𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗗, 𝗨𝗡𝗪𝗘𝗗 [ 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘹 𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ]
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 3
"What if I told you that I've fallen
And I like the way you say my name?
My heart skips a beat when I hear you calling
And I like that it won't go away"
—ғᴀʟʟᴇɴ ʙʏ ʟᴏʟᴀ ᴀᴍᴏᴜʀ
CHAPTER 3
Apologies of the undead.
M/N blinked awake in the dim stillness of his room. The light outside had faded into night, and the air felt a little cooler. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. He fell asleep? He hadn’t meant to. He just needed a moment to shut out the noise in his head.
As he sat up, a faint scent lingered in the air, something that made his stomach grumble. His brows furrowed.
"...did he..." he muttered, pushing himself up. His feet hit the wooden floor with a soft thud as he dragged himself to the door.
M/n quietly descended the stairs, fingers brushing the railing, each step careful not to creak. He didn’t know what roused him—perhaps the smell of food still faint in the air, or the unfamiliar silence that wasn't as suffocating as it used to be.
He paused halfway down the stairs when his eyes landed on Mikhail.
There he was. Curled awkwardly on the couch, one arm over his chest, the other limply resting over a half-closed book. His breathing was soft and shallow, and his face, even in sleep, looked peaceful. Almost human.
M/n frowned. He hated how normal this scene looked. He hated how warm the room felt for a change. His eyes flicked toward the nearby counter. A plate was there, covered with a lid. A note peeking out from underneath it.
M/n hesitated, then quietly made his way over. He read the note first.
“Please eat this. I hope it’s to your taste. – Mikhail”
M/n exhaled, and was annoyed. So what? he thought. So he’s sorry. That doesn’t change the situation. That doesn’t make this normal.
He lifted the lid. A sandwich. Cut diagonally. Beside it, a cup of water. The effort was obvious. The meal was humble, maybe even pitiful, but undeniably made with care. He clicked his tongue.
“This is so stupid,” he muttered under his breath. It’s just food. A sandwich. It doesn’t mean anything.
And yet, his hand lingered. His gaze flicked back to Mikhail. The sleeping corpse that forgot it was dead. M/n hated this feeling. The way something inside him kept... twitching. Not pity. Not affection. Just...Doubt.
“This is ridiculous…” he muttered under his breath, but the bitterness in his tone had less bite than before.
His eyes drifted back to Mikhail.
He still didn’t trust him. No part of him felt the need to, He had every reason not to. being bound to someone like that against his will, having his space intruded, his choices stripped from him...
And yet...
He didn’t have to make this. He didn’t have to apologize again. He didn’t have to show this sort of concern to someone like him. M/n gripped the edge of the counter tightly.
There was a stubborn part of him, cold and rigid, that screamed Don’t fall for it. It’s guilt. It’s pressure. It’s manipulation dressed in kindness. But there was another voice, quieter... harder to ignore.
What if it’s not? What if he’s just trying? What if he’s genuinely lonely?
M/n looked down at the sandwich again. The presentation was pitiful. The bread was uneven. There was a smudge of tuna on the edge of the plate. “Dammit,” M/n muttered under his breath. He hated how unsure he was starting to feel.
He hated how sometimes his heart led more than his brain. How easily he can feel pity and guilt. He hated how a tiny part of him, the smallest, most fragile corner, was whispering:
Maybe he’s not so bad.
M/n pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn’t eat it. Not yet. But he didn’t throw it away either.
M/n chewed the last bite slowly, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth as if it could erase the warmth settling in his chest.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and sighed.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered to himself, standing up and grabbing the empty plate. “I was hungry. That’s all.” He rinsed the cup, the plate, and the dull knife used to slice the sandwich. He took his time with the sponge, scrubbing gently even though there wasn’t much mess.
His motions were mechanical and overly calm. It wasn’t about gratitude. It wasn’t about Mikhail. It was just practical. He dried his hands on the towel and threw a glance at the living room. Mikhail was still there, curled on the couch like a baby.
