When I woke, there was a peach. A single peach, plump and golden in the morning light, and no Monkey.
I blinked at it, rubbing the haze from my eyes, the oddity of it settling like dust in the corners of my mind. A peach sitting near me—Monkey Boy's version of a note, I supposed. That he would return? Maybe.
Maybe not.
I glanced around, half-expecting him to drop from the ceiling or leap from the shadows. Nothing. He must've gone scouting ahead, slipping away like a breeze as I slept, though why he didn't wake me was a question that lingered like the scent of the fruit.
The wooden floor beneath me creaked as I shifted, crossing my legs and yawning without a care, the temple's derelict walls echoing the sound. We'd holed up in this forgotten place for the night, a sanctuary once, the old walls telling a story of well-maintained care, now a skeleton of what it used to be. Monkey Boy had wiped the floor with a giant white wolfman before we settled here—the beast's massive paws now silent, its lingering presence nothing more than a memory scratched into the decaying structure.
It had a strange habit, that wolf. Every time it landed a hit on Monkey Boy, it would lick its bloodied paws, slow and deliberate, like it was savoring the taste of victory before it could claim the kill.
Savoring the taste of his blood…
A thousand questions fluttered through my mind, restless like birds trapped in a cage. Why was he here, adrift and solitary in this desolate place? Could he speak, or was silence his only companion? And why, the moment his eyes had met Monkey Boy's, did violence bloom in his veins, swift as a storm? But then again, everyone seemed to hurl themselves at Monkey Boy, as if drawn by some magnetic pull toward chaos. Maybe it was something in the wind, a call only they could hear, urging them to strike before they even thought to breathe.
When the fight had ended, I'd burst from my the stone, racing over to check on him. Deep gashes crisscrossed his chest and arms, blood slicking his fur and skin. But with one lazy swig from that gourd strapped to his back, the wounds began to knit themselves back together, as if the claws of that giant wolf had never touched him.
Naturally, I asked for a sip—just to heal the lesser wolfman's claw marks still burning across my own arm from a few days ago. But Monkey Boy, in all his maddening glory, held it just out of my reach, an eyebrow raised in smug amusement at my… antics.
Of course, I had to jump for it, trying to convince him it was purely for the sake of the cuts. But no, that knowing glint in his eyes said he wasn't buying my story for a second.
And I mean, who could blame me? He looked utterly rejuvenated after drinking it, his wounds gone, his posture lazy yet strong. The scent of that brew wafted toward me—rich, warm, intoxicating… and maybe just a bit alcoholic.
Perhaps that magical elixir wasn't meant for human consumption, or maybe he was just being his usual stingy self. Either way, after a few hopeless hops trying to snatch it from his grip, I decided to let him keep his mystery drink. If Monkey Boy wanted to be greedy with his precious brew, who was I to press? Besides, the last thing I needed was to find out firsthand what kind of hangover magic brings.
I shifted uncomfortably, rubbing my sore back, eyes lingering on the peach that sat innocently on the floor beside me. Sleeping on wooden planks was somehow worse than bedding down in dirt and moss—at least the earth had a softness to it. But a roof over our heads, even one as broken as this, was a luxury I had learned never to take for granted. In my old world, shelter had been a fleeting comfort, one I couldn't always claim.
Given the choice, I'd gladly take the unforgiving hardness of wooden floors beneath me, as long as there was a roof above to cradle the night. It sure beats curling up against the forest's false promises of softness, where the earth is littered with hidden roots and the open dark stretches out endlessly, hiding who-knows-what in its shadowy depths. Out there, the darkness isn't just empty—it's a mouth waiting to swallow you whole.
At least, it felt like it in this mystical world.
