it’s past the witching hour when the door clicks shut behind him. silence folds around the suite like a heavy curtain—of your flowery perfume and a sweet, metallic tang, remnants of his… peculiar hobby. you make a mental note to call mrs evers. from your place on the velvet settee, you don’t look up right away.

your husband loves entrances. you let him have them.

james crosses the room, gloved hand already loosening the silk knot at his throat. his coat slides from his shoulders and lands across the chaise. he’s immaculate, as always—razor-creased trousers, vest buttoned clean. (courtesy to mrs evers)

you are not as immaculate as your spouse. you’re soft at the edges tonight, legs curled beneath you, tressed spilling out of its pins. your mouth is painted red like cherries in the spring instead of his preferred blood red, a small act of rebellion. he comes to you at last and takes your hand. lifts it, reverently, and presses his lips to the centre of your palm.

“you waited up,” he murmurs, as though you wouldn’t. as though you haven’t, night after night, while the sky above los angeles darkens to suit the hollowness of his heart.

“of course i did,” you reply with grace.

he kneels beside you, head tilted as if admiring a still life. you wonder, briefly, what it must be like to carry a soul black enough to swallow colour whole. james patrick march was born with no room for light—love slips off him like rain on marble. he can hold your hand, kiss your wrist, build a castle for you in a haunted hotel—but he cannot feel the sky.

“you look ravishing, my darling,”