M/n sighed again, louder this time. half in frustration and half in surrender.
He walked over with slow steps, grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the chair, and gently laid it over Mikhail’s sleeping form. He told himself it was just cold tonight. That’s all.
“It's only practical,” he whispered like a mantra as he turned away. The stairs creaked faintly under his feet as he ascended, not daring to look back. Once in his room, M/n shut the door softly behind him. The weight of the day settled again on his shoulders as he dropped his phone onto the bed, its screen lighting up instantly with familiar numbers.
99 missed calls. Most from Mom, Some from Dad.
M/n's eyes narrowed, but there was no heat. No anger. Just a hollow ache he’d grown used to carrying. He scrolled further and paused.
A message.
Liezel:
Kuya… Are you okay? Please just tell me you’re safe. I won’t tell them anything.
Liezel:
Kuya. if it's okay, I would like to visit where you are.
M/n sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, staring at her message for a long moment. His oldest sister Liezel is the only family member he considers as one, ever since childhood, she'd be the one to protect him, and she would convince their parents to delay some dates where M/n is forced into.
But she could only do so much. She couldn't persuade them to stop with the countless marriages. She saw how the girls acted, she knew that they were all in for the money, she didn't like that. Liezel only wants to make his brother happy with the future spouse that he would choose.
With contemplation, he decided to send her his address, fully placing his trust in her that she won't tell their parents.
He lay back, phone resting on his chest, and closed his eyes.
Downstairs, the house remained quiet, with only the occasional chirp of crickets and the slow, steady breathing of a sleeping corpse wrapped in a borrowed blanket.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
THE sound pulled Mikhail out of his sleep, his eyes fluttering open with a quiet groan. He squinted at the ceiling, momentarily confused about where he was. The couch. Right, he’d fallen asleep while reading.
Another knock followed, this time with a low voice from outside:
“Delivery for M/n Percival?” Mikhail blinked and sat up, groggy and still half-dreaming. “Delivery…?”
He dragged himself to the door and cracked it open. A man in a brown windbreaker and cap stood outside holding a digital clipboard and a couple of heavy paper bags at his feet. He looked startled the moment Mikhail opened the door wider.
“Uh… morning. Grocery delivery for Sir M/n Percival?” the delivery guy said, trying not to stare too hard. “Yes. That’s this place,” Mikhail replied, voice still hoarse from sleep.
The man hesitated, his eyes lingering awkwardly on Mikhail’s pallid complexion. “Are you… Uh, are you M/n?” Mikhail shook his head. “No. I'm his hus—uh... friend. He’s still asleep. I’ll take it on his behalf.” Mikhail almost said 'husband' but stopped himself before he could.
The delivery guy nodded but still looked uneasy. His eyes dipped toward the screen in his hand.
“I’ll need a signature to confirm receipt. Sorry, just protocol.” Mikhail stepped out and reached for the pen stylus. The man flinched slightly at the sight of his hand. cold, pale, the skin ever so faintly grey-blue near the nails.
“You okay, man?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I mean—you look kinda...” Mikhail paused, glanced at his hand, then gave the delivery man a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’ve been sick for a long time,” he said, his voice calm. “Chronic, I guess. Don’t worry—it’s not contagious.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s alright. I get that a lot,” Mikhail replied, quickly scribbling a signature. It came out loopy and elegant, almost too elegant for modern eyes.
The delivery guy blinked at it but said nothing.
“I appreciate the delivery,” Mikhail said, picking up the bags carefully
“Yeah. No problem. Get well soon, man.” Mikhail gave a polite nod and closed the door behind him, the bags crinkling in his arms.
He set them down on the kitchen counter and exhaled slowly.
“Get well soon, huh… if only.” He began unpacking the bags, plastic-wrapped fruits, fresh vegetables, cans with strange brands and colors, a sack of rice that actually made him perk up.
