i'm born nxde

Walter was half-under the sink again, broad back flexing beneath a faded grey t-shirt, riding up just enough to show the slope of his lower back. His jeans were slung low on his hips, dusty and worn at the pockets. Barefoot, like he always was on Sundays. The man had a whole drawer full of socks and never touched them unless it was snowing.

He had grunted softly, adjusting something with the wrench. You were almost certain the leak had been fixed on Friday.

“Walter,” you had called, voice still husky from sleep.

A pause. “Yeah?”

“You already fixed that pipe.”

“I know.” Another metallic click. “Just makin’ sure.”

You had padded into the kitchen, feet bare on the warm hardwood, crossing your arms as you watched him emerge from under the sink. He had moved slow, deliberate, like his body still ached from years of chasing monsters. His beard was thicker now, salt-and-pepper shadowing his jawline. Hair longer than he used to keep it, curling at his nape.

When his eyes had found yours, they were already warm.

“You don’t trust your own work now?”

He had smirked, the scar above his brow tugging slightly. “I trust it just fine. Doesn’t mean I don’t check it twice.”

“Uh huh,” you had said dryly, eyeing the perfectly dry sink. “And this has nothing to do with the fact you get to spend an hour on your back while I stare at your ass?”

Walter had straightened to full height, towering, arms glistening faintly with the sheen of effort. “If you wanted me on my back, sweetheart, you only had to ask.”

Heat had curled low in your belly at the sound of that gravelly voice paired with his casual, teasing grin. Damn him.

“Bold talk for a man elbow-deep in plumbing,” you had muttered.

He had stepped closer, dragging the grease rag from his back pocket and tossing it on the counter without breaking eye contact. “You’ve been standing there for a while now. Quiet. Watching. Figured you wanted something.”

Your breath had hitched. He was close enough now that you could smell him- soap and sweat and the bacon he cooked earlier. That specific, masculine warmth that never quite faded from his skin.

“Maybe I just like seeing you domestic,” you had murmured, lips tugging up.

Walter had tilted his head slightly, studying you the way he used to study suspects, except softer. Always softer with you. His hands had found your waist, big palms settling easily, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. You had felt a smear of grease on your hip and shivered.

“You like this?” he had asked, voice low. “Me playing house?”

“I like you, playing house.”

He had leaned in then, so close you felt his beard brush your cheek, the whisper of his lips at your ear. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hands had fisted in the fabric of his shirt just as he dipped down, lips pressing against your throat, gentle, reverent. His beard had scraped in the best way. You had let out a sound—half sigh, half whimper. He had chuckled into your skin.

“You’re not cold,” he had said, lips brushing along your jaw. “But you’ve got goosebumps.”

You had swallowed, barely able to speak. “Maybe I’m just excited to see what you’ll fix next.”

Walter had pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. There had been something smoldering in his gaze, something that hadn’t dulled with age or time. It was quieter now, less reckless. But it still burned. And right then, all of it was focused on you.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he had said roughly, voice dropping. “But they all involve this shirt coming off.”

You had bitten your lip, heart skipping.

Then, without warning, his hands had gripped your thighs and lifted you up onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

You had gasped, laughing breathlessly. “Walter-”

He had stepped in between your legs, dragging you to the edge until your hips were flush with his. One big hand had braced your lower back, the other slipping up under your sleep shirt.

His other hand had come up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking gently along your jaw before he leaned in to kiss you, slow, deep, the kind that made your knees weak even when you weren’t standing. His beard had tickled, the scrape of it making you hum against his mouth.

But you had pulled back suddenly, hands pressing against his chest.

"I have to go," you had murmured, guilt already creeping in.

His brows had furrowed. "What?"

You had glanced at the phone buzzing on the nearby counter. "I have to get back to the office. They need final revisions before Thursday’s handover. And someone's changing their mind about direction."

Walter’s expression had darkened, something shifting under his steady calm. "Really? Today?"

"I know... I'm sorry." Your voice had softened. You hated how often work pulled you away from quiet mornings like that. From him. From Faye, when she was over. But it wasn't optional.

"What about what I need?" he had asked, and the words came out like gravel. Heavy. Dangerous.

