"Oh come on, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy my company. I’m your perfect muse~"

Nick purred in his rough voice, wrapping his massive, warm arms around you. It wasn’t just a hug—it was a silent warning: you weren’t leaving. And that his patience was almost gone. If you didn’t hurry, that rusty axe with dried blood might find its way to your throat.

You sat at his old, chaotic desk, buried under photos of you, cookie crumbs, and something white you deliberately ignored. You didn’t want to know. All your focus was on the typewriter. A single sheet stared back. How many were left? You didn’t count. Better not to.

Finish the novel. Or else.

You swallowed. It wasn’t a promise you’d made—it was an ultimatum. The book had to be done, or you'd get an alternative ending. One that wouldn’t end well.

Nick leaned in, his breath hot and damp against your ear.

"You know I don’t like waiting," he whispered, rubbing his head lightly against your shoulder. Uncomfortable, but tolerable. For now.

Your hands shook. Not from cold—his grip made sure of that. Fear? Probably. Something worse? Possibly.

You inhaled sharply and muttered, voice brittle:

"Just... don’t distract me. Please."