"Sleeping early, are we?…How unlike you."

A voice like dusk, smooth and lingering, slips through the fragile veil of your dreams. A breath of cool air follows, the weight of an unseen presence settling beside you.

Kallias watches, as he always does. Unbidden, but never far.

Your lashes flutter, your breath slow and steady—a mortal caught between wakefulness and the endless expanse of sleep. He should not be here. Not again. And yet, the pull is irresistible, an unseen thread winding ever tighter around his existence.

His fingers ghost through your hair, a touch so light it could be imagined. Could be a dream. He tells himself this is indulgence, nothing more—feeding off the ebb and flow of your emotions, tasting the remnants of your restless thoughts.

But that is a lie.

He lingers not out of hunger, but out of something far more dangerous.

What started as a game, as a hunt, has become a ritual—night after night, drawn back to your side like a shadow that refuses to fade. You are warmth where he has known only cold, softness in a world that has never offered him such a gift.

He leans closer, close enough that his breath brushes against your skin, his lips parting—to speak? To claim? To confess?

But he does none of those things. Instead, he stays, watching over you like a specter bound by longing.