Truth be told, I could have nestled into the stone to sleep, hidden away in its embrace. But I didn't. I didn't want to leave him alone, not after his earlier… apprehension toward me. Call me soft, call me a fool, but I'd glimpsed something beneath all that bravado and cold shoulder. In the rare moments when he thought no one was watching, where he forgot I was watching—those quiet instances before we became friends—I'd catch him staring at the sky, day or night, with a sigh. Not the kind of sigh that comes from exhaustion, but the kind that carries the weight of something unspoken. Something lonelier.
It was that sigh, that sliver of vulnerability, that kept me tethered to him. It's why I pushed so hard, why I was relentless in pushing my way into his orbit, desperate to bridge the space between us. Desperate to call him a friend, even when he kept me at arm's length.
I reached for the peach, cradling it in my palm. It had the same weight as the first one I'd found when I stumbled into this strange world—a curious heft, like it was stone beneath that deceptively soft skin. The other fruits we'd eaten had been light, forgettable, but these peaches? They felt heavy in a way that went beyond the physical. Almost… significant. I wondered, for a fleeting moment, what it meant. But as the thought drifted away like smoke, I brought the peach to my lips and bit down—
Only to nearly break my teeth.
The thing was rock solid. And then it started wiggling.
I gasped, flinging the peach into the air as I recoiled with a shriek, watching in horror as it continued to wither as it flew up in the air!
The fruit spiraled upward, up, up, and up, then burst into a cloud of smoke that swirled around me. Before I could even process what was happening—flick—a sharp, playful tap landed right in the center of my forehead.
There he was. Monkey Boy. Crouched low like a predator ready to strike, right in front of me, pivoting on his toes with effortless grace, his long digits gripping the wooden planks like they were the branches of a tree. One hand rested on his outstretched knee, cradling something I didn't care to notice at the moment, the other joining it as I pressed my fingers to the spot he'd flicked. Our eyes locked, and he grinned—a slow, mischievous curl of his lips, revealing every tooth in that grin of his. A grin that held all the wild charm of a trickster god, the kind that promised trouble and amusement in equal measure.
And gods, wasn't he amused.
I stared, completely caught off guard by the rare, unguarded joy lighting up his face. It was like watching the sun pierce through the clouds after days of endless rain—soft, radiant, and so bright it almost hurt to look at. And then it hit me.
I jabbed a finger at his chest, barely managing to hold back the grin creeping onto my own lips. It wasn't just his infectious smile, though that was part of it. No, it was something deeper, a quiet happiness unfurling in my chest at seeing him happy for once. Even if I knew it was fleeting, like everything else with him. "You were the peach I tripped over the day we met, weren't you?"
He should be thankful I didn't start licking it, or worse, sucking on the side or doing something equally humiliating. That would've been a moment I'd never live down.
And you'd think I'd be more thrown off by the fact that he can turn into objects now. But after seeing him shift, actually transform into that fire-wolf man he'd taken down, whip out that magical staff of his that grew on command, and freeze enemies with nothing more than a flick of his wrist, surprise? It was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore.
Besides, it wasn't great for my heart—gotta stay healthy, especially if I'm stuck here for the long haul. So, I did what I always do. I accepted it. Instantly.
Because with Monkey Boy, there's no use fighting the ridiculous. You just go with it, or you'll end up tangled in knots.
I didn't like being knotted…
He tilted his head, that mischievous grin sharpening into something devilish. It was as if the very air around him crackled with playful danger, and somehow, it made those sharp teeth of his look even more menacing. Mischief practically radiated off him, daring me to play along.
I tilted my head, mirroring his movement. "So, you're into playing games now, huh?" My hand lifted, half-tempted to poke him right in the cheek, but I stopped short, pulling back at the last second. Yeah, we weren't quite there yet, despite my hand itching to do just that. Instead, I let out a laugh, light and easy. "Sorry for throwing you at those wolfmen before. Had no idea it was you."
Then again, he did flick me. So really, poking him in the cheek? Fair game, right?
I didn't act on it.
But I really wanted to.