“Finally. Something I understand.” There were bottles of soy sauce, ginger, garlic bulbs, green onions, and a tray of raw chicken parts. His eyebrows lifted. "...Hmm."
Now, Mikhail can finally make M/n a proper meal with these- hope he doesn't mind him using his food again.
"Wait...did he...?" Mikhail glanced at the countertop, the plate was gone.
His heart leapt in his chest. The food. The sandwich. Even the glass of water had been touched. His eyes widened. Mikhail stared. He realized he also woke up with a blanket wrapped around him.
Mikhail looked up the stairs, a small hope glimmering in his eyes. And just like that, joy bloomed in his chest, so full and sudden it nearly made him lightheaded.
The man was full of determination now. If last night’s sandwich had even the smallest effect, maybe breakfast could do more. He cooked with quiet purpose. rice bubbling in the pot, the longganisa sizzling with sweet garlic aroma, and the egg frying gently in the pan.
Mikhail moved around the kitchen like he belonged there, barefoot and calm. His pale skin almost glowed in the soft morning light, dull in tone but oddly peaceful.
He plated the food with care: rice fluffed neatly on one side, egg perched delicately beside caramelized longganisa links. He added a glass of cold water, a folded napkin, and stepped back to admire the humble meal.
Then, footsteps. Bare and slow. Lucien.
Groggy and half-awake, M/n descended the stairs with a faint frown, rubbing his eyes.
He paused in the doorway, catching the whole scene: Mikhail arranging breakfast on the table, unaware of being watched, focused entirely on doing something kind.
M/n stood there for a moment too long. The sight of Mikhail moving around the kitchen with purpose stirred something in him he wasn’t ready to name. Mikhail finally turned around, plate in hand, and jumped slightly when he saw him.
“Oh— You’re awake!” he said, a little sheepishly. He motioned toward the countertop.
“A delivery guy came earlier and dropped those off. Groceries, I think? I signed for them. He asked if I was okay.” He chuckled under his breath. “Guess I don’t look too great.”
M/n blinked. “…You signed for them?”
“Yeah. Hope that’s alright.” Mikhail scratched the back of his head.
“I figured… you probably didn’t want to deal with someone that early in the morning. So I just—uh—handled it.”
Mikhail motioned toward the table.
“So I cooked. Just something simple.,.”
M/n's eyes flicked to the plate. Hot rice. Fried egg. Longganisa, a little over-crisped at the edge, but not burned. And it smelled… familiar. Not perfect. But enough to fill the stomach.
His stomach growled loudly. M/n froze. He glanced at the floor as if blaming it, as if sheer will could stop the heat crawling up his neck. He scowled, but the embarrassment was already there.
Across the room, Mikhail didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. He just stood quietly, hands folded in front of him, like he understood. Like he saw M/n without prying.
It made M/n want to snap something sharp, to create space between them again. But the words didn’t come. His pride sputtered out like a wet match.
“I... thank you...” he muttered instead.
He hated how easily he folded, how quickly his heart betrayed his mind. This is just food, he told himself. Just practicality. That’s all.
But another part of him, deep beneath layers of bitterness, whispered, Maybe he’s not that bad.
He wanted to shut that voice up. He wanted to believe the image he’d carved of Mikhail: the unpredictable, violent stranger who forced a bond he didn’t want. That version was easier to hate.
But the man in front of him… looked nothing like the villain in his head.
M/n pulled out the chair slowly and sat. He didn’t touch the food. Not yet. But he didn’t shove it away either.
“You didn’t have to,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the plate like it held the answers to a test he hadn’t studied for.
“I know, but I wanted to,” Mikhail replied with no hesitation.
M/n looked up. Mikhail was already sitting across from him, though his plate remained empty.
“You’re not eating?” M/n asked, trying to sound casual. But there was a subtle concern hidden behind the question.
Mikhail smiled gently, almost amused.
“I don’t need to. I’m… well, technically dead, remember? Though I could still taste food.” M/n blinked at him, lips twitching into a frown.
