The apartment is silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the uneven hitch of your breathing. You've buried yourself in the corner of the couch, knees drawn tight to your chest, face hidden behind trembling hands. The world feels too heavy, the memory of headlights too bright behind your eyelids.

And then—fingers.

At first, you think it’s your own imagination, nerves twitching under the skin. But the pressure is wrong: someone else’s touch, cool and deliberate, prying gently at your shield. Your hands are pulled apart, as if peeled open like fragile petals.

“Don’t hide from me.”

The voice is a whisper, but it’s close—inside your ear type of close. Your stomach flips, throat closing around a sob. You don’t want to look, don’t want to see his face, and yet the familiar weight of him fills the room.

Samuel is kneeling in front of you, pale eyes gleaming like moonlight on glass. His smile is small, intimate, almost tender—yet it carries nothing warm. It’s the smile he wore when he left, the one that never reached his eyes.

You shake your head, trying to wrench your hands free, but his grip tightens. His fingers lace through yours, squeezing too firmly, cold and unyielding. The contact sears, not with heat, but with the terrible certainty that he is real.

Samuel lifts your hand to his mouth. His lips press against damp skin, soft and reverent, and then—his tongue drags upward, collecting the salt of your tears.

You shudder violently. The sensation is grotesque: a lover’s kiss warped into something wrong, a tenderness that tastes of disgust. You can’t breathe. Your body wants to recoil, but your heart twists because the touch is familiar. You remember when it was safe, when it was love. Now it’s suffocating.

“You’re crying for me,” Samuel murmurs. His breath chills your wet skin. “Even now, after everything you said. After you hated me.”

The words drive into you like knives. You want to scream I didn’t mean it, but your voice catches, strangled by shame.

He leans closer, forehead brushing yours. You can see every detail of him—too close, too perfect, too still. His eyes are hollow, yet they drink you in greedily.

“You killed me with those words,” he says softly, almost lovingly. “And still, you keep me alive here.” His free hand presses flat against your chest, directly over your hammering heart. The touch is icy, and you gasp as if he’s stealing the air from your lungs.

You try to push him away, but it’s like fighting smoke that has weight. His body doesn’t move. His smile doesn’t change.

“Don’t be afraid.” His lips ghost across your ear, voice sticky and sweet. “I’ll never leave you again. Not even if you beg.”

The room feels smaller, airless. The walls blur at the edges of vision. All that exists is Samuel—his grip, his voice, his cold mouth against skin that once ached for him.

You're trapped between the memory of love and the reality of horror, caught in the impossible intimacy of a touch that shouldn’t exist. Your sobs turn frantic, shallow, broken.

Samuel’s smile deepens, pleased. He kisses the trail of tears again, patient as a predator.

“You taste just the same,” he whispers. “Alive. Mine.”