Atticus sat quietly on the chair, his gaze locked on the painting before him. He couldn't pull his eyes away. The woman in the portrait was beautiful—anyone would see that—but it was more than beauty. There was an aura around her, powerful yet calm, dangerous yet inviting. And then there were her eyes. The moment his gaze reached them, something inside him tightened.
A sharp, unfamiliar pain struck his chest.
Slowly, Atticus raised his hand, his fingers brushing over the painted eyes. His mind replayed the memory of the beach—the way she spoke about her life, the tremble in her voice, the tears that slid down her cheeks. Each thought made the ache in his chest deepen.
"What is this pain?" he whispered. "Why do I feel it? What is this emotion… and how did you make me feel it?"
His fingers traced the curve of her painted cheek, as if searching for answers there.
Atticus lifted the painting with unusual gentleness and placed it on the wall opposite his bed, making sure it was the first thing he would see every morning.
He stepped back. And as he stared at the image again, a small smirk tugged at his lips—quiet, confused, but unable to leave.
The emotion lingered.
The chirping of birds filled the morning air, the sky bright and clear after last night's rain.
Atticus stood by the window, smiling faintly. He hadn't slept at all—his fingers unconsciously traced his lips, a small smirk tugging at them.
Suddenly—
BAM!
Thomas burst into the room like a panicked goat.
"ARE YOU GONE?!" he cried, rushing to Atticus and grabbing his face, his shoulders, his arms—checking everything at once.
Atticus froze. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Checking if you're still alive!" Thomas sniffled, still poking him like a malfunctioning doctor.
Atticus blinked. "Are you blind or deaf? If I wasn't alive I wouldn't be TALKING."
Thomas gasped and immediately burst into loud, dramatic sobs as he hugged him tightly.
"ATTICUSSS," he wailed.
Atticus winced. "Stop—stop—Thomas—you're crushing my ribs—"
"I thought you died!" Thomas sniffed. "Or lost existence—or evaporated—or whatever you vampires do!"
Atticus sighed. "No, no. I'm not going anywhere."
Thomas finally released him, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.
"That's good… I would've missed you," he said, sniffling.
"Mm. I know you would." Atticus smirked.
Thomas smiled—then suddenly froze.
His eyes widened.
His smile dropped.
His whole soul entered detective mode.
"…Wait."
"What?" Atticus asked, instantly suspicious.
"HOW are you alive?!" Thomas gasped. "You can only be alive if you kissed Ma'am Sophia—AH!"
Atticus immediately sat down, throat clearing awkwardly.
Thomas' eyes sparkled. He slammed his palms on the desk and leaned forward with the excitement of someone discovering fresh gossip.
"You did. YOU DID!"
Atticus hissed. "Yes, fine. I did."
Thomas squealed. Actually squealed.
"Aha! AHA! How was it?! Did it feel magical? Sparkly? Like heaven? Like fireworks? Did you see angels? Did your toes curl—"
"That's enough," Atticus snapped.
"Okay, okay, then tell me how it—"
"NONE of your business, monkey."
Thomas erupted into laughter, practically dancing in place.
"Ohhh today is going to be SUCH a sweet day," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "I LOVE THIS!"
"Thomas," Atticus said, sounding strangely serious.
Thomas turned slowly. "Yes…? Why do you sound like someone about to confess a crime?"
Atticus ignored that.
"What does this feeling mean?"
Thomas blinked. "What feeling?"
Atticus frowned. "Sophia told me something… and she was crying… and suddenly I felt this ache in my chest. But it wasn't caused by a weapon. It wasn't physical. It was—" he tapped his chest twice, confused— "this."
Thomas squinted. "Okay? And?"
"It's sharp," Atticus continued, frustrated. "I can't shake it off. My body becomes numb, my head gets dizzy, and then—" he pointed at his eyes suspiciously— "it feels like something wants to come out of here. But nothing has ever come out of there. So what is it?"
Thomas stared at him like he was speaking alien language.
"…Atticus," he finally said.
"I think you're sad."
Atticus went completely still.
"I'm… sad?"
"Yes."
He slowly touched his chest like he was meeting a new organ for the first time.
"And that thing trying to come out of your eyes?" Thomas added.
"It's called tears."
Atticus gasped. "Tears?" He poked below his eye carefully, as if tears might explode out at any moment.
"Yes."
"But why am I sad?" Atticus asked. "Sophia only said words. Words are harmless. Why would words hurt me?"
Thomas sighed in disbelief.
"When words reach the heart, the heart feels them. And sometimes… it hurts."
Atticus stared at him, mind blown.
"Wow," he whispered, genuinely fascinated. "So I'm… sad." He looked almost proud. "But I'm not human. Why do I feel it?"
"Emotions don't ask whether you're human or not," Thomas said. "If you can feel joy, calm, excitement… then you can feel sadness too."
Atticus tilted his head, trying to compute.
"But why now?" he asked. "Why didn't I ever feel it before?"
Thomas shrugged.
"Maybe because ma'am Sophia has your immunity now, so her pain echoes into you. Or…" he leaned closer with a teasing grin,
"maybe because you care about her."
Atticus froze.
"…I care for her?" he repeated like the words were written in a foreign language.
He sat there trying to understand everything Thomas just said.
Did he actually care?
Or was this new emotion just a side-effect of his immunity inside her?
Either way… the confusion on his face was priceless.