You had blinked, heart skipping. "What you need?"

His hands had grown more insistent, one sliding higher beneath your shirt while the other pressed at the small of your back, pulling you closer. He had rolled his hips just enough that you could feel the bulge of his jeans thick against your center.

"Surely they can't expect you right away," he had said darkly, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His palm had dipped between your thighs, fingers teasing along your underwear. "This is supposed to be our time."

You had felt a twist in your stomach, arousal and guilt, tangled together. You had worked so hard to give him room to breathe, to recover from a line of work that had started to tear him under, and yet... there he was, eyes burning, hands hungry.

"I know..." you had whispered.

He had pushed aside the thin cotton of your underwear, thick fingers sliding slowly along your center, teasing through the wetness already forming there. Your breath had caught.

"Already wet for me," he had murmured, mouth ghosting over yours again, beard scratching at your skin as he tilted your chin up with one calloused hand. "How am I supposed to let you walk out the door like this? What kind of husband would I be doing that?"

His touch had circled deliberately, slowly, making it impossible to think. You had arched into him as his fingers found that tender bundle of nerves, breath stuttering, hands grasping the edge of the counter to ground yourself.

"Undo my belt," he had said, voice low and firm.

You had hesitated for only a second, the command sending heat through your veins, fogging your mind in the best way. There had been something grounding- relieving- about letting him take over, letting the burden of decision and leadership fall away. You had reached between you, fingers trembling slightly as you worked open the buckle, then popped the button on his jeans.

Walter had groaned softly, his finger teasing your entrance, collecting the slickness before returning to those slow, devastating circles. You had whimpered, lips parting against his jaw.

"Move forward," he had murmured, guiding your hips with his free hand, "and put me in."

Your breath had hitched, the air thick with need, your fingers reaching down again—this time to do exactly as you were told.

He was hot and heavy in your palm, the weight of him sending a pulse through your core. You swallowed hard, brushing your thumb along the tip, and Walter hissed through his teeth, his forehead pressing to yours.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Nice and slow.”

You guided him toward you, heart hammering, thighs trembling slightly against his hips. His hands never stopped moving, one gripping your back, the other still teasing lazy, maddening circles against your clit that made you jolt and moan.

And then you pressed your hips forward, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds as you angled yourself just right.

“Fuck,” he growled as he slid into you, inch by thick inch, stretching you open in that slow, careful way that always made you feel so full it stole your breath. “Goddamn, you feel good.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, your head tipping back against the cabinets as your fingers gripped his biceps.

He didn’t thrust, not yet. Your husband stayed still inside you, buried deep, his hand slipping up your spine, guiding your shirt higher until it bunched around your ribs. His mouth found your collarbone again, kissing, sucking, teasing as his cock pulsed inside you.

You whimpered, rocking your hips just slightly.

“Not yet,” Walter warned, voice ragged but steady. “You wait for me, sweetheart. I’ll give it to you when I’m ready.”

You nodded shakily, every nerve in your body wound tight, the overwhelming fullness of him paired with the friction of his hand working you in slow circles.

“I’ve been patient,” he muttered against your skin, thrusting shallowly once, then twice, just enough to make your thighs shake. “You think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been walking around in nothing but my shirts once you’re home? Teasing me. Then running off to that damn office.”

You moaned, barely coherent. “Walt…”

“No,” he growled, pinning your hips. “You don’t get to rush this. I’m going to make sure you feel me for the rest of the day. Make sure you can’t sit in that office chair without remembering what you left behind.”

His rhythm deepened then, slow, punishing, precise. The thickness of his cock pressed right into that spot inside you that made your vision blur, each deliberate thrust wringing gasps and moans from your lips.

Your head tipped back, hitting the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, as stars danced behind your eyelids. He felt too good- too big, too deep, and too in control. You couldn’t think, could barely breathe. All you could do was feel.

“That’s it, baby,” Walter rasped, his voice barely holding together. “You’re so beautiful when you let me take you apart.”

His mouth found your neck, hot and wet and desperate, tongue sliding over your pulse before he scraped his teeth just hard enough to make you jolt. Your hands scrambled across his back, gripping the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. One hand slid into his thick hair, pulling him in as your legs locked tighter around his waist.

