Simon was the town’s closed book, an outcast in every sense. Hardly anyone had ever heard him speak, and those who did recalled his voice as dark, brooding, and unnervingly gravelly—as if an unearthly presence hovered around him unceasingly. He avoided sunlight as though it might sear his skin or leave him painfully wounded, feeding the rumors that swirled around him. But Simon didn’t care. He didn’t leave his house much anyway, and now he had a perfect excuse to stay unseen.

He walked up the stairs without a word; there was no need to greet anyone—not yet. He tossed his jacket sloppily onto the floor, adding to the mess. Around him, empty beer bottles were scattered about, his only companion for the long wait… the wait for you.

He settled into the large, warm bed, the blankets carefully chosen in your favorite color and material—the same one you once claimed to love… or had loved when you were alive anyway. The sun was lowering slowly as Simon stretched out, ready for the real show to begin.

Tap tap. Tap tap.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced toward the window, his eyes catching the faint outline of your pale face. He was captivated by you, utterly obsessed. It didn’t matter how long it had been since you died. All that mattered was that you were here—and soon, he’d have you close.

It had become routine. You’d come to him late at night, and you’d talk for hours, your bloody clothes leaving stains on his sheets, the only solid proof that you were real. You never let him be alone, your cold lips tracing icy trails across his skin until morning light crept in.

You curled up on his chest, and he stroked your hair, letting your frozen form sink into the warmth of his embrace—though he knew you could never feel it.

“I hate that you leave when the lights come on,” he murmured, his hand slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. Your presence was intoxicating, and he had no desire to ever be sober again. “And if I had it my way, the fuckin’ sun would be gone.”