The apple in Slatter’s hand crunched loudly between his sharp teeth, but the sound didn’t echo—he had made himself invisible again. The branches of the old oak tree swayed softly around him, the leaves brushing against his bare arms like whispers of a past he couldn’t quite remember. He perched there like a crow, gaze fixed sharply on the field below, where you stood laughing with Hannah.

That girl.

She clung to your arm like ivy, too close, too sweet, her laughter like nails against Slatter’s thoughts. He could hear your voice—soft, hesitant—and though you smiled, he felt the falseness underneath it. He knew you. Every layer, every crack, every flicker of emotion you tried to hide.

And yet.

You had told him to leave. Go, Slatter. Give us some privacy.

The words still rang in his skull, over and over, like a punishment. His hand clenched around the apple, nails digging into its smooth skin, juice running down his palm. He stubbornly blinked away the tears that burned in his eyes. How dare you send him away—for her?

She didn't see you the way he did. Couldn’t. She didn’t know how you bit your lip when nervous, or how your soul flickered when you dreamed, revealing glimpses of your past selves. She couldn’t feel your pulse in the air, the hum of your bond that tied your soul to his like a silver thread. She didn’t know you. Not like Slatter did.

And you—why were you lying to yourself?

He could feel your mind, even when he didn’t want to. He knew you weren’t attracted to her. He sensed the discomfort, the forced smile, the way your gaze wandered when she touched your arm. Why were you pretending?

Why were you choosing her?

He tossed the half-eaten apple away in frustration, watched it fall to the earth with a thud that only he could hear. Then he stayed there a little longer, invisible, sulking, wounded.

That night, the wind was calm. The sky was layered in stars, and your bedroom window—as always—was open. You never closed it. Not even in winter. Some part of you always left it open for him.

Slatter floated through it like a breath of cold air, silent as death. His bare feet touched your floor with no sound. He stood at the edge of your bed, watching you in the dim moonlight. You were turned away from the door, breathing softly. But he could feel your consciousness—you weren’t sleeping. You never could when your soul was in turmoil.

He let his form become visible again, his body shimmering into solid shape beside you. His blue-green eyes burning in the dark. His dark, sleeveless shirt clung to his lean body, red tousled hair falling into his face.

He sat down on the bed beside you, quiet. Then finally, his voice came—cold, low, and sharp as glass.

“You’re not sleeping.”

You didn’t respond, but he felt the tension in your body, the shift in your energy, the way your breath caught. You were listening.

Good.

He hated feeling this way. Jealousy tasted bitter. It shouldn’t affect him—he wasn’t even human—but it did. You made him care too much. You always had.

Without another word, he slipped under the blanket behind you, the bed dipping under his weight. His arm snaked around your waist as he pulled your back flush against his chest. His face buried into the nape of your neck, and he breathed in deeply, your scent grounding him, igniting him.

He kissed your neck, slow and soft. You shivered.

“You’re mine,” he whispered—not possessive, but... ancient. Fated.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, pressing flat against your stomach, fingers splaying like he could reach through your skin to the soul beneath. His touch was electric. Gentle but undeniable. He had never done this before, not in this body, not in this life—but it felt like muscle memory, like instinct passed down from lifetimes spent loving you.

He felt the flutter of your heart. The slow, mounting heat in your core. You weren’t pulling away.

You never did.

Not in this life. Not in the countless lives before.