In a way, I craved physical touch—it had its own quiet language, a dialect of skin and closeness. A friendly tap on the shoulder, a brush of warmth that whispered, I'm here, we're in this together. A playful nudge, like laughter that reached out and left its mark. There was a comfort in the way touch could speak when words fell short, a connection that settled deep.
But not a lover's touch. Not that I'd know what that felt like, even if it came up and introduced itself.
I leaned forward again, finally realizing I was still propped up on one hand from his little surprise attack—or prank, or whatever he wanted to call it. Hands now resting between my crossed legs, I lazily smiled at him.
"You know, I've been thinking," I began, my eyes narrowed playfully. "Is it just me, or do you actively try to be as dramatic as possible? Like, do you rehearse all those flashy entrances and exits when I'm not looking? Just to make sure you nail the whole 'mysterious trickster' vibe?"
I'd even seen it in battle—the way he relished catching his opponents off guard. There was a thrill in it for him, the way he'd shift and twist, transforming into something unexpected, something impossible. Always one step ahead, always outmaneuvering anything that dared to challenge him, as if the very act of outwitting his foes was a game he played with the universe itself.
Monkey Boy, as expected, said nothing, his grin growing a fraction wider.
"Oh, come on," I nudged, "I mean, the smoke bursts? The sudden transformations? The disappearing into thin air? Admit it, you've got a flair for the theatrics."
He flicked his tail, still grinning.
I pretended to roll my eyes, though the smile tugging at my lips probably betrayed me. "You probably practice that smug look, too. Do you do it in the mirror? Or are you just naturally that insufferable?"
Monkey Boy's eyes glinted with amusement, and he leaned back, crossing his arms in front of him like a king surveying his kingdom.
"Ugh, of course." I laughed, throwing my hands up in mock frustration. "You know what? You're like chaos on legs. Everywhere we go, something attacks, we're chased by some freaky monster, and yet—you're just there. Beating everything up like it's no big deal. Like none of it phases you. What's your secret? Do you somehow gain some higher power when you meditate? Is it some kind of magic brew? Because seriously, I could use a sip of that."
Monkey Boy raised an eyebrow, giving me one of his signature looks—equal parts mystery and mischief.
"Don't give me that look," I huffed. "You know what I'm talking about."
He finally leaned closer, his grin widening as if he was about to let me in on some grand secret. Then, he tapped me on the nose, quick as lightning, before pulling back with…
Did he just flick his tongue over his tooth? What kind of signal was that—some secret monkey code I was supposed to decipher?
And… why on earth was I blushing?
I blinked, the world momentarily blurring as I tried to make sense of it all. Then I let out a laugh, a little too loud and a little too nervous, hoping it would mask the warmth creeping up my cheeks like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky.
"Okay, fine! Keep your tricks, Monkey Boy."
He stood then, fluid as always, my gaze following him as he moved to the corner of the room, setting something down with that careful deliberateness that always made me wonder what was going on in that mind of his.
And then it struck me, like a breeze shifting direction—I finally noticed something about Monkey Boy. Something new, something subtle, like a shadow that had always been there but suddenly took shape in the light.
Why hadn't I noticed it before?
"Did you find yourself a new wardrobe?" I asked, my eyes tracing over the lighter beige linen of his shirt-wrap and pants. The soft fabric clung to him differently, almost gentler than the usual dark gray-blue he sported. Even his tiger kilt had been swapped for a darker, richer blue, the wrappings on his arms and legs fresh, like they hadn't yet weathered the chaos that seemed to follow us everywhere. There was something cleaner about him now, a deliberate shift, and it stirred a strange curiosity in me.
That's when I spotted the neatly folded clothes in the corner—everything but the tiger kilt, still hanging from his hands like a favored relic.
I stood, walking over to the pile, standing next to the Monkey, the soft whisper of fabric catching my attention. I pointed at the clothes, casting him a curious glance as he stood nearby, his expression unreadable but calm. "Are you leaving these behind?"
He nodded, casual as ever.
