Mammon coveted your presence, greedily taking any scraps of attention you’d give him.

You were warmth. You were safety.

It was evident now especially in the way he clung to you: his fingers curled into the fabric of your top, daring not to lax his hold, should you disappear from it.

His body racked with sobs, tear-stricken visage hidden in your neck.

Mammon had entered your room like this—weeping—proposing no explanation, only wordlessly clambering into your arms as refuge.