His hips moved in slow, controlled circles, the kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew your body inside and out, knew how to draw it out, build it, break it.

“I’m gonna make something real nice for dinner once you get back,” he murmured against your ear, voice gravel and smoke. “Something hot and rich. Make the whole damn house smell like comfort.”

You whimpered as another wave of pleasure crested.

“But don’t stay too long,” he added, thrusting deeper, slower. “Not when I’m doing all this for you. Not when I’m waiting. Just like you waited for me, sweetheart. Let me do that for you now.”

Emotion laced through the heat in his words- need and love and aching gratitude and it made your whole chest tighten. Your climax hovered on the edge, trembling just beneath the surface, and when he reached between you again, circling your clit with maddening, practiced precision….

your body arched and broke.

You cried out, vision going white, fingers digging into his shoulders as you came hard around him, pulsing and gasping as his name spilled from your lips. Walter held you through it, letting the tension roll through you, never stopping, never letting go.

He followed just moments later, buried deep with a ragged groan against your neck. His arms locked around you, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, panting against your skin like he’d just come home from battle.

Both of you breathed heavily, foreheads pressed together, the kitchen spinning just slightly in the haze of release. Walter peppered soft kisses along your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“My little advertising queen,” he murmured with a fond, husky smile, nuzzling his nose against yours. You wrapped your arms tighter around him, wanting to stay right there- bare, full, safe.

But the moment shattered when your phone began to ring, its shrill tone echoing from the bedroom.

You groaned. “Shit…”

Walter’s jaw tensed as he slowly pulled back, helping you off the counter with gentle hands even as his scowl deepened.

“Ergh. I need to get that,” you muttered, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“We brought someone back,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder as though the walls might be listening. “His name is Kyle. He died, and we used resurgence.”

Your heart dropped like a boulder in your chest. A resurrection spell—a dangerous and volatile magic. Forbidden unless under direct order of the Supreme, and even then, only if it was clean, but this wasn't. You already knew that without needing to ask, though you also knew Zoe wasn't strong enough to pull it off alone.

“He didn't deserve what happened to him,” she says, voice thin and trembling. “He was a good person.”

You believe her. That's the thing, Zoe never lies, not really. She just wants to fix things, and she thought bringing Kyle back would fix it. But you also know magic like that comes with a cost. You saw it in Kyle’s eyes the day she brought him back, there was nothing behind them.

Then Misty got involved, and you understood that too. She’s a wild soul—Misty, but she knows resurrection better than anyone. You could sense her magic clinging on Kyle like vines, but still, Misty couldn't restore what had been broken. Not entirely.

The broken pieces of a boy sewn back together like some patchwork doll. The only part of him that was truly him was his head, but the rest? It was a collage of other bodies. No wonder the soul had trouble finding peace, no wonder Kyle screamed more than he spoke. His body wasn't home anymore, it was a cage. He didn't speak, he grunted, sobbed, and lashed out. There were days he sat curled up in the greenhouse, rocking himself, murmuring things that didn't make any sense.

You would always watch him from afar. You wanted to help, but he flinched at everything that wasn't Zoe.

“I’m taking him back to his mother,” she whispered to you one day. “He needs someone, someone familiar.”

You stared at her like she had grown a second head. “You can’t do that, Zoe.”

You had seen the bruises on his spirit, and it’s not the kind magic could heal. The kind left by years of secrets, you saw the way his entire body locked up when Zoe mentioned his home.

“She loves him,” she insisted. “She’ll help.”

You didn't agree, but you didn't fight her. Instead, you just watched her go, and something in your chest wouldn't settle for that.

It was like an itch you couldn't scratch, a scream you couldn't let out. Days passed, and you decided to keep your mouth shut, hands busy. But the silence got louder, it clawed your insides, gnawed at your thoughts. Then one morning, you woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and you knew—something was wrong. You didn't tell anyone, so you grabbed your keys and drove.

The Spencer house sat tucked in a sleepy New Orleans neighborhood, all peeling paint and dying hydrangeas, a hollow place. The front door was open, so you let yourself in. The house was quiet, not peaceful, but dead. There were dishes in the sink, a chair knocked over, and a picture frame shattered. The air also reeked of copped and rot and something else—something grief-stricken.

