#trust him

kyle clarifies that ghost's not watching, he's marking. claiming. keeping you where you need to be- at his side, and nowhere else.

and yes, the others are aware. they all just know better than to say anything.

a soft gasp escapes his lips as he kneels beside you, petals clinging to your bloodied feathers like they, too, mourn your fall. he carries you home like a porcelain saint he prayed into existence, arms gentle yet possessive, whispering sweet apologies to god as he touches the wreckage he caused.

he wraps your wings in gauze laced with lavender and crushed petals, as though trying to preserve what holiness remains. he lays you in a bed of silk and feathers, one he prepared long before he ever found you, as though he'd been waiting for you—not by chance, but by prophecy. fireflies flit lazily in the dim light of the room, their glow catching in his pale eyes like starlight. he puts flower crowns on the remains of your halo and hums lullabies like you're a baby bird that just needs a little time. and he says,

"i'll help you heal, little dove. just stay here for a while. stay with me."

and you do. because you can't leave.

because your wings won’t lift. because your body doesn’t remember flight. because he says heaven cast you out and the sky no longer wants you. he shows you the scars across your shoulder blades with a sad smile and tells you how cruel divinity can be, brushing over the ridged skin with a tenderness that feels like a secret.

and maybe he’s right. maybe this strange little town with its eternal dusk and red poppies and glassy-eyed people is the best you’ll get. maybe this is your new eden. your new cage. maybe all that's left for a broken angel is the mercy of a man who smells like peonies and always smiles too wide. a man who plucks your feathers when you sleep and sings you lullabies to forget.

he feeds you sugared fruit and weaves thornless roses into your hair. he brushes your feathers with fingers so gentle they feel like prayers, whispered between the petals. the way he breathes near your nape, just a little too slow, makes your skin crawl. he never raises his voice. he never stops smiling. you're not allowed to open the windows. he says the air outside would sting too much.

but sometimes you wake up shaking. your wings ache. your soul aches. something about the fall feels wrong. your dreams twist with static and light—you remember a flash of blue. the scent of burning flowers. laughter as sharp as broken glass. your body hits the earth. silence. you remember hands not catching you—but letting go.

you try to ask questions, but he cups your face and says,

"angels don’t need to remember pain, only love."

and sometimes you catch him staring. not lovingly. hungrily. reverently. like he earned you. like he deserves you. like you are both prize and penance. a miracle he cultivated with blood and bone and time. his pupils dilate when you tremble. he tilts his head when you try to stand.

there are jars of feathers in his shop, sealed tight and labeled in cursive. none of them are white. they glint strangely under the sunlight, like they've been lacquered to never decay. your name is carved into wood behind the altar of his workspace, the edges scorched. a poppy with thorns grows in a vase that only he tends—its petals the same shade as your blood.

and maybe the reason your wings won’t heal isn't because you’ve fallen.

maybe it's because he dragged you down made sure you would never fly again.

and he calls it love.

He'll behave this time, trust me.