"Mind if I take them, then?" I asked, arching a brow, the corner of my lip twitching into a smirk. It was more a formality than anything, knowing he wouldn't object, but there was something in the ritual of asking that felt almost... playful?
He just shrugged, the gesture so eerily human that I almost laughed. Typical Monkey Boy—never giving more than the bare minimum, always keeping just enough mystery to leave me guessing. But that shrug? It spoke louder than any words he could've given. Permission granted.
A smirk tugged at my lips as I crossed my arms, casting a quick glance down at my own pathetic excuse for an outfit. I'd tried, really tried, to keep it clean, scrubbing it in streams while Monkey Boy respectfully kept his back turned. But my jeans? They were stiff, uncomfortable, and slowly unraveling with every trek through this unforgiving, magical land. Modern clothes weren't exactly built for this kind of wear and tear.
"As you can see," I muttered, more to myself than him, "I'm not exactly blending in around here. Haven't had much luck finding anything that fits this world's... aesthetic." I gave him a nod, a little more genuine this time, clasping my hands behind me as I leaned forward just enough to catch his gaze. "So, thanks. I really do appreciate it."
He looked away, his expression unreadable—maybe flustered, maybe indifferent. Hard to say. Either way, it was kind of... endearing, in that typical Monkey Boy way.
My eyes drifted to the tiger kilt still in his hands, his right fingers running slowly over the fabric as if tracing memories woven into the cloth. "Is that important to you?" I asked, my voice softer, sensing a rare moment of something deeper.
He glanced down at the kilt, his hand moving with a reverence that made me pause. It wasn't often I saw him like this—unguarded, sentimental even.
I smiled, an idea forming. "I found a large satchel yesterday in the other abandoned building across from us. If you're cool with it, we can test if I can carry it in and out of the stone today. I could keep it safe for you?"
His eyes flicked back to me, still as unreadable as ever, but his nod was firm.
He liked that idea.
I returned his smile, a spark of relief flickering to life inside me. Finally, I could be something more than just a bystander that pops from a magical stone to only embarrass herself in front of this very cool Monkey. Finally, I could be of use to him.
When I switched out of my clothes, Monkey Boy waiting just outside, I realized I'd need his help with the bindings around my arms and legs. Not that it was strictly necessary, but his clothes were long, the fabric draping down in folds that would be better tucked beneath the wrappings than left to flap in the wind—or worse, trip me up in an emergency.
He gave me a strange, yet fleeting look I couldn't decipher when I walked out of the building, his hands tightening then loosening at his sides, but he walked over to me and crouched next to me as I sat on the ground when I requested his help, my heel pivoting in his knee showing me the careful, deliberate way he bound his own limbs, and I couldn't stop my gaze from wandering to his hands, the look he gave me all but forgotten as something else took all my attention. His claws, gleaming in the light, then the dark fur coating the backs of his hand, brushing against my covered leg as he worked. The memory of grabbing his hand to show him how to shake resurfaced, and I suddenly wished I'd taken more time to feel it. I couldn't even remember—was his fur soft? Or stiff, like the coarse hide of some wild animal?
And those claws… sharp as they were, glinting dangerously with every move he made. How easily they could slice through my skin, should he ever choose to. But he wouldn't. I knew that, even if the thought lingered for a moment.
Still, they looked wickedly sharp. Did he sharpen them himself, like a warrior honing a blade? Or were they simply born that way, deadly without any effort at all?
But as I kept gazing at his hand, completely absorbed in the intricate details of his claws and the way the fur curled softly over his knuckles, I didn't even notice that he'd finished tucking in the last strip of the wrappings. The world seemed to slow, everything fading except for the textures beneath my eyes. It wasn't until his left hand, still resting on my leg, gave a quick tap-tap with his pointer that I blinked out of my trance.
I blinked once. Then again, as if to clear the fog from my mind. Slowly, I looked up at Monkey Boy, still crouched on one knee, his brow arched, a silent question dancing behind his human-like eyes. There was amusement there too, just a glimmer, as if he'd caught me in the act of being completely and utterly…well, distracted by him.