You heard it. A sob that is raw, broken, and animalistic. It led you down the hall, past family photos that made your skin crawl. Smiling faces, Kyle’s too, but younger and innocent, not yet touched by death or magic or cruelty. The sobbing got louder as you walked towards the sound, you then pushed the door, and there Kyle was—curled into himself on the bloodstained carpet, his finger torn and red. The wall behind him splattered with it, and his face wasn't just blood on him, it was grief.

You saw her mother slumped on the floor, lifeless. You didn't look at her long, you only saw Kyle. He didn't see you at first, he was trembling, rocking, chest heaving with ragged sobs. Every breath sounded like it hurt. When you moved towards him, his head snapped up, eyes wild and desperate.

Kyle didn't speak, he couldn't. But the look on his face broke your heart. You dropped to your knees beside him, not caring about the blood, not caring about anything except the boy that is in front of you.

“I’m here,” you said softly, reaching for him. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a sob and a scream, and then he collapsed against you. His arms wrapped around your waist, body shaking with silent horror. You held him tighter as the blood soaked into your shirt, you didn't flinch.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, over and over. “I know. I know.”

Because you did. You knew what she did to him, what his mother was. You could feel it in the walls of this place, the ghosts and shadows. You held him until he stopped shaking.

You quickly got to work. It was frantic, messy, and desperate. You didn't think, you just moved like a robot. Bleach, towels, garbage bags—you knew how to make things disappear. You have seen enough in this life to know what the world doesn't want to look at. By the time the sun began to set, you were done.

You stood in front of him, blood still under your nails, and offered your hand. “Come with me,” you said. “You don’t have to stay here, I’ll take care of you.”

Kyle’s eyes were wet, lost. But he took your hand.

Once you were both back, you brought him to your room, where it was quiet and safe. You set up a cot beside your bed, but when you turned around, Kyle was already curled on your comforter, clinging to your pillow like it was a lifeline.

You smiled softly. “Okay, you can stay there.”

You dimmed the lights and slipped in beside him, unsure of when the last time he’d had real sleep. In the quiet of the night, you felt his finger reach out for yours. He didn't speak, he didn't have to.

“I’ll protect you,” you whispered into the dark. “I know what it’s like to have a body that remembers pain, but we’ll unlearn it. Together.”

Kyle pressed his forehead to your shoulder, and for the first time, his breathing was steady. You didn't tell anyone that he’s back, at least not yet. Not until he was ready. You would teach him again—how to speak, write, and most importantly, how to live. Then, maybe in time, how to trust.

You were the quiet one, the one who knew everything, and now, you knew what love looked like in its rawest form—it is the broken boy that is in your bed right now.

You promise that you would never let him break again.

“I do believe,” James murmured, voice low and indulgent as you walked together past room 43, “that time itself slows to accommodate your passage, dearest. What a shame it does nothing to calm my racing heart.”

You gave him a faint smile, eyes half-lidded as you turned towards him slightly, heels clicking against the tiles. “You don’t have a heart anymore, my darling,” you reminded gently, voice smooth as silk and just as cold. “Remember? You left it on the twentieth floor, for me.”

A delighted chuckle left him, the sound echoing in the corridor like a kiss to a mirror. “And you wear it so well.”

James never gets tired of looking at you. The fall of your hair, always coordinated with your gowns, whether it is black as ink or ivory as moonlight—either way, it always leaves him breathless, if such a thing could still be said about a man long dead. You were an enigma, ethereal and reserved, intimidating to most and worshipped by all who dared look at you too long. Ghosts, guests, even the walls. You had the kind of beauty that made time forget how to tick.

He didn't walk beside you so much as orbit you, like the moon to a glittering, celestial flame. The hotel had been his monument, yes, but for you? It became his temple.

“I saw Sally again,” you murmured, finger brushing along the velvet wallpaper, nails short and elegant, painted a soft shade of wine. “She’s still bitter.”

James snorted disdainfully. “Ah, the opium banshee. Let her wail, her pain is entirely self-inflicted.”