“So that means I could still prepare food without any issues," M/n didn’t reply. His stomach growled again. Louder. Just eat, he told himself. It doesn’t mean anything.
He picked up the fork and took a small bite. It was warm. The garlic and oil were slightly off, but they were comforting in a strange, nostalgic way. He chewed in silence. Mikhail didn’t say a word. He just watched with a smile on his face.
M/n hated it. Hated how he didn’t hate it at all.
“So… are you doing anything today?”
Mikhail broke the silence hesitantly. M/n blinked up from his bowl, caught off guard.
‘Now that I think about it…’
He had meant to fix the broken furniture. It was a task left hanging, forgotten amidst all the chaos.
“I’m planning to fix the broken furniture,” he murmured quietly, unsure if he even wanted to say that aloud, let alone to Mikhail.
Mikhail brightened at once.
“Oh? Do you need a hand? I could help. I know how to handle stuff like that.”
M/n hesitated. The last thing he wanted was Mikhail around him. He still doesn't fully trust him. But rejecting the offer felt… wrong. And exhausting.
“…Do what you want,” M/n mumbled, keeping his gaze low.
That was all Mikhail needed.
His face lit up instantly, eyes sparkling with glee. He waited for M/n to finish his meal with contained excitement. M/n finally scraped the last grains of rice from the bowl.
“I—I-I’ll wash it,” Mikhail offered, ready to reach out for the plate, M/n moved his plate away in return.
“No, you already cooked.” M/n's voice was curt. He didn’t want to owe Mikhail anything. Mikhail’s smile faltered, shoulders sagging slightly as he nodded and backed off. He sat down again, watching M/n from afar while the clatter of dishes filled the room.
When M/n finally dried his hands, he lingered for a moment, brows furrowed in thought.
“There’s a lot of broken furniture… so we’ll need tools first.”
That pulled Mikhail out of his slump. “Ah, right! I know there's a toolbox here somewhere—”
“I did,” M/n nodded. “In the cellar." But as he went towards where the cellar is, a hand grabbed his wrist. M/n turned and froze. Mikhail’s face was paler than before, His jaw was tight, and his eyes were wide with something unreadable… fear?
“What?” M/n asked, more confused than concerned.
Mikhail blinked, then forced a shaky smile.
“I—It’s nothing. I just... feel a little uneasy down there.” M/n raised a brow and glanced at the cellar door. He remembered the screams he’d heard a few nights ago had not made a noise since yesterday night.
Maybe Mikhail had heard them too.
“You don’t have to come,” M/n said flatly. “You can wait here.”
He pulled free and opened the door, the stale air immediately brushing against his skin. Mikhail’s hand twitched, he looked like he wanted to stop him, but no words came.
He didn’t want M/n to go down there alone. A moment passed, then Mikhail swallowed hard, clenched his fists, and followed him. The cellar was cold. Dust clung to the walls, and everything looked just as it had the last time M/n descended.
M/n walked ahead, eyes trained on the toolbox in the corner. He knelt down, inspecting the contents. Hammer. Nails. Wrenches. Everything he needed.
Behind him, Mikhail didn’t move. M/n turned. Mikhail stood utterly still, eyes fixed on a single chair in the center of the cellar. His body was tense, and his breathing was shallow.
“Mikhail?” No answer. Mikhail's eyes locked on that chair, burning into it. Then- It hit.
A sudden, searing rush of memory cracked across his mind like lightning.
Dark, faint memories that he could vividly make out. people's voices...somewhere in a dark room where it occurred, the faint smell of copper filling his nostrils, the sound of whipping.
"What did I do wrong…?"
More voices.
"We can say he ran away."
Followed by a strained, desperate protest.
"That's your own son!"
Mikhail’s breathing quickened. His hands shook at his sides. The chair in front of him loomed larger than it looked.
M/n, now holding the toolbox, turned just in time to catch the look in Mikhail’s eyes, haunted. As if something inside him had cracked open.
