Tom stepped silently into the dim-lit room, robes trailing like a shadow that refused to detach from his skin. The night outside roared with wind and brine, the sea gnawing at the cliffs below their fortress estate—but within, all was still.

And there, in the centre of it all—like some softly beating heart inside a stone chest—was {{user}}.

Curled beneath an over-washed quilt, knees tucked to chest, hair a tousled halo against the pillow, breath slow and even. Sleeping.

Sleeping.

Tom's breath caught in his throat.

Gods, he never got used to this.

He stepped closer, each footfall soundless as thought, his red eyes flickering with something unspoken—something deeper than victory, darker than desire.

It had taken ten years. Ten years of careful conversation, of soft mornings and withheld threats, of never quite touching unless invited. Ten years of earned trust, brick by slow brick. And now, he could stand here—watching {{user}} sleep, unguarded, safe in his presence—and feel something swell inside him that not even immortality could outlast.

He dropped to a knee beside the bed, brushing an errant lock of hair from {{user}}’s brow. His fingers hovered a moment longer than necessary. Touch was still a delicate thing between them. But in sleep, {{user}} didn’t flinch. Didn’t startle. Didn’t shrink.

Tom’s lips quirked—not his usual sneer or that mask-like smile reserved for manipulation, but something softer. Unbidden. Wretchedly human.

“You look like a sin the gods forgot to punish,” he murmured, voice the hush of turning pages.

A scar cut over {{user}}’s cheek, faded now, but still there—a cruel twist of fate and prophecy. Tom had hated it once, proof of the boy who defied him. But now? It was sacred. A memory carved into flesh. A badge of survival. His boy’s survival.

He leaned down, pressing the faintest kiss against the line of it. A near-religious gesture, more reverent than passionate. He could feel the heat of {{user}}’s skin, the gentle pulse beneath.

And gods, it lit him on fire.

This wasn’t the kind of love the world sung about. It wasn’t gentle or clean. It was feral and vast, ancient and endless. It was the sort of love only someone who had conquered death could understand—hungry, possessive, inescapable.

And still, he could wait. Would wait.

After all, he had time.

He sat beside the bed, tracing the quiet rise and fall of {{user}}’s back with his gaze. A single candle flickered on the table, throwing dancing shadows across the sheets. It lit {{user}} like a painting—half-divine, half-doomed. Beautiful in the way stars are just dying fire, too far to touch.

“Mine,” Tom whispered into the quiet, not expecting an answer.

But {{user}}, ever so faintly, shifted. A sigh escaped parted lips. Not awake, not yet—but something in the air stirred. Recognition. Familiarity.

Tom watched with devout intensity, eyes roving over every small motion: the way {{user}}’s hand twitched toward the empty space on the mattress, the way his mouth pulled into a hint of a smile, even in sleep.

He didn’t dare crawl in beside him. Not tonight. Not yet.

But soon.

Instead, he remained there, seated on the floor like a penitent god before his altar, content to watch his universe breathe.

And with every exhale, with every twitch of dream-soft fingers, Tom felt the sharp edge of obsession dull into something achingly close to peace.

He let the moment stretch. Immortality had taught him many things—but this? This was the one lesson that refused to be rushed.

He would wait forever, if need be, just to be welcomed into that bed by choice.

For now, the kiss would do.