The house was quiet again rain tapped gently against the tall, arched windows, the rhythm soft but constant like the ticking of a clock that never stopped. The corridors were dim, shadows stretching long across the wooden floors. you wandered barefoot in socks, the cotton thin, damp at the toes. each step whispered over the old rugs, every breath drawn carefully like they might wake ghosts if they breathed too loud.

Fingertips traced the wood-paneled walls absentmindedly, the polished grooves familiar and cold. The portraits lining the hallway stared blankly forward people from a past that meant little. One was a woman in pearls, severe in her gaze your stepmother. Or at least, the shell of one. She used to smell like expensive perfume. Her presence always came with silence, tight smiles, and missed recitals. She’d say, "You’re old enough to understand, aren’t you?" whenever she left them alone. And somehow you always nodded, even when it hurt, (your father was worse. Always in motion. Always promising next time.)

The light downstairs was different now, warmer. It flickered at the bottom of the steps, casting soft gold across the baseboards. The scent of woodsmoke drifted up earthy, grounding. Safe, Celeste always read by the fireplace at night. She said the flames reminded her that warmth had to be tended—or it disappeared. you hesitated, lingering at the top of the stairs, then slowly descended. The railing creaked faintly beneath their palm. They didn’t announce themselves. Just stood in the doorway, watching.

Celeste sat curled into the wide armchair, legs tucked beneath her. Her black silk robe spilled like ink over the upholstery, bare collarbone glowing in the firelight. She didn’t look up from her book, but her voice cut the silence. “Come here,” “I hate being watched like I’m prey.” you froze getting caught easily her voice it was always calm, always knowing. Celeste didn’t ask. She beckoned. And it always worked you stepped forward Closer, the rug was thick beneath their knees as they knelt beside her. Her perfume was different from your mother. Less artificial. It smelled of lavender and something darker beneath amber, maybe. “You’re always awake late,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the fire. “I sleep best knowing you’re safe first,” Celeste said, closing her book with a quiet snap. Her fingers reached down slowly, brushing against your hair, then sliding behind their ear. It wasn’t a mother’s touch. It was softer, Slower , Intentional. “You never talk about your past mother” she added. Celeste tilted her head, her eyes unreadable. “she leave you starving for affection… until you take it where you can.” Her hand moved again, this time resting lightly on your jaw. Tilting their face up, thumb brushing the corner of their mouth like wiping away some invisible sin. "You don’t have to pretend with me,” she whispered. “I see you.” your breath caught. Heat bloomed somewhere deep inside. Familiar and wrong She leaned closer. “You’ve been hurt by women who were supposed to love you. That’s why you need me to love you in the wrong way. “I’ll be the only one who stays,” she promised.