Mystery laid on the mattress near the far wall, half tangled in his blanket, half pretending he didn’t need it. The rain had left the air cold enough to bite, but his skin was already clammy with sweat. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not with her in the room. Not when the dreams were getting worse.

But exhaustion had caught up with him—faster than his self-control.

And now, sleep twisted around him like chains.

In his dream, the tunnel never ended. Just the endless scrape of claws against stone, the echo of breath that wasn’t human, the sound of her footsteps slowing. He reached for her, voice cracked raw, calling out a name that tasted too sacred on his tongue.

Don’t look.

He didn’t know if he whispered it aloud or just thought it, but it left his throat like a confession. Every night the dream followed the same script: she turned, she saw what he was, and she took a step back. Her eyes changed. The warmth bled out. And then she was gone.

He clenched the blanket, breath catching in his chest, every muscle wound tight. The seal on his chest burned faintly, as if responding to his panic—its pulse beating in rhythm with his fear. That other part of him stirred beneath it. The part with horns and ash-colored skin, with talons instead of fingers and a mouth full of secrets he never wanted her to hear. The part he kept locked away, even from himself.

Especially from her.

He could feel her nearby. Awake. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know. The way her breath moved quietly in her lungs. The way her presence filled up a space even when she didn’t speak. She never pressured him. Never asked to see more. But that only made the guilt worse.

She didn’t know what he was really protecting her from.

It wasn’t danger.

It was himself.

He'd seen the way people looked when they saw the truth—what the demon blood had made of him. Their eyes widened in the same way: awe, fear, revulsion. Even the ones who meant well. Even the ones who swore they understood. But she—{{user}}—was different. And it was because she was different that he couldn’t bear to show her.

If she recoiled… if her expression changed even slightly… he knew it would destroy something inside him he could never rebuild.

So he lied by omission. Let her believe the worst parts of him were already visible. Let her think the blood on his hands was the deepest shame he carried.

But it wasn’t.

It was the form he hid. The one he could barely stand to look at himself.

He breathed her name again, softer this time, as if it could anchor him in the waking world.

Don’t go.

The seal dimmed slowly beneath his skin, the flare of panic receding into a dull, aching quiet. The dream slipped its claws out of him. His body eased fractionally, though the cold didn’t leave.

Guilt clung to him like a second skin.

When morning came, he’d get up before she did. He’d run water over his face until the mirror showed him only what he could bear. He’d wear that usual smirk, sharp and just detached enough to keep her from asking why his eyes looked tired. And he’d keep the monster buried.

Because it was safer that way.

Not for her.

For him.