She handed me the mug she'd made. The coffee was strong and sweet. I sat there holding it like it might shatter if I breathed wrong.
Loving you is as easy and natural as breathing.
It echoed in my head. Not dramatic. Not grandiose. Just… true. It hit me. She hadn't said I love you. Not exactly. But she had. Gods, she had. She's been saying it for weeks, in every small act, every softened gaze, every time she let me spin into chaos and didn't walk away. She just hadn't labeled it. Not because she didn't feel it. Not because she feared what it meant. Because I wasn't ready. My breath caught. Of course she knew.
I replayed every moment since she arrived. She let me set the pace. Let me joke, tease, push, pull. Called me out when I needed it, never demanded more than I could give. Not once. She let me decide what this was. How fast, how slow, how real, because she saw me. Saw the parts that weren't divine or charming or powerful. The parts that were just… a man who messes up, gets scared, wants too much, and doesn't know how to say it. She waited. Not from lack of feeling, but from mastery. Her strength wasn't only surviving the unthinkable; it was loving someone like me without needing to hear it back, without needing it defined. She trusted it. She trusted me. When she finally gave me those words, not as a fanfare, but as a quiet truth. I was finally ready to hear them.
I looked at her, this impossible woman who'd gone through hell and still had the audacity to sit there with a soft smile and warm coffee and call love unconditional. Annie. My Annie.
I reached across the space and took her hand, not because she needed me to, but because I needed her to. She met my eyes, steady, calm, still letting me lead even now. But I knew. She'd been leading all along. Quietly. Wisely. With love she didn't have to name to make real. I was still staring at her like she'd rewritten the laws of the universe with one sentence when she tilted her head, took a sip, and said, completely casual, "Mal, let's go skating."
I blinked. "What?"
She was already rinsing her mug. "You heard me. Skating. Rink. Wheels. Balance. Mild public humiliation. Good times."
"You… roller skate?"
She glanced over her shoulder, one brow arched. "Malvor, I grew up in the late eighties. Of course I roller skate."
"But after everything, don't you want to—"
"Sit around? Stare at a wall? Spiral? Already did that. Four days straight. You were crying on the other side of the door, remember?" I made a strangled sound. She ignored it. "I want fresh air, loud music, and fluorescent lights that haven't been replaced since 1992."
"You're serious."
She dried her hands. "Dead."
I hesitated. She stepped close and tapped my chest. "Come on, Master of Chaos. Let's see if your godly coordination extends to wheels."
I laughed, startled, cracked, a little miraculous. "You are actually dragging me out of this."
"If I can survive divine sadists," she said, smiling, "I can survive a skate rink. And so can you."
Gods help me, I followed her. The rink was pure nostalgic chaos: terrible neon signs, a disco ball slightly off-beat, teenagers doing tricks in the center while pop blared from wounded speakers. Annie laced her skates like she did this every weekend. I regarded mine like venomous wildlife.
"I don't like how soft they are," I muttered, cinching straps. "Where is the armor?"
"It's a rink, not a battlefield," she said, smirking.
I glared at the wheels for existing. She stood, perfect balance, and skated a lazy circle around me. "You coming, or do I need to carry you?"
"Don't you dare."
She extended a hand. "Come on, Chaos of My Heart."
I took it. Let her pull me forward. Wobbled once, then twice, moaned, "I don't like this."
"You'll live."
"I could die."
"You're immortal."
"That's beside the— whoa —!" I wind milled as a preteen pirouetted past like a smug woodland sprite.
Annie caught my arm, laughing. Not cruel, bright. Alive. She made it look easy, like joy was a muscle she'd kept limber. Mine had calcified into armor.
"You're really doing this," I said, low.
"I told you," she said, guiding me. "Normal. Not perfect. Just… us."
I shuffled beside her, using small, quiet flickers of chaos to keep myself vertical. She rolled ahead, spun once, looked back. "You're getting it."
"I'm faking it."
"So are most people," she said, and winked.
For the first time in a forever that felt longer than it was, I laughed. Real. Full. The kind that cracks something open. She was pulling me out of the abyss with coffee and rollerblades.
The moment we hit the floor, she became someone else entirely: water on wheels, weaving through the crowd, speed just fast enough to catch the eye. She didn't show off, she just was. Confident. Relaxed. At home.