He followed his gaze to the chair. One old, wooden chair.
Silent.
Yet in Mikhail’s mind, it was soaked in blood. M/n frowned, slowly walking closer.
“Mikhail…?” Mikhail snapped his eyes to M/n, breath catching. Like he’d forgotten M/n was even there.
M/n studied him, cautious. He could tell something was wrong based on how Mikhail was shifting in his spot, something tells him that Mikhail and the mysterious screams are related to one another.
And now he was starting to see it in the way Mikhail looked at that chair.
As if it remembered him, too.
“What is it with that chair?” M/n asked cautiously.
“I—” Mikhail hesitated. The words caught in his throat. He didn’t want to burden M/n.
But M/n's gaze wasn’t harsh, just curiosity.
“That chair,” Mikhail began, voice shaky, “wasn’t always… here. But I remember one like it. Down here. A long time ago. I think…” His brows furrowed, lips trembling.
“I think someone was hurt here...was it me...?” Mikhail whispered the last part.
M/n felt his own breath catch. The cellar was already eerie, but the weight in Mikhail’s voice. The terror sent a shiver down his spine. Mikhail nodded faintly, his eyes drifting one last time to the chair. Then he followed M/n back up the stairs, one foot in the present, the other still trembling in the past.
Once they made it back upstairs, the suffocating air of the cellar finally fell away. Mikhail leaned against the nearest wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He looked pale, more than usual.
M/n didn’t say anything at first. He stood a few paces ahead, toolbox in hand, glancing at Mikhail from the corner of his eye. He watched the way the dead man’s fingers twitched slightly.
“…If that place makes you sick,” M/n said quietly, not turning to face him, “then don’t go down there again.” Mikhail blinked up at him, caught off guard.
M/n still didn’t look at him.
“There’s nothing down there worth losing your head over. I can handle it myself.” It was matter-of-fact. Cold, even. But the message was clear. A barrier of distance… cloaking a thread of concern.
Then M/n shifted, as if dusting the air clean of tension.
“Anyway, we have a lot of stuff to fix,” he said, almost forcing the subject to change. “Start with the table in the dining room. One of the legs is loose.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an assignment.
Mikhail swallowed thickly and nodded, grateful for the way M/n didn’t push him, didn’t prod with questions or sympathy.
And M/n? He just kept walking ahead. never looking back, But slowing his steps, Just enough for Mikhail to catch up.
"I thought you were good at this...?" M/n's eye twitched at the horrifying sight in front of him. The dining table leg had been absolutely massacred. dozens of nails driven into the same spot, some sticking out like crooked teeth, others bent like they’d lost the will to live.
Mikhail looked up, hammer still in hand, with a sheepish grin.
“Well... I thought if I just observed you, I’d get the hang of it.” M/n let out a long, soul-weary sigh and snatched the hammer from Mikhail’s grip.
“You don’t just watch someone hammer nails and suddenly become a carpenter. You’ve got to know where to drive the nail into, you idiot.” He flipped the hammer and began prying the nails out with the backside.
“Have you ever even touched a hammer before?”
Mikhail’s ears turned red.
“W-Well... as an earl of the Beaufort family, I never really had to do physical labor…”
M/n stared at him, unblinking, before facepalming with dramatic flair.
"Of course. You're a walking antique with zero practical skills." He muttered under his breath, “So you’re the original owner of this ramshackle mess… I figured as much.” M/n whispered, though Mikhail still heard it.
"Yeah, my mother was really proud of me for owning my own house and my father..." Mikhail trailed off. Somehow, he felt uncomfortable saying the word father rolling off his tongue like a bitter pill.
"My father..." Mikhail repeated.
M/n looked over. Mikhail’s face was blank. no embarrassment, no confusion. Just silence, like something inside had shut down.
Wanting to steer the moment away, M/n shoved the toolbox toward him.
