♡♡A Knife That Can't Be Stabbed
I woke up in his bed, though "woke up" felt like the wrong word. My mind was still foggy with the residue of nightmares, of gunfire, screams, blood, and betrayal. The world beyond the mansion seemed impossibly far away, muffled, unreal. All that remained was the faint scent of gun oil, cold marble, and his presence—heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
Taehyung lay beside me, impossibly calm. Slow, steady breaths rose and fell in measured rhythm. His chest expanded under the white sheets like nothing in the world could touch him—not the chaos, not the violence, not me.
I didn't know how long I watched him. His lashes rested lightly on the sharp planes of his cheekbones. The curve of his jaw softened in sleep, and the hard angles that so often made him look untouchable, cruel, were gone. He didn't flinch at my gaze. Didn't stir when my fingers brushed lightly against the hem of his sleeve. Didn't even seem aware I was there.
And that made my pulse drum in my ears.
I rose quietly, trying not to make a sound. The floor was icy under my bare feet. My hands closed around the apple knife I had absently taken from the kitchen table. Something about its cold metal reminded me I could act. That I could take a choice. That I could finally release the fury that had been coiling in my chest for weeks.
My fingers tightened around it, and I took a hesitant step closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Until the tip of the blade hovered above his chest.
And I froze.
I wanted to do it. To sink the knife deep, into the heart that had shattered mine, that had claimed my parents' lives, my freedom, my sanity. I wanted him to feel the same helplessness I had felt.
But my hand… refused.
The weight of the knife felt suddenly unbearable. My fingers shook violently, the muscles in my arm quivering as if they had a will of their own. My breath hitched in short, broken gasps. The air felt too heavy, thick, and unyielding. I pressed the tip down just enough for the faint sting of resistance. My fingers trembled. I couldn't move forward.
A strangled sob bubbled from my throat. I pressed a palm to my mouth, trying to stifle it, but the tears came anyway, hot and sharp. They burned tracks down my cheeks, the heat a sharp contrast to the icy weight in my chest.
I had never hurt anyone like this before. Never. Not a single soul. Not my enemies, not even those who had made my life miserable. Not anyone. And yet here I was, poised over the man who had caused me so much pain, so much chaos, with every intention of ending him.
But he… he wasn't the monster I had been ready to hate. Not here, not now.
I watched him. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his lips in sleep, the way his fingers twitched as if dreaming. My hand slackened around the knife, and it slipped from my grasp, clattering lightly to the floor.
I sank to my knees beside the bed, trembling, my fingers brushing against his sheets, feeling the warmth he left behind even in unconsciousness. My heart shattered into pieces, jagged and uneven.
"I hate you," I whispered, my voice raw and ragged. "I hate you… so much… for making me feel this way. For making it so hard to… to—"
I couldn't finish. I pressed my hand to my mouth again, curling into myself. The sobs came freely now, no longer afraid of making noise, because no one was there to witness them but him.
Then, a hand—strong, unyielding—closed around my wrist.
I gasped, eyes flying wide, staring at him in disbelief. He didn't open his eyes. Didn't mutter a word. He didn't recoil, didn't flinch, didn't push me away. He simply… pulled.
With a single fluid motion, I was on the bed, pressed against him. My chest collided with his, every nerve in my body lighting up with static, with danger, with something I couldn't name.
But he didn't restrain me. Didn't grip me like a captor. He didn't demand explanations or apologies. He drew me close as if I were the only warmth he had known in a lifetime of cold, burying his face into the curve of my neck. His breath was hot, deep, exhausted, and it pressed against me like a confession I didn't understand.
And then… he fell back into sleep. Just like that.
Arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against his chest, securing me like a shield. Like a claim. Like a prayer.
I froze, stunned by the intimacy, by the weight of him. The chaos of the world outside—blood, betrayal, danger—faded. All that existed in that small, impossible pocket of time was the steady thrum of his heartbeat and my own ragged, desperate one trying to catch up.
He held me like he hadn't truly rested in a lifetime. Like I was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
And I… I let him.
---
Minutes—or was it hours?—passed. Time had no meaning. I lay against him, my cheek pressed into his chest, letting the slow rhythm of his breathing remind me that maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost.
The memories of that night, the massacre, the blood, my parents' faces—it all still lingered at the edges of my mind—but here, in the warmth of his arms, it seemed almost manageable. Almost bearable.
And yet, the contradiction gnawed at me.
This was the man who had ruined everything I had ever loved. Who had shattered my family, forced me into a nightmare of betrayal and danger. And yet… he could soothe me. Could make the air feel lighter, the darkness recede, the fear dull to a background hum.
I traced his collarbone lightly with a trembling finger, afraid, curious, desperate. The skin beneath my touch was warm, real, tangible. A part of me hated him for this. For making me care. For making me feel safe when I had every reason to run.
I swallowed hard, the sound muffled against the curve of his shoulder.
"Why…" I whispered, voice almost lost in the rhythm of his breathing. "Why do you make it feel like this? Like… like maybe I can survive this… maybe I can survive you?"
He didn't answer. Didn't even move. But the heat of him, the solidity of him pressed against me, felt like a reply all its own.
I pressed closer, burying my face further into the fabric of his shirt, letting the steady heartbeat against my temple act as a lullaby for the part of me that had been screaming for months.
And then, impossibly, something shifted. Not in him—he didn't move—but in me. The knife, the rage, the helplessness—it all seemed to fade into a dull ache, replaced by something rawer, more confusing. Vulnerability. Ached yearning.
The contradiction burned: I hated him. I loved him. I feared him. I needed him.
I curled against him, arms around my own knees, and let the tears fall freely, tracing my cheeks and staining the sheets. His hand shifted slightly, thumb brushing my back ever so lightly. Not enough to soothe, not enough to claim, but enough to remind me that he was still here. Still real. Still mine in some way that neither of us could articulate yet.
I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even cry properly anymore, my body too exhausted from the emotional storm. And Taehyung… he remained there, a constant presence, steady as stone, grounding me without words.
Somewhere deep in my chest, a fragile thread of trust began to stitch itself through the jagged edges of my heart. Fragile, delicate, almost laughably small—but undeniable.
I let out a shuddering breath, the first in what felt like forever that wasn't jagged, panicked, or terrified. And I realized… I didn't need to understand him, or the why, or the how. Not now. Not tonight.
I only needed to let myself exist here. With him. In this impossible, chaotic, broken sanctuary where the monster who had destroyed everything also held the power to make me feel safe.
And for now, that was enough.
---
Hours passed, though the moon moved imperceptibly across the sky outside. I stayed pressed against him, letting the quiet stretch and fold around us. Occasionally, I would catch the faintest shift in his breathing, a small sigh or twitch, and I'd press closer, anchoring myself to him in a way I didn't fully understand.
Somewhere in the depths of the night, I allowed myself to believe—not in the dreams, not in the past, not in the chaos outside—but in the small, quiet miracle of his presence.
For a brief, luminous moment, the monster and the man, the destroyer and the savior, the past and the present, collided into something that almost resembled peace.
I closed my eyes, finally letting my body relax, letting my soul sink into the fragile, impossible intimacy. And as sleep threatened to reclaim me, I realized that for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I was not alone.
Not in the shadows. Not in the darkness. Not in the chaos.
And maybe, just maybe, that made all the difference.