The walk home seems shorter somehow, despite my wet clothes and muddy boots. The forest feels different now-not just full of secrets, but full of possibilities. Every shadow could hide danger, yes, but it could also hide beauty, mystery, unexpected connections.

Behind me, I swear I feel red eyes watching until I'm safely clear of the trees, and somehow that makes me feel protected rather than afraid.

The porch light is already on when I reach home, though dusk is just beginning to settle. Aunt Rose's silhouette appears in the doorway before I can even reach for my key.

"Good Lord!" she exclaims, taking in my drenched appearance. "Did you decide to go swimming with your clothes on? And in this weather!" Her hands flutter around me like concerned butterflies as I step inside.

I must look a sight-boots caked in mud, clothes clinging to my skin, hair dripping onto the welcome mat. Water trails down my neck where Laurent's cold fingers had tucked back my hair just minutes ago.

"I got caught in the rain while walking," I explain, trying not to think about how I'd willingly sat in that rain, leaning against a vampire who drinks human blood but quotes French poetry.

"Walking? In this weather?" Aunt Rose's mouth sets in that concerned line I'm growing familiar with. "You're going to catch your death out there! Look at you, shivering like a leaf."

She bustles me toward the stairs, her warm hands gentle on my shoulders. "Straight into a hot shower with you, young lady. I'll make some soup-the homemade chicken noodle from yesterday. Get out of those wet things before you catch pneumonia!"

In my bathroom, I peel off the wet clothes, noticing a few pine needles caught in the fabric-evidence of leaning against Laurent in our clearing. The hot water feels almost too warm against my cold skin, and I find myself missing the cool comfort of his embrace.

Steam fills the bathroom as I go through my routine, the expensive products Aunt Rose bought me filling the air with lavender and roses. Through the door, I can hear her moving around downstairs, the gentle clatter of pots and pans mixing with what sounds like quiet humming.

Wrapped in my softest pajamas, hair twisted up in a plush towel, I pad downstairs to find Aunt Rose putting the finishing touches on a tray-a steaming bowl of soup, hot tea with honey, and even a few cookies arranged on a small plate.

"There's my drowned rat," she teases affectionately. "Feeling warmer?"

"Much," I say, settling at the kitchen island. The soup smells divine, and I realize I'm actually starving. It's been hours since breakfast.

"Next time you feel like communing with nature," she says, sliding onto the stool next to me, "maybe check the weather forecast first? Or at least take an umbrella?"

I hide my smile in my tea cup. If she only knew what-or who-actually drew me out into the rain.

"The forest is just so beautiful here," I offer instead. "Even in the rain. Especially in the rain, actually."

She studies my face for a moment, and I wonder if she sees something different there-some evidence of my afternoon with an immortal, some mark left by stepping between worlds.

"You seem... lighter," she says finally. "Despite looking like you took a shower with your clothes on." She reaches out to touch my cheek, her hand warm where Laurent's had been cool. "Happy looks good on you, sweetheart."

I lean into her touch, thinking about how different it feels from Laurent's-warm instead of cool, soft instead of firm, but both somehow feeling like home in their own ways.

"The soup is perfect," I tell her, and her whole face lights up with pleasure.

Later, curled in my window seat with my journal, I watch darkness settle over the forest. Somewhere out there, Laurent is moving through the shadows, perhaps thinking of our afternoon as I am. Somewhere, wolves patrol tribal lands, keeping ancient promises. And here I sit, between worlds, writing poetry about cold embraces and the different ways people can feel like home.

Below, Aunt Rose starts singing along to the radio as she cleans up the kitchen, her voice carrying up through the floor boards. The domesticity of it makes me smile, even as my mind wanders back to red eyes and gentle hands.