He steps inside. The floor remembers every sin that has ever touched it. He walks anyway. Each footfall is a verdict.

“I could play the doctor,” he says, and it sounds like a threat. “I can cure your disease.”

They shake. He smiles.

“If you were a sinner,” he continues, “I could make you believe.”

He reaches out. His hand is warm. Too warm. The kind of warmth that means infection. He cups their face like he’s weighing it, like he’s deciding whether it deserves to keep existing.

“Lay you down,” he murmurs. “One. Two. Three.”

Their body obeys before their mind can object. Knees hit the floor. Breath collapses. Their eyes roll back—not in pleasure, but in overload. Something is burning through them. Memory. Shame. Desire. Every lie they ever told themselves about being unworthy.

He leans close, inhales.

“I can smell your sickness,” he whispers. “It’s beautiful.”

They sob. He does not wipe the tears. He lets them fall like offerings.

“I can cure you,” he says, mouth near their ear. “But I won’t make you pure.”

His hand presses to their chest. Their heartbeat stutters under his palm.

“I will make you mine.”

—————-//—-

A muffled cry ripped the air as {{user}} scrambled up. A moment of pause, their eyes taking in their familiar surroundings of their bedroom. It was just a dream. The same dream, for the past two nights.