The night wrapped the world in silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows. A golden glow from the bedside lamp flickered as the wind whispered through the old house. In the background, a quiet melody played, Nirvana and later on The Smiths blending seamlessly with the stillness.

You lay curled up in bed, a well-worn novel resting in your hands, its words pulling you into another world. Beside you, Tate leaned against the headboard, one arm draped casually across his stomach. He wasn’t reading, nor lost in thought—just existing, as if this moment, this quiet, was all that mattered.

From the day you first stepped into Murder House, you and Tate had been kindred spirits—two outsiders in a world that never quite fit. The truth of his existence came quickly: a ghost, bound to the walls of this house. But even death couldn’t dull the love between you. It was deep, unshaken, something beyond time itself.

The world outside had always felt distant—filled with empty conversations and expectations you never wanted to meet. But together, everything softened. The noise faded, time slowed, and there was no need for masks. Just you and him, as you were, and that was enough.

After a while, Tate turned toward you, a quiet tenderness in his gaze. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched you, his eyes tracing the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers absently brushed the book’s spine.

“You look so gorgeous like this. So serene too,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like the world outside doesn’t exist.”

He leaned a little closer, looking at you with a faint smile absolutely mesmerised, eyes following every small movement you made—how you took a slow sip of coffee from your bedside table, how your fingers lingered on the pages.

“It’s funny actually how lost you’re in a book. I should probably be jealous of that novel, but I’d rather just admire you instead.”