Title: His Smile, My Curse
Lior woke to the smell of something warm and soft drifting through the air. Toasted bread, sweet butter. It confused him—he hadn't set an alarm, and he never cooked breakfast.
For a few disoriented seconds, he thought the strange events of the previous day had been a dream. Then he heard humming. A low, rich hum, unfamiliar and unsettlingly calm.
He sat up, eyes darting to the kitchen. There he was.
Aven.
Wearing one of Lior's oversized hoodies and moving barefoot across the tiled floor like he belonged there. Like he'd done it a thousand times before. Like he lived here.
"What are you doing?" Lior asked hoarsely.
Aven turned with a slight smile. "Good morning. You looked tired, so I didn't wake you."
"That's not what I—" Lior stopped mid-sentence as he took in the table. Toast, eggs, cut fruit, tea steeping gently in a glass pot. Everything looked homemade and fresh.
"I don't even have half of this in the fridge," Lior muttered.
"I went out."
Lior's mouth opened. Then closed. "You left? How did you even—?"
"I waited for the sunrise. The world feels… louder than I remember. But I found the market."
Lior blinked. "So now you just… go shopping?"
Aven tilted his head. "I learn fast."
That wasn't the part that disturbed him. It was the fact that Aven had been out in the city, walking around in his hoodie, looking like something between a fashion model and a hallucination. What if someone had noticed him? Followed him?
No. Lior shook the thought away. Why do I care?
"I'm not eating that," Lior said.
"You should."
"I'm not hungry."
Aven calmly walked over, set the plate beside him, and crouched.
"You didn't eat dinner either."
Lior flinched. "You were watching me?"
"I was… worried."
The softness in Aven's voice unsettled him more than anger might have. He expected cold obsession. What he didn't expect was the quiet, domestic devotion.
"Are you always going to be like this?" Lior asked, voice sharper than intended.
"Yes."
"…Why?"
"Because you're mine."
Lior shot to his feet. "I'm not anyone's."
Aven didn't argue. He just looked at him with a quiet, unreadable expression. That was worse.
Lior stormed to the window and flung it open. The breeze hit his face. Morning fog curled around rooftops like smoke. Everything looked normal.
Why didn't he feel normal?
"You could've run," he murmured.
"I didn't want to," Aven replied.
---
That afternoon, Lior tried painting again. He set up a new canvas in a different room and locked the door, needing distance.
He told himself it wasn't to see what would happen.
But no matter how hard he focused, the brush refused to obey. Every line, every color bled into Aven's silhouette.
Even when he tried to paint something simple—a river, a sky—Aven's presence crept into it. A shadow by the water. A reflection in the clouds.
He scrubbed the canvas clean and tossed the brush.
A knock came at the door.
"I'm fine," Lior said quickly.
Aven's voice came gently through the wood. "You always say that when you're not."
"How would you know?"
"Because you painted me with that same look on your face."
Lior stared at the blank canvas. It was the same face. He'd seen it mirrored in a thousand versions of Aven—longing, half-hopeful, half-afraid.
"Go away."
"I'll be right here."
Of course he would.
---
Later that night, Lior found Aven asleep on the couch, knees drawn up like a child. One hand was clutching the edge of Lior's hoodie, the other tucked beneath his cheek.
He looked… harmless like that. Peaceful.
Lior covered him with a blanket.
He didn't know if it was mercy or weakness.
---
Three days passed. Aven never left.
He didn't force Lior into anything. Didn't demand. But he was always there. Cleaning. Cooking. Watching.
Once, Lior came home from the art store and found his entire closet color-coded. Another time, Aven quietly added a seat cushion to the rickety chair Lior always used.
It was like being haunted by a very considerate ghost.
But it was getting harder to breathe.
Lior woke on the fourth morning to a string tied around his finger.
Red. Thin. Knotted neatly.
He blinked, sat up, stared at it.
Aven stood in the doorway.
"What is this?" Lior asked.
"A reminder."
"Of what?"
"That we're connected."
Lior pulled the string off and threw it on the floor.
Aven said nothing.
That silence hurt more than shouting.
---
Lior left that afternoon. He didn't tell Aven. Just walked until the apartment was out of sight. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed air. Space. Something real.
A bookstore. He ducked inside.
Smelled of paper and warmth. Comforting.
But the woman behind the counter stared at him strangely.
"You okay?" she asked.
Lior blinked. "Yeah."
"Something following you."
"What?"
She nodded toward the door. "Big guy. Black coat. Kept walking back and forth."
Lior turned.
No one there.
Of course not.
But he felt it. A weight between his shoulders. Eyes on his back.
He paid for a random book and walked home fast.
Aven was sitting on the couch again.
"Did you follow me?" Lior snapped.
"No."
"Then why did someone see you there?"
"I watched from a rooftop. I didn't want you to get hurt."
Lior froze. "You were on a rooftop?"
Aven's face remained calm. "You looked pale. You needed someone to be close."
"You're insane."
"I'm in love with you."
The words made Lior stop breathing.
"I've been in love with you since your first brushstroke," Aven continued. "Each time you gave me form, I learned more. Of colors. Of warmth. Of pain. Of you."
"I don't even know you."
"But I know you. Better than you think."
Lior stepped back, heart pounding. "You can't just show up in someone's life and decide they belong to you!"
"You made me," Aven said quietly. "And I belong only to you."
There was no malice in his tone. Just quiet conviction.
Lior stormed into his studio, slammed the door, and locked it.
But the next morning, another red string lay tied around his pillow.
And this time, he didn't throw it away.
---
End of Chapter 3