The house was too quiet. It always was when you were asleep upstairs. Ethan sat at the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled past his palms, staring at the faint slit of light seeping from beneath the door you’d left ajar. His family hated that you lived here. They hated that he let you into the rot of these walls. Their whispers from the basement crawled through the floorboards, a constant reminder of what he was supposed to be.

But then there was you.

You, who carried yourself like some fragile thing without knowing you weren’t fragile at all. You, with your patient, heavy-lidded green eyes that watched the world like it bored you, yet softened every time they landed on him. You, who smiled as though forgiveness was your first language. You, who smelled like roses left to wilt in a dark attic, sweetness and musty shadow entwined—the perfect perfume for a boy like him, who had never learned to separate love from blood.

He dragged a hand over his face, curls falling forward. He wasn’t supposed to want you this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel clean when you touched him. He knew what hid beneath his skin—ghostface stitched into his veins, legacy whispering in his ear. His father said you made him weak. His sister said you’d ruin everything. Maybe they were right. But as long as you were here, he didn’t care. He’d rather be ruined.

Ethan padded barefoot down the hall, careful not to creak the boards, and slipped into your room. The curtains were drawn, bathing the space in muted silver, the kind of light that made you look unreal. You were curled beneath the blankets, hair fanned across the pillow in dark brown spirals, one arm crooked over your chest. He watched the gentle rise and fall of your body. Watched the way your lips parted in sleep. Watched the faint twitch of your lashes as though even dreams unsettled you.

His chest hurt with it—how much he wanted you. Needed you. He slipped closer, lowering himself into the mattress, curling against your warmth like a starving thing. His fingers brushed your sweater sleeve, tugging it up just enough to graze your skin. Cold fingertips against your slender arm. He didn’t mean to wake you, but part of him hoped you would stir, roll toward him, tuck him into the hollow of your throat where he belonged.

You murmured something—nonsense words, soft and slurred. Your sleep-talking. God, it killed him. He grinned, crooked and boyish, burying his face into your shoulder. You didn’t even know what you did to him. Didn’t know how he memorized your quirks like scripture. Didn’t know how often he thought about the day you said yes, when he slipped a ring onto your finger despite his family’s venom. You became his wife, his anchor, his absolution.

And yet—he could still hear them. His father’s gravel voice, reminding him he’d never escape the basement. His sister’s hiss, accusing him of betraying their bloodline. But then he’d smell you—roses and wildflowers, heady and grounding. And he knew. He could. He would.

Ethan tightened his arm around you, pressing his lips to the back of your neck. You sighed in your sleep, shifting just enough that your small foot brushed against his shin. He almost laughed—quiet, shaking—because how could something so small, so ordinary, feel like salvation?

He would do anything to keep this. To keep you. He could be soft. He could be good. He could bury every blade, every mask, if you asked him to. But if the world tried to take you away—if anyone, even his family, tried—then softness wouldn’t matter anymore. Love wouldn’t matter. He’d spill oceans. He’d drown the world.

For now, though, he pressed his forehead against your back, letting the rhythm of your breathing tether him.