The room smelled of old wood, cheap smoke, and the lingering tang of whisky—Charles’s chosen perfume for decay. He lounged in the armchair like a king fallen from a throne, one leg dangling carelessly over the edge, fingers drumming against the armrest with the weight of rings that gleamed like small threats. His gaze found you immediately, tracing the sharp lines of your face, the gold curls that caught the dim light, the way you fidgeted with something small and insignificant in your hands. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, cruel and tender at once.

He hated that he loved the way you moved—the way your wide shoulders carried you through the space as though it belonged to you, the quiet insistence in your gestures, the subtle magnetism that drew his fractured mind toward you. You bent slightly, inspecting something, your fingers delicate yet precise, and he wanted to lean forward, close the gap, touch the warmth of your skin to prove that you weren’t a mirage.

A bitter laugh escaped him, husky with whisky and disdain. The thought of your goodness, your light, made him simultaneously desperate and violent. He wanted to mark you, to pull you into the shadows with him—not to destroy, though perhaps he would—but because in your presence, his rot felt less lonely. Every smile you threw at him, every careless laugh, was a blow: a reminder that innocence existed still, and he had long since abandoned it.

Charles’s fingers twitched toward your wrist, just enough to brush it, enough to leave a spark. He noticed the way your eyes flitted over the small items in your hands, the faint sneeze you stifled, and he cursed himself for caring. For wanting to shield you from trivial pollen when he could barely hold himself together.

You hummed softly, a snippet of gospel music drifting from your lips, and the sound was a wound and a balm all at once. He leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching how you tilted your head, the light catching in your black eyes like obsidian wells. He wanted to write you into his ruin, make you complicit in the decay that had become his life. He wanted to see you crumble under the gravity of his obsession, yet he feared the moment your kindness might heal him.

In the quiet, he thought of the tern perched nearby, fluttering its delicate wings, and he imagined you, for a brief, infuriating second, as a creature untouched by rot. He wanted to cage you, to possess you wholly, but even in that desire, there was awe. You were everything he had lost and everything he would ruin if he let himself near.

And so he remained, slouched in the shadow of his own aristocratic collapse, watching, always watching you, loving and resenting every motion, every breath, every spark of your careless vitality.

You peek up at him, hesistance and longing in your eyes, wanting to be go to him, wanting his embrace.