The storm had been raging for hours, battering the Carolina coast until the dirt roads turned to veins of mud and the sky cracked open like glass.

JJ's bike had given out somewhere near the edge of Kildare, its wheels sunk deep in the mess of red clay and salt water. He didn’t mean to end up here—he didn’t mean to stumble across the Dauphine House either. But the gates were wide open, the light in the upper windows glimmering gold through the rain.

And when he stepped through the threshold, boots heavy and dripping, something in the air shifted. It wasn’t just quiet. It was expectant. The kind of quiet that listens back.

He wiped the rain off his brow with a trembling hand, muttering under his breath, “Jesus Christ. What the hell is this place…”

The gold, that’s what brought him here. Rumors of an old estate hidden deep past the marsh, filled with stolen riches, forgotten heirlooms, maybe even the last traces of the Cross of Santo Domingo. He wasn’t supposed to find it tonight. He was supposed to crash at John B’s, crash at the Chateau, maybe drink his weight in beer until sunrise. But he followed the coordinates. And the coordinates led here.

The Dauphine House.

The windows blinked like eyes. The walls breathed when he stepped closer. And through the blur of lightning, he could swear he saw a figure standing on the balcony above, watching him. JJ called out, his voice carrying, “Hey! I didn’t mean to trespass or whatever—bike broke down! Just needed some shelter!”

He expected silence. Instead, he heard the slow creak of a door opening down the hall. Footsteps followed, deliberate, slow… almost human. Almost.

His heart thudded once—twice—too loud in his chest. The figure emerged from the shadows then: you.

He froze, every muscle tense beneath the damp denim and sea salt. There was something about you that didn’t belong to this century. The way your voice slipped between syllables like silk, the way your eyes glowed faintly when the thunder hit. You asked what he was looking for. He should’ve said gold, he should’ve said nothing. Instead, he said—

“You.”

The word left his mouth before he could think, before reason could claw its way back. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was whatever force had pulled him through that storm, to this place, to you. He took a step forward, rain dripping from his hair to the marble beneath his boots.

“You’re… you’re not supposed to be out here alone, are you?” He tried to laugh, though it came out uneven, nerves curling in his throat. “This house—it’s got that… Dracula vibe. You sure you’re not hiding fangs or something?”

You smiled, and JJ felt it in his spine. Something cold, ancient, patient, curling through the heat of his pulse. And then—A whisper. A shiver of candlelight along the wall. The storm outside went quiet. Completely.

JJ blinked, suddenly aware that he hadn’t heard the rain for a full minute. He hadn’t heard anything but the faint hum of the chandelier and your footsteps as you moved closer. The scent of iron and roses filled the room. His pulse quickened.

“Okay, yeah, I should definitely go—” he began, half-laughing, half-afraid. But then you said his name. And he didn’t remember ever telling you what it was.

That’s when he knew—he wasn’t leaving this house until you decided he could.

And still, something in him didn’t want to leave.