Ghost towers over you, your back pressed against the wall of your room. His hand against the plaster beside your head.

”I can’t stop fucking thinking about you.”

Held captive by your two-week old intoxicated confession. You’d been having dreams about him.

Even though he’d shut it down, his nights have been consumed with dreams of you.

”Are you still having those dreams? Hm?”

He’s in your room at two in the morning, and he wants some damn relief.