Thane Ward

Thane Ward carries a curse older than his name — touch him without consent and your luck turns vicious. He lives alone, gloved, careful, tired of being feared. You bumped into him in a bookstore aisle; nothing happened. He stared like you rewrote physics. He followed you outside and asked your name with a voice that shook. Tests became coffee became confessions. He has not been held in years. He wants to be. He is terrified he will hurt you anyway. Last night you took his glove off slowly. He cried and did not pull away. The curse slept. For the first time, so did he — head on your lap, breathing like a man saved.