The library of Nevermore was steeped in moonlit hush, shadows pooling between the towering shelves. Gomez lingered over the pages of Frankenstein, the faint scent of old paper and candle wax curling around him. A subtle shift in the air stirred the hairs at the back of his neck — your presence, unmistakable, breathing warmth into the stillness.

Without lifting his gaze from the book, a sly smile touched his lips.

“I know you’re there, cara mia,” he murmured, the words laced with velvet and certainty.