"If you’re useless with tools, then congratulations, you’re the designated assistant. Just pass me whatever I ask for. You do know what the tools are called, right?"
Mikhail blinked, snapping out of his daze.
“Yes! Got it!” Mikhail eagerly nodded, wanting to be at least useful to M/n in some way.
The rest of the afternoon was spent working together. well, mostly. Mikhail fumbled more times than M/n could count. He handed him the wrong tools at least half the time, confusing the Phillips screwdriver with the flathead or giving him a wrench when he asked for a hex key.
“That’s a flathead. I said hex. You sure you’re an earl? I thought nobility at least came with a functioning brain.”
“Oops! Hehe…”
But every time he got it right, Mikhail lit up like a dog getting praised for a trick. M/n could practically see the imaginary tail wagging behind him.
And, against his better judgment, it was... kinda cute.
Once they were done and everything had been fixed to an acceptable standard, Mikhail looked over with hopeful eyes.
“Would you like me to cook something? As thanks?” M/n glanced at him, deadpan.
“No. I’ll cook.”
Mikhail visibly deflated, his shoulders drooping, face crumpling into disappointment like a scolded puppy.
M/n turned away, biting the inside of his cheek. There was something deeply conflicting about watching a dead man pout like a kicked dog.
Adorable. And completely wrong.
“I can handle myself just fine.” That was a lie.
M/n couldn’t cook decently to save his life. But hey, that’s what modern technology was for, right? A quick YouTube video, a written recipe, maybe even one of those overly perky cooking blogs with twenty paragraphs of life story before getting to the actual instructions, he could manage.
Or he could’ve. If Mikhail wasn’t hovering over his shoulder like a confused golden retriever.
“What’s that?” Mikhail pointed to the glowing rectangle in M/n's hand, eyes squinting as though he were trying to make sense of witchcraft.
“It’s a phone. Now go away.” M/n tried to shoo him like an annoying fly.
But the undead nobleman was already poking at the screen, marveling at how letters appeared without a single sheet of paper in sight.
“How does it have those letters?” he asked in genuine wonder, tilting his head.
“Is there someone inside?” M/n sighed and snatched the phone back.
“Go away, please.”
Mikhail didn’t budge. Just stood there, staring at the screen like a cavemen discovering fire for the first time. Fine. If he couldn’t shoo him away, maybe he could bribe him with something equally captivating.
M/n quickly tapped into a chess app and shoved the phone into Mikhail’s hands.
“Here. Just play and go away.”
M/n's mouth fell open. “H-How!?” His hands trembled as he made a move with a pawn. When the AI countered, Mikhail yelped and nearly dropped the phone.
“WHO’S THERE!? How did it move?!”
M/n slapped a hand over his face.
“It’s called AI. It’s... pretend. The phone is playing against you. No one’s inside. You can reset it if you mess up. Just—just go sit down.” Mikhail, now caught in a one-man chess war against artificial intelligence, finally left M/n in peace.
M/n exhaled in relief and returned to the stove, only to realize he hadn’t even picked a recipe with his phone.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, rolling up his sleeves.
“Big boy pants. My sister showed me how to make adobo once. Just chicken. Vinegar. Soy sauce. Easy.”
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
He marinated the chicken just fine, but when it came to seasoning, it was either bland, sugary, or salty enough to kill a plant. Frustration crept in fast. The metal spoon slipped from his grip and fell into the boiling pot. Instinctively, he reached in, only to sear his hand.
“Gah—dammit!”
He jerked back, clutching his wrist, his teeth clenched against the pain. The burn stung sharply, the skin already pink and throbbing.
The many groans caused Mikhail to remove his attention from the phone and stand up from his seat to check up on M/n. he found the man scratching his head in frustration while clinging to his wrist.
“Is everything alright?” Mikhail’s voice was suddenly close. M/n flinched and turned slightly.
“I’m fine—” he began to say, hiding his hand. But Mikhail had already seen it. He stepped forward and gently took M/n's wrist, inspecting his wound closely.
