He rises from the bed, pulling his pajamas back on before walking into the kitchen. Veronica’s standing there, the girl he thought he’d die in several lifetimes before ever meeting someone like her. Her plain white night shirt, something he still thinks would better fit an old grandmother instead of a young lady, is no longer bunched up above her breasts and now hangs down over the curves of her waist and to the tops of her thighs. She flips her brown hair to the side as she busies herself with the dishes in the sink, and he can see on her pale neck the blooming splotches of purple and red he gave to her last night. He’s sure underneath that nightshirt is an entire garden spread across her shoulders and chest, and a pang of possessiveness sparks in him as he thinks about how his own teeth and tongue are responsible for them; how he’s the first man to ever lay claim on her as such.

Veronica looks over her shoulder, surely feeling his presence looming over her as he contemplates her visage, and smiles upon seeing him. “Good morning,” she begins warmly, “I already made some pancakes. They’re on top of the stove in a container if you want some.”

(A pointless question: Legato always wanted some.)

He smiles and nods, but doesn’t move from where he’s planted his feet against the tile. For what feels like the first time in his life, his mind is utterly blank except for which stimuli surrounding him worms its way through his eyes and ears and every nerve now not standing at end, but still very much aware.

Veronica looks over her shoulder again, quirking her brow and grimacing slightly. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s alright.” Legato begins, filing through every word he thinks he’d ever want to speak to her yet still landing short, “I’m just...looking.”

He moves closer to her, hand itching to intertwine with hers. Her face is now entirely neutral, and it frightens him. Maybe she regretted everything, regretted giving her first time to someone as filthy and broken as him. The thought makes him curl his fingers back against his palm. He recalls Knives saying those very things to him, that revenge on the people that made him so disgusting and diseased should be his only priority. That there was no recovering from it, so blind, rabid punishment was all that was left.

“Legato, I-” Veronica’s voice cuts through his spiraling train of thought, “I wanted to thank you.”

He freezes. Her eyes are so soft now, oaken irises gleaming with fractured light as she gazes upon him. She looks down to his hand, holding out her own, her silent way of asking permission. He takes her cue, lacing his fingers with hers.

“I’m proud of you, you know that? Last night…I know it must have been hard, but-” she trails off, a pensive breath expelling from her lungs. “I really loved it. And if you want to do it again sometime, I’d love to.”

Every muscle in Legato’s body feels locked in place. He squeezes her hand tighter, telling himself this is no dream.

“I would like that.”