“She tried to ask me again why I stay with you,” you said softly, voice like smoke and smiling.

He tensed ever so lightly beside you, but you reached for his lapel, smoothing it gently with your thumb, visibly relaxing.

“And what did you tell her, my love?” he asked, gaze intense and yearning.

You tilted your chin up, eyes catching the dim chandelier light like pools of mercury. “I told her that no one could ever understand you the way I do. That she mistakes obsession for love, but what you and I have, it’s devotion. It's a ruin, an art.”

James groaned—yes, groaned, his forehead coming to rest briefly against yours as you paused at the base of the grand staircase. “You wound me in the most glorious way, dearest. I should carve those words into the walls.”

“You already did,” you whispered softly. “Every inch of this place is you, bleeding for me.”

It was indeed true. The Cortez was a tomb, yes, a house of horrors, but it was also a palace. A mausoleum built not for death, but for love. Every brass doorknob, shadow, nook and cranny, every inch of cursed carpet was placed for you. A monument to your elegance, a fortress to keep the world out and your bond sealed within.

Even now, long after your mortal bodies had ceased to matter, James still treated you like something holy—buttoning the back of your gowns delicately with his fingers each evening, kissing the top of your hands, and worshiping the curve of your neck with the patience of a priest. You—though quieter, less demonstrative, held his heart in your fist. You shared his darkest secrets, the cruelest truths of his soul, and instead of recoiling, you had smiled. You accepted him, and sharpened your claws alongside his.

“Remember that one guest?” you murmured idly as you ascended the staircase, fingers sliding along the railings. “The one who lied about his name to get a room?”

James exhaled in a sound that was more growl of a growl than breath. “The stockbroker in 902. That cretin.”

You hummed. “He looked so confused when I slit his throat.”

He let out a scandalized laugh, arm around you tightening, almost giddy. “Oh, how you moved that night. Poetry in crimson.”

“I don’t like liars. You know that, my darling,” you said simply. “And most of all, I don’t like it when someone tries to deceive you.”

James gently leaned down, planting a soft kiss on your lips. “You are far too exquisite for this wretched world. Thank god it ended.”

To others, perhaps you were terrifying. But those who feared you had never felt or experienced your kindness. Your words were sparse but true, you had stitched the unraveling tapestry of Hotel Cortez together by just existing in it. Ghosts who hated your husband—the ghosts, the damned, they couldn't hate you. Some even dared to speak to you with a quiet sort of admiration, knowing that to cross you would be their last mistake.

You never raised your voice. You never needed to. For James, you were the reason death wasn't a punishment—but a gift.

Deep into the night, you sat in one of the velvet armchairs in your and James’ suite, firelight casting flickers of gold across your collarbones. James poured you a glass of ghostly burgundy, as ritualistic as ever. He didn't need to eat, nor did you, but the motions—ritual, brought you both comfort. He stood behind your chair, hands moving up and down your arms, slow and deliberate.

“I do so love this,” he whispered.

You tilted your head back lazily. “What’s that?”

James bent to kiss your shoulder. “This peace. This illusion of the living, you in the gown, my name on your lips, your hand in mine,” he circled to kneel in front of you, taking your hand, pressing it to his lips. “You make the afterlife bearable. No, more than that—beautiful.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. The moustache you used to tease, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the utter abandon in the way he adored you.

You cupped James’ cheeks softly. “I would've followed you even if you hadn't built the hotel,” you said quietly. “I would've followed you into hell.”

“You did, my love,” he whispered back. “And you made it heaven.”

The moonlight spilled silver across the dark floor of the room. James held out a hand for you to take, and you let him lead you in the middle of the room, leading you in a slow waltz. The gramophone hummed a tune no living soul remembered, soft and sorrowful. James held you like a prayer—one hand in yours, the other splayed across your waist, fingers aching to be closer.

“You never tire of this,” you said softly, eyes closing as you moved in tandem.

“Never,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not when it’s with you. You are the only eternity I welcome, the only ghost that haunts me in the way I crave.”

Your laughter was quiet, breathy, and warm. “You’re awfully poetic tonight, darling.”

“I’m always poetic when I’m in your presence,” he grinned.

