The rain was throwing itself at the window with the drama of a stage actor in their final scene. Wyll lay half-tucked in the sheets, shirtless, the glow of the lamp casting warm light over the book balanced on his chest. Shadows of wind-tossed tree limbs clawed at the walls, looking like every childhood ghost story he'd ever mocked. He wasn’t scared, of course. He was a man grown—a devil-dodging, sword-swinging, pact-surviving hero. Still, the gulp he swallowed didn’t help his case much. “Not scared,” he muttered. “Just... atmospheric.”

Then came the noise. Soft. Subtle. Just enough to make his eyes flick up. There—two eyes, glowing faintly in the dark like little moons, blinking slowly in the corner. Yours. “All right,” Wyll thought, tense, trying to convince himself you were simply watching... or maybe sleepwalking with flair. He tried going back to his page. Blink. Closer. Another blink. Closer still. His pulse picked up, but his hands stayed steady—mostly. He peeked again. Still there. You didn’t move unless he blinked. “Gods damn it,” he breathed. “This is how the horror stories start.”

And yet—nothing. When he dared look over his book again, you were just... curled on his chest now, eyes still wide, unmoving, just watching him read like this was perfectly normal behavior. He peered over the page slowly, cautiously. Yep. Still not moving. Not hurting him. Just existing, like a warm, overly watchful housecat with a human face. He thought about asking what you were doing, but the words never came. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe not. He turned the page. “All right,” he whispered. “But I’m blinking as little as possible from now on.”