“I said I’m fine. It’s just a burn.”
Mikhail didn’t respond. He led M/n to the sink, turned on the tap, and placed his hand beneath the cold water. M/n winced as the water hit, but said nothing.
Mikhail, oddly silent for once, focused on the injury. He cupped M/n's hand gently, brushing his finger lightly around the reddened area, as if trying to soothe the pain through sheer tenderness.
M/n stared at him, confused by the way his stomach twisted. not from the burn, but from the look on Mikhail’s face.
Focused. Soft. Almost… protective. And for a moment, M/n hated how warm it made him feel.
He hated it.
He hated how Mikhail was showing him concern over something so small.
He hated how Mikhail acted like this—gentle, sincere. all for him.
Mikhail let the water run over M/n's burn for a while longer before gently patting it dry with a clean cloth. His hands were careful, like M/n might break if touched too harshly.
“You should’ve let me cook,” Mikhail muttered, inspecting the reddened skin with a furrowed brow.
“It’s just a slight burn,” M/n replied, cheeks flushed as he looked away.
“You’re overreacting…”
“Uh-huh. You’re so clumsy, M/n.” Mikhail said flatly, not even trying to hide his amusement.
M/n turned, ready to snap back, but Mikhail beat him to it, lowering his head and pressing a soft kiss to the wound. M/n froze.
“But I think that’s cute,” Mikhail added with a small, self-satisfied smile. “Because it means I get to save you.”
M/n's face went red like a tomato. This man—no, this corpse-had no business being this good-looking even in death. And with that soft, teasing tone? It drove him up the wall.
With a swift motion, M/n snatched his wrist back.
“Fucking bastard,” he hissed, flustered.
Mikhail only laughed.
“Hahaha! You’re so adorable, M/n.”
Bonk.
M/n smacked him lightly on the head.
“Ow—! Awa!” Mikhail laughed, rubbing the spot sheepishly.
“How did you even injure yourself? Don’t tell me it was your butterfingers?”
M/n shot him a glare, nearly swinging again.
“I—I was struggling with the flavor, okay!? Got mad and knocked the spoon in.” Mikhail blinked, glancing toward the bubbling pot of adobo.
“The flavor?” He walked over, grabbed a spoon, and took a tentative sip.
The moment it touched his tongue, his entire face contorted. His taste buds were assaulted by a tsunami of salt. Still, he forced a smile and quickly turned away so M/n wouldn’t see. “Mmm…”
“Don’t lie. It tastes awful, doesn’t it?” M/n narrowed his eyes, stepping forward to catch a glimpse of Mikhail’s poorly concealed grimace.
“W-what? No! It’s… It’s totally fine!” Mikhail insisted, waving him off.
M/n didn’t buy it. A wicked smirk spread across his face. He scooped up another spoonful of broth and held it threateningly in front of Mikhail’s lips.
“Then, you won’t mind tasting it again.” Mikhail immediately leaned away, eyes wide.
“U-Uh—I’m really fine! You don’t have to—!”
“Oh, but you said it was fine.” M/n grinned, amused at Mikhail now shielding his mouth like M/n was about to poison him. Well... with his cooking, maybe that wasn’t far off.
“Okay, okay! I admit it!” Mikhail cried.
“It’s salty! What did you do?!”
“I was trying to balance it!” M/n muttered defensively. “Added sugar, then vinegar…”
“…And a bottle of soy sauce?”
M/n paused.
“…Correction. Half a bottle,” M/n confessed. Mikhail was in disbelief,
“How do you even screw it up that bad?”
“I was trying to mask the sweetness from earlier!” M/n rubbed the back of his neck, flustered.
Mikhail sighed deeply and took the spoon from him.
“Come here. I’ll teach you.”
M/n rolled his eyes but stepped beside him.
“If it’s too salty, just add a bit of water and vinegar. Half a cup each, give or take. It’ll mellow it out.” M/n watched silently as Mikhail adjusted the pot like he’d done it a hundred times before. The undead noble moved gracefully, with surprising ease.