James’ mouth found the curve of your neck then, slow and reverent, began leaving a trail of kisses along your skin as if worshipping a temple while you both sway softly to the music, and you let him. Of course you did. James never needed permission, but he always earned it.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured.

“I am yours, and you are everything,” he corrected, pulling back just enough to look at you—truly look. “The curve of your mouth could command wars, the kindness in your eyes silences my rage. You are the only one who saw me and didn't run. Who loved me, chose me, even in my vilest hour.”

“I didn't see vileness,” you said simply. “I saw pain, beauty, and brilliance. A man with fire in his soul and a broken heart in his chest.”

James’ throat tightened, and for a moment, that dark bravado cracked, showing you the vulnerability he his from fhe world.

“You terrify me,” he whispered.

You blinked, gently tilting your head. “Why?”

“Because I would tear down the world for you. I already did once, and I’d do it again, with less mercy.”

You kissed him, slow and sure. The kind of kiss that felt like sealing a vow older than time itself, and when you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“I’d help you burn it down,” you said softly. “Just don’t lie to me. Don’t let them try to turn you from me.”

“They wouldn't dare,” he growled. “And if they did, they would meet the end of my wrath—and the sharper edge of yours.”

You smiled widely. James always liked the way you smiled before destruction.

You continued waltzing in the middle of the room, like any husband and wife would when they’re in love. Except you were not breathing, and time did not matter. There were no dishes to clean, no errands to run. Only endless hours to love and be loved, for eternity and beyond it.

And James, hopelessly devoted, would spend every second of it tracing the shape of your soul.

“You do not understand, my dear,” he murmured into your hair one evening, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your temple. “You were meant to be here. With me.”

And maybe, somewhere along the way, your protests had begun to grow quieter each passing day.

James provided for your every need. Luxurious gowns in silks and velvets, diamonds and pearls so fine they could make royalty weep. Lavish dinners that felt like a fever dream—glasses of deep, red wine, reflecting candlelight, and the scent of roses thick in the air. They way he looked at you, as though you hung the very stars in the sky.

He never hurt you, he never would. But he would not let you leave, and that should have terrified you. It did not. Perhaps it was the way he spoke, each syllable is a sweet poison slipping into your veins, or the way his hands ghosted over you in reverence. Never demanding, nor forceful—just patient, as though he had all the time in the world. Perhaps it was the hotel itself, or perhaps, deep down, a sick part of you liked it—liked the devotion, and being wanted so desperately that a man would reshape the laws of reality just to keep you by his side.

After all, how does one fight against a man who has already decided you are the love of his life, the woman who slipped through his fingers once before? James was determined that it would not happen again.

Your family was looking for you, of that you were certain. You were not just anyone. You were born into a world of power and wealth—exactly just like your past life, and woman like you did not simply disappear. There would be whispers in the upper echelons—society’s most elite circles, scandals and suspicions. But out there, you were just a missing person. Inside the Cortez, you were a queen, and James ensured that you were treated as such. At least, that had been his intention.

However, the ghosts of the Hotel Cortez were not as enamored with you as James was. They whispered behind your back, snickered when you passed. Some ignored you entirely, acting as if you were nothing but another unfortunate soul trapped within these cursed walls. Some resented you, hated you for the way James doted on you.

Mrs. Evers was the worst.

She had made no effort to her disdain. Her devotion for James ran deep, an infatuation so profound that your very presence offended her. She had refused to acknowledge you as anything more than an unwelcome guest. A temporary indulgence to her beloved Mr. March.

Except for Liz and Sally. Liz had taken to you almost instantly, her sharp wit and unwavering confidence is a breath of fresh air in the suffocating presence of the others. She treated you like a person, not an obstacle. Then Sally, well, Sally was a ghost of chaos, but she never sneered at you. Never looked at you like you were an invader in her world. Perhaps because she, too, had suffered in this place.

You had mentioned it to James once, just once, how the others would often dismiss you. But when his expression darkened, jaw tightened in barely restrained anger, you had quickly brushed it off.

“It’s nothing,” you had assured him. “It doesn't bother me, really.”

