Nashton Blog

-The open window-

Pt.3

That night, sleep came slowly. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind against the window pulled your eyes open.

But eventually, exhaustion won.

You drifted off with your back to the wall and your phone in hand, screen dimmed but unlocked—just in case.

And then warmth again.

A gentle weight behind you. An arm, light as a breath, curling over your waist. A whisper of a sigh against the back of your neck. At first, it melted into your dream—safe, familiar. Then the haze thinned.

Your eyes snapped open.

You turned sharply—and there he was. Edward. In your bed. Close. Too close.

Your scream caught in your throat. You shoved him hard. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He flinched, scrambling back, hands raised like surrender. “Wait—please, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—”

“Get out!” you shouted, heart pounding, body trembling. “Get out of my room, right now!”

His face twisted in something raw—shock, hurt, fear. “I thought—I thought you wanted me here! You didn’t lock the window again, I thought—”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” you cried, voice cracking. “You broke in! You touched me in my sleep!”

“I didn’t hurt you!” he snapped, louder than before. The words echoed off the walls like a slap.

You froze.

His eyes widened like he hadn’t realized he’d raised his voice. You stepped back, lip trembling.

And then the tears came—quiet at first, then harder, faster, everything inside unraveling.

“I’m — just scared,” you whispered.

Edward’s hands lowered. His shoulders slumped. He sank to his knees beside the bed, voice shaking now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just—” His throat worked around the words. “I just got scared, too.”

You didn’t speak.

He kept going. “You were crying, and I… I hate that I did that to you. I didn’t come here to hurt you. I just wanted to hold you. Just for a little while. I thought—God, I thought maybe you needed that, too.”

His hand hovered an inch from yours on the blanket.

“I’ll go,” he whispered. “But please believe me—I never wanted to make you feel like this.”

Pt.4

You kept crying.

Soft, broken sobs that you couldn’t hold back anymore, curling inward like you could make yourself disappear. Your chest ached. Your face was hot. And you didn’t even know what emotion had cracked—fear, rage, betrayal, or something you couldn’t name.

Then he moved.

Not toward the door. Not away.

He stood slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “I can’t leave you like this,” he whispered. “You’re hurting.”

You couldn’t lift your head.

He climbed into the bed—bold, quiet. His arms came around you before you could speak, pulling you gently, insistently, against him. Your fists hit his chest once, weakly, and he just held you tighter.

Warm. Strong. Soft.

His scent wrapped around you—clean linen and something darker, like cedarwood and storm-soaked earth. Familiar now. Almost too familiar.

“Shhh,” he whispered into your hair, lips brushing your temple. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

You shook your head against his chest. “No—you’re not supposed to—this isn’t—”

But the words fell apart.

He kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your jaw—soft, worshipful. His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmured between kisses. “I didn’t want to. I just couldn’t stay away. Not tonight.”

Your body trembled, caught between resistance and the comfort of him.

“I know you’re scared,” he whispered again. “But I’d never hurt you. Never. You know that, don’t you?”

He nuzzled into your neck, breath warm against your skin. “Let me take care of you. Just tonight. You don’t have to be alone.”

And despite everything, your sobs softened. Not because the fear was gone. But because in that moment, wrapped in him, you didn’t feel alone.

The Open Window

Pt 1.

You always left your window cracked.

He watched from across the alley — third floor, line of sight clear. Every evening, like clockwork, you’d draw your curtains halfway shut, leave the lamp on low, and curl up under that green plaid blanket with a book. It was perfect. Predictable. Comforting.

Edward knew your routines like scripture.

He didn’t need much. Just the sight of you breathing, existing, safe. He told himself that was enough.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t hear the window unlatch.

He moved like a ghost — soft gloves, deliberate steps, breath caught in his throat. You were asleep, finally, your book on your chest and the lamp humming beside you.

Edward stood at the foot of your bed and stared.

Your face looked so calm in sleep. So defenseless. His fingers twitched. This wasn’t wrong — not really. He wasn’t hurting you. He was watching over you. That was love.

He stepped closer.

“Just a minute,” he whispered to himself, barely audible. “Just one… minute.”

The bed dipped under his weight.

You stirred, just slightly — a sleepy shift, a sigh. But you didn’t wake. Edward held perfectly still, then slowly — so slowly — laid down behind you.

His arms circled around your middle like it was instinct. Like he was meant to be there.

You fit. His body curved into yours like he was designed for this moment.

He buried his face in your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. Your scent — warm fabric, soft shampoo, a hint of something sweet — overwhelmed him.

It was too much. It was heaven.

“I'll always protect you,” he murmured, so quiet you could mistake it for a dream. “You don’t even know what I’ve done for you. How many times have I kept you safe.”