“Here. Taste it now,” Mikhail said, offering him the spoon. Lucien hesitated—then took a sip. His eyes lit up.
Mikhail chuckled. “Tastes better?” M/n nodded eagerly.
“Then we can finally eat.” Mikhail smiled, and they worked together to set the table. Plates were filled, rice fluffed, and steaming. They sat across from each other, a quiet warmth lingering between them.
M/n raised a brow as he watched Mikhail serve himself.
“Thought you didn’t need to eat.”
“I don’t,” Mikhail said with a small shrug.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t eat your cooking.”
M/n nearly choked on his rice. That smile. He hates his smile.
God help him. This corpse was going to be the death of him.
They ate in a comfortable silence, save for the soft clinking of utensils. Mikhail would glance at M/n now and then, quietly wondering if he would say something, anything. But he didn’t mind the silence. M/n still needed time to adjust to him.
And if Mikhail had to wait, he would.
After lunch, they resumed fixing the remaining broken furniture. By dinner, they were too tired to cook again, so they simply reheated the adobo and ate the same meal together, fatigue lingering in the way they slouched at the table.
“Tomorrow,” M/n began between bites, “we’ll try and salvage the garden.”
Mikhail perked up.
“Could we plant gumamela? My mother was so fond of those,” he asked gently, eyes hopeful.
M/n paused. “I’ll check.”
Mikhail’s face lit up with a boyish smile. “Thank you, Lucien.”
M/n didn’t quite know how to respond to that warmth, so he gave a curt nod.
“I’m going upstairs to sleep. We’ve got another day of backbreaking labor tomorrow.”
He stepped onto the staircase when he noticed Mikhail turning toward the living room, toward the old couch he’d been using to sleep in. M/n hesitated, then called out over his shoulder,
“You… you don’t need to sleep there, you know. There are rooms upstairs.”
Mikhail blinked, surprised. Then his smile softened into something grateful. He had hoped, selfishly, to one day sleep beside M/n. but this was enough. A start.
He followed M/n quietly up the stairs.
“I already cleaned this room,” M/n said, pointing to a guest room. The bed was freshly made with clean sheets and fluffed pillows. “So all you need to do is sleep.”
Mikhail stepped inside, brushing his fingers over the edge of the bed.
“Thank you, M/n.” Again, M/n struggled for a reply.
“You don’t need to thank me. This is your house, after all.”
“But you’ve taken care of it,” Mikhail replied.
"I want to thank you properly for that.”
M/n scoffed, turning away to hide his expression. “Just sleep already.”
Mikhail chuckled softly.
“Goodnight, M/n.”
“…Goodnight, Mikhail.”
M/n retreated to his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His face was tinged pink, and he hated how flustered he felt over something so small. He brushed it off. I’m just tired, he told himself as he dropped onto the mattress.
He pulled out his phone, instinctively checking for any notifications. A message lit up the screen.
Liezel: Is it okay if I visit you tomorrow? It’s my day-off.
Right… M/n had shared his location with her before.
He stared at the message, biting his nails in hesitation. What if this was a trap? What if their parents had put her up to this—to bring him home, to persuade him?
But Liezel had never been like them. She was never cruel. If anything, she was the only one who had stayed beside him. His twin flame.
Still, his fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he slowly typed back:
M/n: sure.
Almost instantly, she replied.
Liezel: I’ll be there at 1 in the afternoon.
M/n locked his phone and placed it beside him.
He stared at the ceiling.
He didn’t know what to feel.
DICTIONARY SECTION
KUYA — An elder brother ( but in the Philippines, it is also used to call strangers, cousins and even younger siblings for respect )
AWA — Mercy
ARCHIVES
—Longsilog is a hearty, savory dish with sweet longganisa sausage, fried eggs, and garlic rice
—Philippine adobo is a popular Filipino dish and cooking process in Philippine cuisine
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