James did not believe you. He was patient, but he was observant. He had studied you long before he ever spoke your name, and he knew you better than you knew yourself. James had seen the way you bit the inside of your cheek when they spoke over you, the way your fingers twisted in your lap when they snickered as you passed by. James had seen the slight drop of your shoulders when Mrs. Evers ignored you completely.

Most specially, he had seen how you never fought back.

You avoided confrontation, you always had. A woman of your upbringing had been taught to maintain grace, to swallow any discomfort you felt with a demure smile. You would rather choose to suffer in silence than engage in something ugly as conflict. But James found that unacceptable, and so, one evening, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

It began at dinner, in the grand dining hall he had prepared just for the two of you. You had noticed something was different, James was tense, posture too rigid, and gripping his glass just a fraction too tight. Then the doors opened. The ghosts entered one by one, some were confused, others were wary. They gathered around the long dining table, not really sure why they had been summoned. Mrs. Evers stood off to the side, her lips pursed in thinly veiled contempt.

James rose from his seat. “I have gathered you here,” he began, voice sharp, cutting through the air like a blade, “because it seems that my beloved has not been afforded the respect she deserves.”

You felt your stomach drop, the room stilled. The air grew heavy, suffocating.

“I have been most…lenient in allowing you all your petty grievances,” James continued, slow and measured, “but I will not, cannot, abide this insolence.”

He turned to Mrs. Evers. “You, dear Mrs. Evers, have been particularly ungracious.”

Her expression faltered. “Mr. March, I—”

James slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the hall. You flinched, as the other ghosts stiffened. I placed a hand over his fist, motioning him to stop.

“James, it’s fine. You don’t have to do this.” you whispered, but James ignored you.

“She is your lady,” he snapped, voice laced with venom. “You will address her as such. You will treat her with the respect she is owed.”

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering against your ribs. It felt like your heart was about to beat right off of your chest.

His gaze swept over the rest of the room. “Let me make myself abundantly clear. She is mine. She belongs to me, as I do to her. She is the lady of this house, and you will bow to her, as you bow to me. Disrespect her again, and I will personally see to it that your eternity in this hotel is spent in agony.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Mrs. Evers lowered her gaze. Others followed in a begrudging submission. A forced acceptance. James exhaled, satisfaction gleaming in his dark eyes. He turned back to you, his expression softening, and reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips.

“There, my darling,” he murmured, voice smooth, gentle. “All is well.”

You forced a smile, though something in your chest twisted painfully. This should have horrified you, but instead, as James gazed at you with adoration, as the others begrudgingly averted their eyes in deference, you felt something else. Something warm, something akin to acceptance.

James sat back down, exhaled slowly. He reached for your face, cupping it with tenderness that was at odds with the violence in his voice a few moments ago.

“You deserve reverence,” he whispered. “And if they refuse to see it, then I will make them see it.”

You swallowed and nodded slowly. You knew very well that there was no winning this argument. So you let him believe he had won. Because, in the end, perhaps he had, and you had long since realized something more terrifying. You were falling. Falling into his world, his madness, the inescapable gravity of his obsession.

The worst of it all? You didn't think you wanted to be saved anymore.

The candle beside you flickered too hard, wax dripping unevenly down the side. The scratch of your pen felt too loud in the quiet room. Above, the ceiling fan spun lazily, casting slow-moving shadows that dragged across the walls.

Kyle was laid flat on your bed. At first, he had just been watching you like he always did, wide-eyed, curious, trying to understand what you were doing.

Eventually, staring up at the fan like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. His eyes followed the spinning blades, slow and steady. His mouth was slightly parted, brow faintly furrowed in concentration.

He shifted his head on the pillow and turned to look at you instead. His eyes followed the movement of your hand, the way your pen dragged across the page. He let out a small sound.

“Mm.” Soft. Thoughtful.

You didn’t respond. He waited a few seconds, still nothing.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and made another small noise, slightly louder this time. “Uh.” You inhaled, but kept writing. He sat up fully now, feet hanging off the bed, studying you. Another sound slipped out of him. “Mm.”

“Kyle, not right now,” you murmured, not looking away from your page. Silence followed, you could feel him staring.

His brows knitted together slightly, not anger, just confusion. He slid off the bed slowly, bare feet silent against the floor. You didn’t hear him approach until you felt him behind you.