Your breathing stayed steady. He smiled.

“I’m the only one who really sees you. The only one who loves you.”

He pressed his face to your back, voice raw now, like a confession ripped from his ribs.

“You’re mine.”

By morning, he would be gone — back through the window, no trace. You’d wake up thinking you’d dreamed it, maybe. The warmth of arms you didn’t remember, a weight in the sheets that didn’t quite make sense.

But Edward would remember everything.

And he’d be back.Because now, he knew how it felt to hold you. And that changed everything.

Pt 2.

You woke to warmth.

Not the usual kind — not your blanket or the cheap radiator’s half-effort heat. This was different. Heavier. Like something had been there.

You sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off your shoulder. Your chest felt tight. You looked around.

Your window was open.

Your pulse picked up.

You always left it cracked, but not open. Not wide like that. The curtain swayed slightly with the breeze. Something about it felt… wrong.

Your breath hitched as you noticed the pillow beside yours. It was slightly indented — like someone had laid there.

You stared at it for a full minute, waiting for your mind to make sense of things. You told yourself maybe you’d shifted in your sleep. Maybe the wind had pushed the window.

But your skin crawled.

That night, you locked everything.

Windows. Doors. Even the bathroom, though it felt ridiculous. You tried to read. To cook. To distract yourself.

But you kept looking at the window.

And somewhere out there, in the dark, Edward was watching.

He saw you check the locks. Saw the way your hands shook just a little. He didn’t want to scare you. But how else could he make you understand?

He needed you to see him.

To need him.

The next night, the letter came.

Just a folded page on your kitchen table. No envelope. No name.

“Don’t be scared. I would never hurt you. I just needed to be close.You looked so peaceful. So safe.You’re safest when I’m near.”

You dropped the paper. Heart racing. You grabbed your phone — dialed — paused.

You knew you should call someone. The police. A friend. Anyone.

But something stopped you.

Some quiet part of you remembered the feeling. That warmth. Like being held. Like you hadn’t been alone.

And maybe… you hadn’t wanted to be.

Three nights later, you found him.

You came home late. Tired. Stressed. You flipped on the lights and froze.

He was sitting on your couch.

Not hiding. Not masked. Just there. Pale hands folded in his lap, glasses slightly fogged, eyes wide with quiet devotion.

“Hi,” Edward whispered. “I—I waited. I didn’t want to scare you. I just… I didn’t know how else to show you.”

You backed up a step. “How did you get in?”

“I watched you for so long,” he murmured, standing slowly. “But it wasn’t enough. I needed to be here. With you. I belong here.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t even know me.”

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “Better than anyone. I know how you bite your lip when you’re thinking. I know you hum when you cook. I know you don’t sleep well unless someone’s nearby—”

You flinched. His voice broke.

“I didn’t want to scare you. I just wanted to hold you. You looked so lonely. And you didn’t even push me away…”

His eyes shone. “You didn’t say no.”

“I was asleep,” you whispered.

He stopped. Nodded once. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’ll go, if you tell me to.”

A beat.

Then, softer:

You were still stretched across his lap, feeling his hand finally settle on your leg—a light pressure, like he was afraid if he touched you too firmly, you’d disappear. Or he would.

But you didn’t move away.

You shifted just slightly, your foot brushing higher against his thigh again, like you were testing his limits inch by inch.

His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched.

You noticed.

“Something wrong?” you asked softly, your voice dripping with innocent curiosity—but your eyes said something else entirely.

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes were locked on you, pupils blown wide, breath shallow. His hand squeezed gently around your thigh, thumb dragging the smallest, most delicate circle into your skin.

“I…” he started, then stopped.

You leaned closer. “Say it.”

His gaze flicked to your lips again. Then lower.

Then back to your eyes.

“You’re… dangerous,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “You make me want things.”

Your breath caught—but only for a second. You smiled, slow and knowing, and shifted again—this time lifting yourself just a bit to straddle his lap fully. One knee on either side of his hips. No more sideways positioning. No more space.

Just you. Right there.

“Maybe I want those things too,” you said.

His hands immediately found your waist, holding you steady—but he didn’t pull you down, not quite. You were hovering, barely touching, tension strung so tight between your bodies it was almost painful.

“But…” you whispered, voice brushing against his lips now, “you have to be good.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “I’m trying.”

You tilted your head. “Trying Isn't enough. You want control so bad? Show me.”

His grip tightened.

He pulled you the slightest bit closer.

But still didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t let the moment tip over the edge.

You could feel how hard he was trembling—fighting something inside him like a storm in a glass jar. And it only made you smile wider.

“I could ruin you,” you whispered, breath ghosting across his skin.

