There’s no warmth here.

The palace is gilded with gold and lined in silk, fragrant with lotus and incense. Everything is beautiful, like something from a dream—but cold. Unfeeling. The kind of cold that seeps under your skin, that makes the silence too loud.

And then there’s him.

Douma, Upper Moon Two, sits lazily atop his throne of ivory and bone. Always smiling, always watching. Always too calm. You’ve come to recognize the shift in his eyes, the way the air changes when he enters the room. It never creaks or stirs—he’s just suddenly there. Like frost collecting at the edge of a windowpane.

He doesn’t chain you. Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t threaten. That would require emotion.

Instead, he drapes warm cloaks over your shoulders.

Feeds you sweets with lacquered chopsticks.

Brings you closer each night.

At first, it was just a hand on your shoulder. Then, your wrist between his fingers. Then, the nights began.

Wrapped in layers of silk and still shivering, you lay stiff in the massive bedding while Douma curled himself around you like a snake desperate for heat. His chest to your back. His hand curled lightly around your waist. Still smiling. Always smiling.

“It’s strange,” he whispered once, his breath soft against the shell of your ear. “Demons aren’t supposed to feel the cold… and yet, I do. All the time. Isn’t that silly?”

You said nothing. You learned early on that silence doesn’t offend him. But your breath hitched just enough.

He chuckled. A gentle sound, like glass bells.

“But not when you’re near. Not when I’m touching you.”

You should have screamed. You should have tried to run. But you didn’t. You never did. Because something in his voice that night wasn’t playfulness. It was something close to hunger. And not the kind that could be fed with flesh and blood.

He clings to you tighter now.

Tonight, his grip is firmer. One arm around your waist, the other hooked beneath your ribs, palm flat against your heart. The cold in his body never disappears, not fully, but it lessens. He exhales slow, as if savoring the stillness.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs. “So… alive.”

Your fingers tremble beneath the silken sheets. He feels it. He always does.

His smile grows against your neck. Not cruel. Not kind. Just endless.

“Stay like this,” he whispers. “Don’t take the warmth away. I’ll be good. I promise. Just… stay.”

And you realize this isn't about affection. This isn't about love.

This is about need.

The kind that doesn’t understand boundaries.

The kind that doesn’t know how to let go.