He leaned forward, peering over your shoulder at the page. His breath brushed the side of your neck. His hair tickled your temple. You could smell soap and something faintly metallic that never quite left him.

You lost your place on the page.

“Kyle,” you said carefully.

He hummed in response, still reading.

Your pulse ticked behind your eyes. The candle flame flared and sputtered, reacting to your rising frustration.

“Can you just give me a minute?” you tried again.

He frowned slightly. “With you.”

“I know. I just— I need space.”

He didn’t move.

“..Space?” he repeated, like the concept didn’t quite click.

You closed your eyes for half a second, trying to breathe through it. The scratching of your pen felt unbearable now. The fan sounded louder. His breathing louder still.

He shifted again, and his hand came down on the desk beside yours — not grabbing, just bracing himself.

That was the breaking point.

“Kyle, back up!” you snapped, louder than you intended. “I can’t fucking think when you’re hovering over me!” The words hit harder than you meant them to.

He recoiled instantly.

Actually recoiled, like something had struck him. His shoulders slightly hunched. His eyes went wide and glassy with shock. He took two uneven steps back from the desk.

The room felt colder, he stared at you, stunned. “I—“ he stated, but the sentence fell apart in his throat. His hands flexed at his sides. He looked down at them, then back at you, confusion written over his face.

“You… loud,” he said quietly. Guilt washed over you so fast it made you dizzy.

“Kyle ..”

“I didn’t mean to yell,” you said immediately, pushing back from the desk. “I’m sorry. I’m just ..stressed.”

He blinked at you.

“Sss—trr..essed?,” he repeated.

“Mhm.”

He searched your face carefully, like he was trying to find the truth in it. “Not… me?” he asked.

“No, not you.”

A small pause. Then, softer, “I… wrong?”Your heart twisted. “No— no, You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening faintly. You could see him trying to process it, trying to understand why the volume of your voice hurt more than the words.

He stepped back another inch on instinct, like he was giving you the “space” you’d asked for, even if he didn’t fully grasp it.

“Mmh,” he murmured, “Stay… there,” he muttered to himself, pointing at the floor where he stood, as if drawing a boundary line. You almost broke at that, moving toward him slowly this time.

He stiffened for half a second. Not afraid, just unsure, then relaxed when your hand gently took his wrist. “I don’t want you gone, Kyle,” you said softly, letting your other hand drift to his cheek, resting there. “I just needed breathing room.”

He went very still under your touch.

His skin was cool against your palm. His eyes flickered between yours, searching, measuring. He leaned, just barely, into your hand, like he was testing if he was allowed to.

“Room,” he echoed quietly, this entire conversation you were surprised how well his pronunciation had gotten.

“Yeah. When everything feels …too loud, too close… I get overwhelmed. It’s not about you.”

He frowned slightly, thinking. “Too much,” he said after a moment, tapping lightly at his own temple. You nodded. “Exactly. Too much.”

His jaw shifted faintly as he worked it through in his head. You could see the effort, the slow, deliberate processing. He wasn’t fragile. He wasn’t stupid. It just took him time to untangle feelings from reactions.

He watched your face for another second, then glanced down at your mouth. The shift was subtle. “Help?” he asked quietly.

“With?”

He hesitated. His brows pulled together, like he was trying to find the right shape for the words. “Kiss,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Help?”

You blinked, caught off guard, not by the request itself, but by how careful he was about it.

“..You think a kiss will help?” you asked gently. He nodded once.

Something in your chest loosened.

You studied him for a moment — the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he was holding himself still, like he’d accept a no without argument.

“It might,” you admitted. His shoulders shifted faintly, hopeful but restrained. “Okay?”

You stepped a little closer, closing the small space between you.

“Okay.”

His hand came up slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. It hovered near your jaw before resting there, thumb cool against your cheek.

He leaned in carefully, slower than most people would. Like he was afraid of startling you again. The kiss was gentle, warm pressure and the faintest tremble in his mouth as he tried to get it right.

You felt him exhale against you, a soft, shaky breath. When he pulled back, he searched your face immediately. “Better?” he asked.

You let out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Better.”