I, meanwhile, looked like a newborn deer on a frozen lake. Legs too long, center of gravity at war, arms conducting a hurricane symphony. "Annie," I hissed, dodging a kid in a sweatshirt, "these wheels are cursed."
"They're not cursed," she said, skating backward in front of me, hands clasped behind her like a show-off cherub. "They're just not enchanted. That's your problem."
"My problem," I said, "is that ankles were not designed to bend like this."
She caught my elbow before gravity asserted dominance. "Okay, you're doing adequately. With flair."
"Are you mocking me while I'm actively suffering?"
"Always." Then her hand slid into mine again, firm, grounding. "Trust me. I've got you."
I looked at her, somewhere between awe and exasperation. "I'm not used to this."
"To what?"
"Not being the one in control."
"Welcome to the other side," she said. "We have snacks and sparkly wrist guards."
I snorted. Nearly ate floor. She saved me again. This time, I didn't pull away. I let her lead. Let her be the steady one. By all the gods, I loved it. I loved her. No judgment. No pity. Just… love. Unlabeled, unspoken, everywhere.
I tried a flourish, summoned a neat puff of wind. I promptly spun so hard I collided with a tween doing a dance I'm told is for TikToks. Annie circled back, took my hand. "You're getting better."
"I almost died."
"You only almost die when you're having fun."
I stared at her, red-cheeked, wobbly, entirely out of my element, and laughed again. "Yeah," I breathed. "I guess I am."
She leaned close, voice just above the music. "You're going to love the limbo contest."
"No. Absolutely not. I am a god. I have standards."
She was already gliding away. I followed, wobbling, grinning, hopelessly in love with the girl who refused to let anyone steal her joy. She won the limbo effortlessly. No drama. Just grace. Hair brushed the floor, knees bent, arms wide, and the children of Axe body spray wailed as their queen skated beneath the bar like liquid confidence. I watched from the wall, one skate propped, hands in pockets, looking like a disappointed parent at a talent show. "They never saw it coming," I muttered.
"She obliterated them," someone whispered.
"She is the bar," another sighed.
She rolled back with a triumphant smirk. I offered my hand. "You are a menace."
"I'm an icon," she said, bowing.
Then, radiant with victory: "I want garbage food."
"Excuse me?"
"Concession stand. Now."
Five minutes later we sat at a sticky, flicker-lit table. Before her: a tray of horrors, microwave pizza, limp fries, a soda that had given up hope last week. She bit into the pizza like it was ambrosia.
"You're really going to eat that," I said.
"Yes," she replied through a catastrophic mouthful. "Every disgusting, overcooked bite."
"You're a goddess."
"No, you're a god. I'm just the girl who never got to do this."
I stilled. She licked grease from her thumb, casual.
"I went skating a few times," she said. "Pockets of normal between… everything else." A small shrug. "So this?" She waved the pizza slice like a laurel. "This is my victory lap. My cheap, cheese-covered teenage dream."
I looked at her, hair a little wild from the limbo, cheeks flushed, posture loose, and something in my chest ached with the best kind of pain. She wasn't reclaiming a life. She was living it. One skate and rubber pepperoni at a time. I picked up a fry. It smelled like cardboard and regret. I ate it anyway.
She grinned. "Tastes like trauma, right?"
I laughed, and for a moment the weight lifted. I leaned back and watched her devour a childhood one slice at a time and thought: This is healing. Not perfect. Not pretty. Real.
"These fries are a tragedy," I declared, holding one up like it had insulted my lineage. "I'm certain they microwaved them alongside that... whatever that was." I pointed at the pizza.
"Oh, they did," she said, delighted. "And I'm still eating it. Like a champion."
The fry was limp, offensively beige. I popped it anyway. Chewed. Scowled. Paused. Chewed again. "Gods help me," I muttered, reaching for another, "the disgusting is growing on me."
"Stockholm syndrome, but with concession food," she said, slurping her defeated soda.
"I am the Trickster God of Chaos. I will not be brought low by soggy fries."
"You've been brought lower," she deadpanned.
I choked on a laugh. "Rude."
She raised her cup. "To terrible food and emotional damage."
I clinked solemnly. "The most nutritious meal I've had all week." Cups bumped. Neon hummed. And for a brief, perfect moment, we were just two people. Not a god and a shrine girl. Not chaos and survival. Just Malvor and Annie, rebuilding a world, one tragedy fry at a time.