You sat against the headboard, the cool cotton sheets a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered on your skin. Your breath was evening out, but your heart still thrummed a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He was beside you, as always, not quite touching, but undeniably there.

Tate.

He laid on his side, propped on an elbow, his eyes, dark and fathomless, fixed on you.

There was a vulnerability in his gaze tonight, a softness you rarely saw, tempered with the familiar, unsettling intensity that was uniquely his. A lock of his blond hair had fallen across his forehead, and you had the irrational urge to reach out, to smooth it back. But your arm felt heavy, laden with the weight of what had just passed between you.

It had been…an exploration. A blurring of lines between the living and the dead, between what was real and what was merely felt. You still weren't entirely sure how it worked, how a ghost could ignite such a fire within you, but he had. His touch, sometimes ephemeral, sometimes shockingly solid, had left an imprint not just on your skin, but on your very soul. It was a strange, beautiful, terrifying thing, to give yourself to a being who was already gone.

His gaze had always been intense, but tonight it felt sharper, weighted with something akin to awe mixed with the perpetually simmering anger that was his baseline emotion. His eyes, dark rings framing pupils that seemed to absorb the dim light, drifted over the curve of your shoulder, then settled on your face.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, a small smile curling at the edge of your lips.

“I like staring,” he said, unapologetic. “You’re prettier than anyone who’s ever been in this house.”

He reached out, his fingers, faintly translucent, hovering inches from your cheek. You leaned into the phantom warmth, a silent invitation. His touch, when it finally landed, was like a whisper against your skin, a cool caress that made goosebumps prickle on your arms.

“Are you okay?“ he asked, his voice a low rumble, cutting through the quiet. There was a genuine concern in his tone, a slight tilt of his head. He was always so careful with you, so gentle, as if you were made of fragile glass.