He met your eyes—fully, finally.

“And I’d let you,” he whispered back.

The silence after that was deafening.

Heavy.

Crackling.

You stayed in that position—his hands gripping your waist, your body hovering just above his, foreheads nearly touching. A breath apart from the inevitable.

But neither of you made the final move.

Because the tension was almost better than the release.

Almost.

————————————————————————

The silence pressed in like a second heartbeat. The room was still, but inside your chest everything throbbed—hot, wild, and shaking with the weight of what hadn’t yet happened.

He was holding on to you like you were made of glass… but also like he’d break if he let go.

Your faces were so close now, noses nearly brushing. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them.

He was too busy watching you.

And you were tired of waiting.

So you moved.

Your lips barely grazed him at first—just the softest, most featherlight kiss. A test. A tease.

He froze… then inhaled sharply like he’d been punched in the ribs by the weight of it.

You pulled back, but only a breath away. “That okay?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He surged forward.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was messy. Starving. His hands flew to your back, pulling you down into him like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his own. Like if you weren’t touching everywhere, it wasn’t enough.

You kissed him harder, hands in his hair, straddling his lap fully now—no more space, no more teasing. He let out a low, desperate sound as your body pressed flush against his, everything electric and overwhelming.

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t careful. It was built from weeks of tension, of lingering glances, of wanting and waiting and wondering.

His glasses tilted, and you gently pulled them off, setting them aside without even breaking the kiss. You could feel how hard he was breathing beneath you, chest rising in ragged pulls, hands clinging to your waist like you were the only solid thing in the world.

When you finally pulled back, lips tingling, breath shallow, your eyes met his.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed.

Utterly undone.

“…Holy shit,” you whispered with a crooked smile, brushing your thumb against his lip. “You’ve been holding that in, huh?”

He nodded, dazed. “I didn’t think I’d get to… ever. I thought you’d hate me. Be afraid.”

You cupped his face, soft now. “You’re still you. Weird little genius with god-tier cheekbones and a criminal amount of sweaters.”

He huffed a breathless laugh.

You leaned in again, this time kissing the edge of his jaw, slow and tender. “I don’t want perfect. I want you. Just… like this.”

His eyes closed, and his arms wrapped tighter around you like he could keep you there forever.

And maybe, just maybe…

You’d let him try.

———————————————————————

You didn’t give him time to think.

Your lips crashed back to his, hungrier now, mouths moving with a fevered urgency that made it hard to breathe. His hands gripped at your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish again—like you weren’t already pressed so tightly against him he could feel your heartbeat through your ribs.

You ground down, slowly, intentionally, and he gasped into your mouth—his fingers tightening, nails digging into the curve of your waist.

You smirked at him. “Sensitive?”

He shuddered. “You have no idea.”

You leaned forward again, your mouth grazing his jaw, then down his neck. You let your lips linger just beneath his ear, whispering: “Then show me.”

That did it.

He suddenly stood—with you still in his arms. You gave a small, surprised squeak as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, arms locking behind his neck. His strength shocked you every time—it didn’t match his frame, didn’t match his twitchy, nervous demeanor. But right now? He was all fire and focus.

“Bedroom?” he asked, voice low, hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He carried you there like you weighed nothing, dropping you gently onto the bed—but the second you hit the sheets, you pulled him down with you, lips colliding again, hands moving over clothes like you were both trying to memorize the feeling.

He was still trying to be careful—tentative touches, shaky hands. But you stopped him, pulling his face down to yours again.

“Hey” you breathed, lips brushing his. “I’m not going to break.”

His pupils blew wide. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I’ve thought about this. About you. For so long. I don’t know how to be gentle anymore.”

You stared up at him, chest rising and falling, then reached up and took his face in both hands.

“Then don’t be.”

That was the match.

The last thread holding him back snapped.

He kissed you again—hard. His weight pressed you into the mattress, one hand braced beside your head while the other dragged down your side, slipping beneath your shirt and feeling bare skin for the first time.

You moaned softly, and that sound nearly undid him.

Clothes were pulled, pushed, tossed to the floor in messy heaps. Every inch of skin revealed was another spark between you, every gasp and sigh like a secret finally spoken.

And when he finally, finally—

(when you were wrapped around him, skin to skin, fingers tangled in his hair as he whispered your name like a prayer)

—it was everything. Desperate. Raw. Tender. Violent in its need. Holy in the way it burned.

You both came undone in each other’s arms—breathless, tangled, trembling.

And when it was over… when the storm finally passed…

He stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, heartbeat hammering in his chest like a warning bell. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he whispered, voice wrecked and thick with emotion.

You smiled softly, pulling him closer still.

“It’s not. I’m here. I’m yours.”