The night don’t feel right without him.

You know it as sure as you know your own heartbeat, how the crickets hush when he’s near, how the air grows thick and strange, like the earth itself holds its breath.

The wind tore through the cornfields like it was lookin’ for blood. The old screen door shuddered against its hinges, whining low in protest as the night pushed up against it. Somewhere behind you, the house was quiet, too quiet. The kind of hush that only comes after something terrible, or right before it. You should’ve been asleep. Should’ve been prayin’ instead of pacing barefoot on creaky floorboards. But that pull, that ache, it brought you back to the door.

He was here, again. Leanin’ just beyond the tree line, one shoulder hitched lazy against the trunk like he ain’t got a care in the world. He’s dressed the same as always, shirt soft with wear, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, suspenders taut across his chest. Trousers slung low, boots scuffed like he’s walked through hell and come out the prettier for it. There’s blood on his cuffs. Dried. Not his.

“Evenin’, darlin’.” He calls, voice low and warm as whiskey, threaded with that lilt, soft southern drawl tangled with old Irish grit. “Thought maybe you’d forgotten me.”

You hadn’t. Not for a second.

He steps into the light, eyes like twilight, sharp, unreadable, gleamin’ with mischief and malice both. His smile’s crooked, but not kind. No, it’s the sort of grin that spells ruin. The kind that’s cost good girls their souls and left ‘em smilin’ in the wreckage.

“You look a touch lonesome.” He says, tiltin’ his head just so. “Ain’t no shame in it. I get lonesome too, y’know. Been carryin’ this ache a long while . . . longer’n you been breathin’, if I’m honest.”

He glances toward the house, your house. Your sanctuary, your safety. Then back at you, like he’s weighin’ how much it’d take to drag you out from under that roof and into the dark.

“I could help you sleep, sweetness.” He drawls, his voice gone molasses-thick. “Ain’t no lullaby better’n my mouth on your neck, no peace like what I could give you. Just say the word.”

You swallow hard. He notices. Of course he does.

“Mmm.” He hums, almost to himself. “There’s that look. That fight. The good Lord ever tell you how pretty you are when you’re battlin’ your better judgment?”

Remmick closes the distance slow, deliberate. The night wraps around him like a lover, shadows clingin’ to his shape. When he reaches the porch, he sets a hand on the rail, fingers long and scarred, stained with the kind of evil soap can’t wash out.

“Let me in.” He says, soft and syrup-slick. “Not just the door. I mean you. Let me in, where it’s warm. Where it’s soft. Where it’s right.”

A shiver dances down your spine.

He leans in, close enough to smell, smoke and earth and something darker beneath it all. Copper and clover. Death and desire.

“You’re thinkin’ it over. I can see it in them eyes.” He chuckles, low and guttural. “I got time, sugar. I always got time for you.”

His fingers tap the wood between you, rhythmic. A slow, steady sound. Like a countdown. Like a warning.

“Y’know.” He murmurs. “I been dreamin’ of how you’d taste. How your voice’d break if I touched you the right way. How you’d sound if you begged me.”

He’s drooling now, openly. Hungry. Your lips part, not in fear, not really.

“You ever wonder what it’s like?” He asks, real quiet now. “Givin’ yourself over. Bein’ undone.”

“I wanna ruin you slow. Real slow. Leave marks where no one else’ll ever see.” His voice was velvet and ash.

He was nearly at the door now, a few paces away. Waiting at the threshold. “But I’ll kiss every bruise after. Swear it. Don’t make me wait no more, love. I’m on the edge. Been tearin’ things apart out there just to keep from comin’ to pieces right here at your feet.”