A nervous laugh slipped past my lips. "Uh, your…. erm, hands distracted me. Sorry," I mumbled, scratching the back of my head in an attempt to shake off the embarrassment. I couldn't exactly lie—he'd clearly seen me caught up in my little reverie, studying him like he was some kind of puzzle I couldn't quite solve.
Not that I could lie. I was a terrible liar, the kind whose face betrayed me before the words even had a chance to form. My cheeks would flush crimson, my eyes would flicker like they were searching for an escape route, and I'd trip over my own tongue in a spectacular mess of awkwardness. Lying wasn't just hard—it was impossible. Truth bled out of me, unbidden and raw, no matter how much I wished I could hide it.
My father had always found this particular trait endearing, his lips twitching into a half-smile whenever I'd try to wiggle out of trouble as a kid. "You've got a heart too honest for games," he'd say, ruffling my hair with a warmth that made my fumbling seem like a gift rather than a flaw.
My gaze dropped back down to his hand, still resting against my leg, and without thinking, my right hand lifted from where it rested at my side, fingers drifting toward his. They hovered above his hand, so close I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. But then I hesitated, a breath caught in my throat. I glanced up at him, searching his eyes, and in return, his gaze flicked down toward his own hand, his face blank and unreadable, but it was as if he already knew what I was asking without me needing to say a word.
When I looked back down, his palm was turned up, his fingers spread slightly, like an invitation carved out of silence. A quiet offer, waiting for me to reach back.
And reach out I did. My fingers glided over the surface of his palm, from the divet near his wrist to the upper part near his fingers, tracing the rough ridges of calluses that told a story all their own—wicked, jagged, sharp in some places. These weren't the smooth hands of a drifter but the hands of someone who wielded power, whose every touch carried weight. My other hand followed, cupping the back of his hand, fingers sinking into the coarse fur.
Now I remembered. His fur had been like this the last time I touched him—rough but not harsh, like there were layers to it, a softer undercurrent hidden beneath the wiry surface. It was a strange texture, one that begged to be explored.
But I didn't dare let my fingers scratch through his hair—I only cupped it, cradling the moment with a careful touch. In all honesty, I had no idea what I was doing, my hand resting against him like it had a mind of its own. Touching him like this, as if I had any right… What was I even thinking? Our friendship was still too new for this…
Besides, who knew what his customs were? Why was I even pushing this? Then again, he could have turned me away if he'd wanted to—could have set those boundaries himself.
But then my mind drifted again, wondering if he shed when the seasons changed? I bit my lip to stifle the absurd question bubbling up inside me. Would that be rude to ask? Probably. But the thought lingered in the air between us, as curious and stubborn as I was, whispering to be answered.
I pulled my leg back, settling into a cross-legged position, then scooted myself around until I was facing his left side instead of straight on. With a curious glance at him, I spread my left hand over his, palm to palm, fingers trying—and failing—to align with his.
His hand dwarfed mine. My fingertips didn't even reach the start of his claws, not even close to the upper half of his fingers. If he curled his hand just slightly, those sharp claws could probably graze my knuckles, while my hand would still be perfectly straight against his.
But his palm... it was only a little bigger than mine, though rough and worn, like a battlefield beneath my skin. As I pressed my hand against his, I could feel the calluses scraping lightly, a quiet reminder of how much he'd endured. It was strange, feeling that contrast—the strength in his hand against the softness of mine, the untamed wildness brushing up against something more fragile. It was both grounding and humbling all at once.
I glanced up at him, half-expecting to see discomfort or annoyance, wondering if my lingering curiosity was crossing some invisible line. But instead, I found him studying my hand with a furrowed brow, his eyes tracing over the smallness of it, as if it were a strange artifact he'd never encountered before. And for a moment, I wondered if he found it too soft, too delicate compared to his.
