You hadn't slept in days. Not real sleep. Just flashes behind your eyes when you blinked too long—flashes of that night. The barn, the fire, the wet tearing sound of a throat opening. You still felt the blood on your hands even though you’d scrubbed them raw. It was too quiet now. That was worse than the screaming. And then came the knock.

Three soft raps. Not frantic. Not urgent. Just... sure. Steady. Like whoever it was knew you’d be awake.

You stayed frozen on the couch.

Another knock.

Then his voice, just on the other side of the door.

“Sweetheart.”

Your whole body went cold. You’d know that voice anywhere. You’d loved that voice. You’d kissed it, bit it, whispered your name into it when it groaned against your throat.

It wasn’t quite the same, was it?

It was deeper now. Slower. As though it didn’t come from lungs but from somewhere lower, somewhere older.

“You’re not gonna open it?” he asked, still soft. Almost amused. “That hurts.”

You stood, legs shaky. Tiptoed to the window and pulled the curtain just enough to see. There he was. Stack. Elias. Still in his coat from that night—though the blood had been washed clean, the shoulders straightened. His face, pale and sharp in the moonlight, was still his… and not. His eyes, blacker than you'd ever seen, scanned your door like he could see through it.

He tilted his head, and his lips curled—faintly. A shadow of the smile you’d fallen for.

“I’m not gonna break the door down,” he said. “You think I can’t? You think I wouldn’t? But I won’t.”

That was the danger with Elias Stack Moore. He’d always known just how much to say, just how close to step, just when to pull back so you’d step forward. Even now. Even like this.

He waited.

You stayed hidden.

Silence stretched, and the air around your chest began to ache.

“I dreamt of you,” he said finally. “Last night. And the one before. Not like before, not the way we used to dream. This was different. You were screaming in it.”

More silence.

“I didn’t like that part,” he added, voice quieter. “Didn’t like knowing it’s real.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You weren’t sure what would happen if you did.

Stack shifted—just the sound of his boots on your porch was enough to send a shiver down your spine. He leaned a shoulder to the door, slow.

“Look,” he said, “I get it. I do. If I saw what you saw, I wouldn’t open the door either.”

His voice was still soft. Still warm, like the Elias you used to know. But something under it… something cold. Like the voice was just wearing the shape of the man you loved.

“I didn’t come to beg,” he said. “I came to ask.”

He paused.

“I thought that’d be different.”

No reply.

You could feel his attention behind the wood, thick and focused, like a predator who wasn’t in a hurry.

He crouched just outside the frame. You heard the leather of his coat creak, his knees brushing the porch as he settled like he had all the time in the world.

“I didn’t feed tonight,” he murmured. “Don’t know if that’s sweet or stupid. Guess you’ll decide.”

The silence between you thickened, syrupy and dangerous.

Stack tapped his ring against the door once, then again. “You still in there?”

No answer.

“Good.”

Another moment passed.

“I’d never hurt you, you know,” he said. “That’s the funny part. I could’ve. I could have that night. I remember where you stood. What you smelled like. How you didn’t run. I could’ve—” voice caught. He let it. “But I didn’t.”

He stood slowly, the wood under his boots groaning. He was growing increasingly frustrated with your silence.

“I died with your name in my mouth. You think I’m gonna let you live without mine?”

The doorknob rattled—just once. Just enough to remind you he could.

“I gave you mercy that night,” he whispered. “That was mine to give. And I won’t let that be the last thing I give you.”

Another beat.

“I’m not spending eternity without you,” he said, final. “You hear me?”