The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis
Chapter 99: A Quiet Night

Chapter 99: A Quiet Night

Sleep evaded me.

I tossed and turned under the silk covers, the moonlight filtering through the carved screen windows, casting shadows like fingers across the bedding. My stomach throbbed in tight, cramping waves. It was familiar and unwelcome—my period had arrived, unannounced and merciless. As usual. I shifted again, curling into a loose ball and muttering a curse under my breath.

"Can’t sleep?" came a voice, low and smooth as velvet.

I didn’t startle. I knew that voice.

"Not really," I muttered, rubbing my stomach. "My timing sucks. My periods are irregular and when they show up, they like to make an entrance. I’m sore, cranky, and all I want is a warm bed, a trashy movie, and chocolate I don’t have."

A pause. Then a quiet shuffle. I couldn’t help the soft chuckle that came out of me. I should have known that talking about ’womanly issues’ would make the silent assassin uncomfortable.

"Do you ever sleep?" I asked, turning my head toward the dark corner.

Shi Yaozu stepped into the light, his hair still bound up in that crown thing he always wore. I had no idea what it was called, but it was a good look on him. Not quite a manbun, but it still highlighted his high cheekbones and piercing eyes.

"Not when it comes to you," he answered honestly, dragging me from my thoughts. "A part of me thinks if I close my eyes for longer than a second, you’ll be gone and I’ll never find you again."

Something in my chest tightened at his quiet confession.

I patted the space beside me and scooted over. "Come lie down."

He hesitated.

"I can get your husband," he said at last. His voice didn’t waver, but his fists were clenched at his sides in protest.

I raised a brow. "If I wanted my husband, I would ask for him. Or am I doing something wrong by wanting you instead?"

Silence.

And then, because I could already picture exactly what I wanted to do tonight, I made a wish.

"Hattie," I called softly, gazing up at the ceiling. "I don’t know what time it is back home, so don’t yell at me for wishing outside of your 4-to-5-p.m. window. I wish for a tablet. A big one, but light enough to hold easily. I want it to come loaded with a ton of shows and movies—different genres, old and new. I want some games too. And a document app so I can write notes. Also, a solar charger and cord, so the battery never dies."

I paused, mentally reviewing the list, not wanting to miss anything and have the wish blow up in my face. It’s been known to happen.

"Oh—and two sets of headphones and high-speed internet. Please and thank you. In exchange, I’ll do one favor of your choosing, at a time of your choosing."

Shi Yaozu blinked. The confusion on his face was subtle but real. To him, I probably sounded like I was speaking in riddles. But when the tablet appeared on my lap, sleek and dark with accessories bundled neatly beside it, I couldn’t help the childlike squeal I gave.

"I really should’ve wished for chocolate," I murmured after a second, grinning.

Tomorrow, I’d make ginger and brown sugar soup. It was almost as good. Or maybe I would find a way to make a caramel... hmmmm... ice cream sundae.

Shaking my head, I looked back at Yaozu. "Sit," I ordered. "Let me introduce you to my world."

This time, he didn’t argue. He sat carefully, like the mattress might collapse beneath him. I turned on the tablet, pulled up one of my favorite films, and scooted close.

"Come closer," I said, teasingly. "Said the spider to the fly. I promise I won’t bite."

He didn’t even smirk, not fully understanding. But he moved closer anyway. When he finally lay beside me, stretched out on his side, I curled into him like I had always belonged there. My head rested on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

The movie started: John Wick. A romance, in my eyes, about a man and the last gift from his dead wife—a dog. It was sweet, ridiculous, and unapologetically violent. It was absolutely perfect.

Shi Yaozu watched silently at first, his eyes narrowing at everything going on on screen. In return, I watched his profile in the flickering light.

When the first explosion happened—just a loud bang in the scene—he jerked slightly, muscles tense beneath me. His hand instinctively reached toward the small of his back where his blade usually hung.

"It’s not real," I murmured. "Just a story. A fake one. No one’s actually dying," I explained. "Think of it as... a theater, or a troupe of actors. But instead of them coming to your house, it’s on this thing right here."

He nodded, but his gaze remained suspicious, locked on the screen like he expected it to leap at him.

Then came the car chase. Guns fired. Glass shattered. Bodies flew across the screen.

Yaozu sat straighter. "Why are they doing that? Why is there so much destruction just to catch someone?"

"Drama," I said, stifling a yawn. "That’s how people in my world escape reality. The higher the stakes, the more we believe it matters. You’ll get used to it. I’ll see if I have Ninja Assassin on this thing. You might enjoy that, too."

He was quiet, but I could feel the tension in his chest as I rested against him. A sword in his hand made more sense than this.

A particularly intense close-quarters fight started. Orchestral music swelled behind the scene. Keanu Reeves snapped bones with efficient precision.

Yaozu’s brow furrowed. "That’s not how a man should hold a dagger. He leaves his side open."

I snorted. "Please, do criticize the choreography. That man was considered to be a god among men when he was alive. Even hundreds of years later, his movies are enshrined."

His lip twitched, but he stayed quiet.

Another scene—rain, soft piano music, a memory of the wife who’d died. A funeral. Then the dog. He blinked slowly.

"This is... supposed to be a love story?"

"Yeah. But instead of kissing, he shoots people in the face."

He frowned. "Your culture is strange."

I chuckled, my cramps completely forgotten as I enjoyed my time with Yaozu. "Accurate," I agreed, holding back a yawn.

We kept watching. Halfway through, I paused the movie and opened a game on the tablet—something simple, tapping bubbles on the screen.

"Is this a battle formation?" he asked, squinting at the layout.

"No. This is simply a game. You need to pop the ballons, but you can only pop them when they are the same color."

He blinked. "And the objective?"

"Destroy bubbles. Win points. Feel accomplished in life."

He stared at it like it was alchemy. "Your world creates the strangest weapons."

That made me laugh. I leaned up to kiss his cheek, sudden and soft. "That’s not a weapon. That’s therapy."

He didn’t pull away, but I could tell he didn’t understand.

Later, when I resumed the movie and John Wick killed someone with a book, Yaozu muttered, "Finally. Something I approve of."

It was well past midnight when my body finally began to relax. The pain hadn’t gone away, but warmth, the glow of the screen, and the steady presence of Yaozu next to me dulled the edges.

"Do you miss it?" he asked, quietly.

"What?"

"Where you came from."

I thought about hot showers. Bad reality TV. Cheap ramen. Family dinners. The feel of denim and hoodies. The ability to walk down a street without watching every shadow.

"Sometimes. But I think... I was always meant to leave it behind. It never felt permanent. This place does, somehow."

He nodded, saying nothing more. But his fingers curled around mine.

Outside, the wind rattled bamboo chimes.

Inside, we lay together in a tangle of cultures and worlds, pasts and futures.

When I finally fell asleep, the movie was still glowing faintly. One of his hands rested lightly on my hip, protective and still. He didn’t sleep. He just watched me—like he always would.