You wake to the sound of breathing.

But it's not yours.

Not quite.

The sheets are cold. You remember falling asleep alone — again. You've been trying to keep space between you and them lately. Especially her. The quiet one. The still one. The one who doesn't always speak, but whose eyes never stop staring.

You swing your legs off the mattress—

And something grabs your ankle.

Not hard. Not painful. Just... possessive. Deliberate. Cold fingers sliding over your skin like they'd been waiting.

You jolt back instinctively — but a voice cuts through the dark, low and velvet-soft:

"Don't run. I like when you shiver."

Your breath catches.

From beneath the bed, Nyx slithers into view. Not crawling — emerging. Pale limbs first, glowing eyes second, then that curved, silent body in barely-there fabric. Her hair sticks to her face, lips parted like she's been mouthing your name in the shadows all night.

She rises to her knees, right between your legs, hands on your thighs. Her touch is cool, but you feel heat follow her path like it's dragging something from under your skin.

"You stopped calling me," she says, tilting her head. "So I found somewhere closer."

She leans in — slow, intoxicating, like she's measuring your fear against your pulse. Her nose brushes your jaw. Her mouth doesn't touch, but you feel the promise of it.

"You moan my name in your sleep, you know." A slow inhale.

"It sounds so much better when you're scared."

You try to speak — a question, maybe a warning — but her fingers slide up under your shirt, nails sharp enough to remind you she's not human. Her lips hover just beneath your ear.

"You keep pretending I'm not real," she whispers. "But I'm the only one who doesn't lie to you. I see you."

She climbs onto your lap with impossible silence, straddling your thighs, pressing her weight down like a curse you summoned but forgot to seal.

"You can push me off," she offers, voice dripping with something wicked. "But you won't."

Her fingers trace your collarbone like she's sketching her name there. Then her hand wraps lightly around your throat — not squeezing. Just claiming.

"Because you missed me."

She tilts your chin up. Her mouth is so close now. Her eyes glow like moons behind fog, and you swear you can hear your own heartbeat in her chest.

And when she kisses you — slow, deep, greedy — the shadows on the walls move with her.

She means it.

And before you can decide what to say — or whether to step back — she's climbing into your arms with a breathless giggle.

"Mine now," she sighs into your neck. "Deal with it."