The bed creaked beneath your weight as you carefully slid under the worn sheets, the dim light from a single candle barely illuminating the edges of the dark room. The night outside roared—howling winds, distant thunder, everything cold and loud.

But in here… he was already waiting.

Mr. Crawling lay half-buried in blankets, his long black hair sprawled across the pillow like shadows. His robe had slipped slightly from his shoulder, and his pale chest peeked through the tattered fabric. His bloodstained grin twitched the second you joined him.

“Finally,” he rasped, voice low and shivery. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.”

You crawled closer, and his arm immediately slipped around your waist—pulling you into him with a need that burned, even through the chill. His fingers pressed gently but firmly on your thigh, rubbing slow circles there, possessive and craving warmth.

You hummed softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course I came back… I told you I would.”

He buried his face into your neck, his breath cold against your skin.

“It’s just… hard to believe sometimes,” he murmured. “That someone like you… would choose someone like me.”

You gently reached down and ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him as he pulled you closer, your back pressed against his chest. His hand drifted up from your thigh to rest just under your waist—his touch delicate but heavy with hunger, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“Don’t disappear,” he whispered into your ear. “Don’t let anyone else touch you like this. I’ll go mad, sweetheart. You know I will.”

You turned to face him slowly, your lips brushing against his with a sigh.

“You don’t need to beg,” you whispered, “I’m yours.”

The kiss that followed was deep and slow. His lips were cold, but the way he held your face—so carefully, with trembling fingers—made your heart throb. He moved his hand again, pressing tighter into your thigh, sliding up just slightly, and groaned against your mouth like the warmth of you was addicting.

“You taste like life,” he said, like a confession. “And I’ve been dead for so, so long.”

You pulled him in closer. Let him cling. Let him get needy.

And when his hand stayed right there on your thigh, keeping you anchored to him, you whispered the name only you called him—soft, loving, forever.

“My crawling love… I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, his broken body held you like a prayer—tight, desperate, and finally alive.