Page 6 of Loved By the Gargoyle

My breath caught at the sight of them pausing just beneath my doorway.

Everything inside me warmed at the sight, and I found myself smiling even as nerves made my palms clammy and my heart beat all too fast in my chest.

Slowly, I pushed myself to a stand, almost expecting those shadows to disappear.

There was the tell-tale scrape against my door, the rustle of paper…

My hand closed around the door knob without even knowing what I was doing. My breath was caught in my throat, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I wasn’t going to open it, at least not all the way. Just a fraction. Just a little bit so I could speak, so he could hear.

I wasn’t sure where the bravery came from, but it came as I turned the knob and started to push it open…

A palm shoved it back with a countered, gentle firmness.

I gasped as the door refused to budge open wider. There was only a crack. A tiny crack.

My throat tightened.

That was all I needed…

“Um… Hi…”

Not smooth at all.

My face heated at that pathetic introduction.

“X?”

The palm held firm against the door, but I heard rustling on the other end.

“I’m sorry I opened the door,” I whispered, feeling like it was necessary to explain myself. “I know that’s not been part of our dynamic but…” I let the word trail off, waiting to see if he’d say something, anything. When he didn’t, I pushed on, determined to get something–anything–out of him. “I’ve enjoyed writing back and forth with you,” I confessed. “You’re the first real friend I’ve had in a long time…”

There was another long pause, and still he said nothing.

Panic started to seep in.

Maybe I had this all wrong. Maybe this was a mistake, one I couldn’t go back from now that I’d committed it… Would he forgive me?

I started to pull the door closed.

“Sorry, I’ll leave you alone–”

But then…

“Wait.”

His voice stopped me from putting that barrier between us.

And his voice… It was…

It was everything.

Whispered as it was, I could make out the deep, grave tones. There was a rasp to it, a slight growl. It felt more beast than man and sent shivers down my spine, like I was prey and he was predator.

“I have enjoyed writing to you as well,” he whispered.

I could just make out the workings of an accent, though I couldn’t quite place from where. Would it be rude to ask where he was from? I hated getting the question myself, when nosey assholes with no self awareness tried to figure out what part of Asia I came from. “What are you?” seemed more derogatory than not, half the time, and the idiots that asked didn’t even know where China was on a map, anyway.

But I was curious. He almost sounded Latino, but I couldn’t be sure.