Group work was Valerie's least favorite part of any class.
Not because she disliked people—but because it required a kind of casual closeness she never quite trusted. Shared jokes. Easy laughter. The assumption that nothing complicated lived beneath the surface.
Today, the professor paired them without ceremony.
"Valerie Whitmore and Ethan Morales," she said, already moving on.
Ethan smiled as he slid into the seat beside her.
"Looks like we're partners," he said easily.
Valerie nodded. "Looks like it."
They worked well together.
Too well.
Ethan was quick-witted, attentive without being invasive, the kind of person who listened instead of waiting to speak. Their discussion flowed naturally—education theory, classroom ethics, the tension between structure and empathy.
Valerie found herself laughing before she realized it.
It startled her.
Across the room, Death felt it like a rupture.
Not the laughter itself.
The direction of it.
His awareness sharpened instantly, attention narrowing to the subtle shift in Valerie's posture, the way her body angled unconsciously toward the young man beside her. The sound of her voice—lighter, unguarded.
This was new.
Unacceptable.
He remained still, hands at his sides, forcing restraint the way he had learned to since crossing. But something unfamiliar coiled tightly inside him, fast and volatile.
Possession.
No.
He did not own her.
He told himself that.
Again.
And again.
When class ended, Ethan gathered his notes and grinned at her. "You heading out?"
"Yeah," Valerie said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
They walked together, conversation continuing easily as they exited the building. The afternoon sun warmed the steps, students spilling out around them in clusters of noise and movement.
Death followed.
Closer than usual.
Valerie sensed it, a prickling awareness at the back of her neck.
Ethan stopped just outside the doors.
"So," he said, hesitating slightly, "do you want to grab coffee sometime? You're… easy to talk to."
Valerie smiled, polite but uncertain. "Maybe."
It was an honest answer.
Ethan leaned in.
Not abruptly.
Not aggressively.
Just close enough that his intention became clear.
Time slowed.
Valerie's heart jumped—not with desire, but surprise.
She opened her mouth to speak.
Death moved.
The air shifted violently, like pressure snapping.
He stepped between them in a single motion, body rigid, presence flaring sharp and undeniable.
Ethan stumbled back, confusion flashing across his face. "Hey—what the hell?"
Death's eyes were dark.
Too dark.
Rage surged through him unfiltered, raw and blinding. It burned hot and immediate, unlike anything he had ever known.
This was jealousy.
This was threat.
"Do not touch her," Death said.
The words were low.
Final.
Ethan bristled. "Who do you think you are?"
Death did not answer.
He stepped forward again.
Valerie reacted instantly.
"No," she said sharply, grabbing Death's arm.
The contact grounded him—and ignited him at the same time.
He turned, startled by the sensation, by the force of emotion flooding his awareness unchecked.
"Stop," Valerie said urgently. "Please."
Ethan scoffed. "Is this your boyfriend or—"
Death's restraint shattered.
He yanked his arm free.
Valerie lost her balance.
She hit the ground hard, pain blooming up her side, sharp and sudden.
"Valerie!" Ethan shouted, dropping to a knee.
The sound cut through Death's rage like a blade.
She was hurt.
Because of him.
Because he had lost control.
The world snapped back into focus.
Death froze.
The fury drained as quickly as it had come, replaced by something worse.
Horror.
He looked down at her—at the way she winced, one hand pressed to her ribs, eyes wide with shock rather than fear.
"I—" His voice broke. "I didn't—"
Valerie pushed herself up, breath unsteady. "I'm okay," she said quickly. "I'm okay."
But her arm was scraped. Her side throbbed.
Ethan glared at Death. "You need to get help, man."
Death didn't hear him.
The weight of what he had almost done—what he had done—crushed him.
He had crossed again.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
And that was far more dangerous.
Without another word, Death turned and walked away.
No—ran.
Valerie watched him disappear down the steps, heart hammering.
"Valerie, are you sure you're okay?" Ethan asked, hovering.
She nodded, forcing herself upright. "Yeah. I just… need to go."
She didn't wait for another question.
The walk home felt longer than it ever had.
Her body ached, but the pain in her chest was sharper. Guilt. Fear. Understanding.
She unlocked the door with shaking hands.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
"Death?" she called softly.
No answer.
She moved through the rooms quickly, pulse racing.
Then she found him.
In the living room.
On his knees.
Hands braced against the floor like the weight of the world had finally become too much.
His breathing was uneven, harsh.
He didn't look up when she entered.
"I didn't mean to," he said hoarsely. "I lost control."
Valerie closed the door behind her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
She knelt in front of him.
"I know," she said quietly.
He finally looked at her.
His eyes were wrecked.
"I felt it," he said. "The anger. The need to remove him. To protect you."
She swallowed. "That was jealousy."
"Yes."
The admission shook him.
"I have never felt it before," he whispered. "And it terrified me."
Valerie reached out, ignoring the ache in her side, and placed her hand gently on his.
"I'm here," she said.
He closed his eyes, breath shuddering.
And the universe leaned closer.