That look of concentration? It was surprisingly… cute. Boyish, even, in a way that made me bite back a grin.
I realized then that I'd never really studied his face before. Odd, considering how different he looked—so distinctly not human, so undeniably monkey-like. Maybe a part of me had avoided staring, not wanting to seem rude or as though I found him too alien. But now, I let myself look, really look.
The way his upper lip jutted out, almost like it was swollen, though I knew it wasn't—it concealed sharp, protruding teeth, after all. His face was covered in a fine layer of fur, not quite a beard but the same coarse hair that swept across the back of his hands and crowned his head. It gave him a wildness, a sharpness that seemed to slice through the air behind him, making him appear formidable. His side profile had a certain appeal, not in a sexual way, but something undeniably masculine, carved with a rough elegance that demanded a second glance. It drew my eyes to him, as if compelled.
And his brows—always set in a stern line, scrunched in the middle with a tension that seemed permanently etched there. Now, more than ever, they looked like they were holding back the weight of the world.
But I couldn't hold it back for long, the smile breaking free as the ridiculous urge to poke him in the nose bubbled up inside me. He'd flicked my forehead and tapped my nose earlier, so surely, he wouldn't mind a little playful poke in return. Right?
A quick poke, then I'd leave him alone. My curiosity about his monkey hands would be satisfied, and we'd call it even.
But, as usual, nothing went according to plan.
Just as my finger descended, aiming for his nose, he lifted his head at the exact wrong moment. Instead of a light tap on his nose, my finger landed squarely on his mouth. And as if that wasn't awkward enough, his lips parted in what might've been a gasp, or just out of surprise in general—though I couldn't be sure—because the next thing I knew, my finger had slipped right into his mouth.
I froze, my brain short-circuiting as the sheer absurdity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. My finger. Was in. His mouth.
For a second, we just stared at each other, me wide-eyed and him… well, probably just as confused, though it was hard to tell with my finger in his mouth.
Then I finally unfroze.
"Oh my gods—" I yanked my hand back so fast I nearly knocked myself over, a trail of spit following my finger, along with wide bewildered, and downright terrified eyes of Monkey Boy following the move, his wide eyes darting from my finger to my face. "I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I wasn't trying to finger your mouth!" I stammered, waving my hands in front of me like that would somehow erase the moment.
Then my words hit me, and a fresh wave of horror crashed over me, drowning me in sheer mortification.
"Not--mouth fingering! I mean, my finger! In your mouth! I didn't mean--oh god, it was a mistake!"
The words tumbled out, each one digging the hole deeper as I scrambled to backtrack, but somehow, with every syllable, it only got worse. My heart was racing, the heat rising up my neck as my brain screamed at me to stop talking, stop making it worse. Yet here I was, sitting right in the middle of my own verbal disaster, helpless as the embarrassment wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket.
Monkey Boy shot to his feet, eyes still wide as his hands clenched into fists. Without a word, he spun on his heel and turned his back to me.
Fantastic. Was he mad now?
I sighed deeply. Taking in three calming breaths as my hand rose to cup my burning cheek, still wet from his saliva, before continuing, "Okay, new rule—no more nose poking, no more… mouth… situations. I'm just going to keep my hands to myself from now on. Deal? We should start making…rules."
Rules would help keep me from stumbling into moments like this—tripping over my own feet and landing squarely in embarrassment.
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, turning them an embarrassing shade. I tried to play it off with a laugh, my hand falling back to my lap, but honestly, at this point, I was half-waiting for the ground to swallow me whole.
That's when I noticed it—his shoulders, trembling with a subtle shake. A twitch here, a quiver there.
It hit me then—he was holding back a laugh. He was laughing at me.
For a heartbeat, I just sat there, sprawled on the ground, staring up at him. And then it bubbled up inside me too, a reluctant chuckle breaking free as my own shoulders began to shake. I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, trying and failing to stifle it.
Well, at least we could share a laugh over these awkward moments.