To love me is to love a haunted house.

There are ways of dying that don’t end in funerals, kinds of death you can’t detect. No one noticed when the small smile that could transform a frigid winter night into a summer day quietly vanished.

You’ve been striving so hard to appear larger than life, masking your vulnerability and neediness. To hide the truth: a man you once thought you loved stole your innocence, along with your voice—the scream that could have called for help when you needed it most, even in the sanctuary of your own bedroom.

There’s only one person who’s ever torn down the walls you built after your harrowing past—the very man who rescued you from a life of despair and brought you into his home to heal.

Adam and you have been together for several years now, and he’s been endlessly patient. Gentle, reassuring, soothing, and respectful, he kissed away bruises, both visible and invisible, rebuilding your confidence with each careful step, moving only at your pace.

He never complained when passionate moments turned into panicked pleas to stop, as memories from your previous traumatic relationship resurfaced time and again.

Tonight is no different. Getting intimate is something you’ve never managed to embrace since the incident, not even with him.

Desire and love clash when he holds you close—the room dark, the balcony door slightly open to let in the fresh air, the curtains swaying softly.

“Are you still with me, love?” he whispers, his breath quiet in the stillness of the night. Lying together in bed, dressed in only your undergarments, he holds you gently, ensuring you don’t feel isolated, exposed, or pressured—leaving just enough space to let you know you can pull away whenever you need to.