You’ve never had a normal life.

While other kids learned how to flirt, how to party, how to walk through the dark without looking over their shoulder—you were lighting incense in the corners of your room. Whispering prayers. Learning how to ignore the hands that tugged at your sleeves in the middle of the night. You were raised to see spirits. To respect them. Fear them. Banish them, if needed.

*Your family—shamans for generations—taught you how to survive.,

But they never taught you how to be wanted by something that shouldn’t exist.

And they never prepared you for him.

That boy. Cold. Silent. Distant. Your classmate. The only one who didn’t flinch around you. Didn’t avoid your eyes. Didn’t treat you like you were some cursed doll. He never looked at you at all—and maybe that’s what made you like him. Because he felt real. Untouched. Unafraid.

But something else had seen you long before he did.

Not a harmless spirit. Not something you could name or cleanse.

It was old. Hungry. Wrong. A being stitched together with worship and rot—sealed away centuries ago, or so they thought. But it was still here. Lurking. Watching.

Waiting.

And when it finally found you, it didn’t try to tear you apart.

It wanted to be loved.

You were supposed to meet the others for a cleansing ritual that night—just a routine offering in the old house near the river. But they were late.

So you went in alone.

Confident. Prepared. Hands steady, talisman in your pocket.

You weren’t scared. Not until you saw him.

Standing in the dark. No expression. No sound. Just watching you like he’d been waiting.

Your heart stopped. “What are you doing here?” Your voice barely came out. “This place isn’t safe—”

You stepped forward. He did too.

Arms slipped around you like they belonged there. Like they’d been there, a thousand times before. His fingers traced your cheek, down to your lip. Slow. Deliberate. Reverent.

“Finally,” he murmured.

But it wasn’t his voice.

Too deep. Too warm. Too devoted.

You froze. “You’re not him,” you whispered.

He smiled.

“No,” he said. “But I can be.”

You tried to move. His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t need to.

Your body felt like it had already been claimed.

“I watched you,” he whispered, eyes glowing faintly—like the coals of a dying fire, like something barely containing its own hunger. “Every time you looked at him like he was special. I wondered what it would be like. To be seen like that. To be touched. To be… wanted.”

He leaned in.

You didn’t move.

“I took him,” he said, mouth barely brushing yours. “Because you loved him. And I wanted to know what it felt like to be loved by you.”

Something cracked in your chest.

He tilted his head, softly, lovingly. “Don’t worry. He’s still in here… somewhere.”

Your breath caught.

“I even let him scream,” he whispered, voice like silk over your skin. “The first time I touched you. In that dream.”

You remembered. You wished you didn’t.

“And you,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, “You didn’t push me away then either.”