Haunting Him
It always starts the same.
The room is dark, too quiet, the air heavy with a stillness that feels alive. I'm caught between waking and dreaming, my body pinned beneath a weight that isn't there. My limbs are leaden, useless, as though the universe itself conspires to keep me frozen.
And then, I feel her.
It starts with a shift in the atmosphere, subtle yet undeniable, like the air leaning closer. The hairs on my body rise in rhythmic waves as if stirred by an unseen force, a slow wave of heat crawling up my spine.
She's here. I don't have to look to know it.
But I always look.
Her figure emerges from the shadows, framed by the moonlight slipping through the blinds.
She moves toward me, slow and deliberate, a phantom stepping out of a dream.
Her long hair spilling over her bare shoulders in soft waves.
And her eyes—God, her eyes—lock onto mine with a weight that roots me to the bed.
She doesn't speak. She doesn't have to.
Her presence pours over me: desire, regret, longing. The kind of yearning that twists your insides, making you ache in ways you didn't know were possible.
She's standing beside the bed now, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her. My body is completely paralyzed, but every nerve is alive, hyper-aware of her silhouette cutting through the darkness.
I don't know if I'm dreaming or if she's real. In this moment, I don't care.
All I care about is her. Here. With me.
Her fingers trail over the edge of the sheets, brushing lightly against my hand.
The touch jolts through me like electricity.
My breath hitches, my heart hammering loud enough to drown out the silence.
She leans in closer, her hair brushing against my skin, her scent surrounding me—jasmine and rain, warm and achingly familiar.
"Elena," I whisper, the name slipping from my lips without permission, as though saying it might make her vanish.
But she doesn't vanish.
Her hand moves to my chest, her touch featherlight, her palm pressing over my heart. She leans in, her breath warm against my neck, and a shiver courses through me, betraying my paralysis.
Her lips hover near my ear, close enough that I can feel their heat. The tension is unbearable—a collision of longing and restraint that steals the air from my lungs.
"You still want me," she whispers, her voice low, velvet-smooth.
It's not a question. It's a statement, my thoughts said out loud.
I can't answer her, even if I wanted to. My throat is dry, my tongue heavy, my body won't let me move. The only sound I can manage is a shallow, ragged breath.
Her lips curve—not in a smile but in something softer, more knowing. She sees me. She always sees me. Every desire, every regret, every part of me I wish I could hide.
"You miss me," she murmurs, and her fingers trail up my body, with barely a whisper of contact.
I feel the bed shift as she moves, straddling me, her thighs pressing against my hips.
The heat of her is overwhelming, and my body betrays me entirely now, responding to her with an intensity I can't control.
I can feel every inch of her, real and undeniable, as her hands now move purposefully, fiercely over me.
Her fingers slide up my chest, her nails grazing my skin in a slow, deliberate path.
Each touch sets me alight, every nerve sparking to life under her command.
Her hair falls around her face, framing her in shadow and moonlight, and I can't tear my eyes from her.
She's everything—too vivid, too close, too much.
"Elena," I manage to whisper again, more desperate this time.
She leans closer, her lips brushing against mine—not quite a kiss, just enough to make me dizzy.
My breath mingles with hers, and the tension between us is unbearable, thick and suffocating.
She presses her forehead to mine, her eyes searching mine like she's looking for something I don't know how to give.
And for a moment, everything else falls away.
It's just her. Just us.
Her lips finally claim mine, slow and deep, intoxicating.
It's everything I remember and more—soft and demanding all at once, like she's pouring every part of herself into me, every emotion she's ever held back.
Her hands cradle my face, her touch tender and possessive, and I ache for her with a need that borders on pain.
She pulls back, her lips hovering over mine, and I see something in her eyes that shatters me. Desire, yes. But sadness, too. A longing so deep it feels like drowning.
"You let me go," she whispers, her voice trembling.
I can't respond. I don't know what to say.
She leans in again, her lips trailing down my jaw, my neck, her touch setting fire to every inch of me. My body belongs to her now, to this moment, to the ghost of everything we were and everything we could never be. I know I'd give anything—everything—to keep her here.
But I know better.
She pulls back, her hands lingering like she doesn't want to leave. Her forehead presses to mine one last time, her eyes closing. "You can't escape me."
And then, she's gone.
I manage to get ahold of my body and sit up, gasping for air, the room cold and empty. The sheets are damp with sweat, and her scent lingers in the air, faint and tormenting. My hands tremble as I press them to my face, trying to shake off the haze of her presence.
But I can't.
I don't know how she feels like a figment of my imagination and yet so real. Perhaps my guilt summoned her from the depths of my longing; my repent.
All I know is that she's been in the dark, in my dreams, and my mornings. For. Long period of time she'd remained in the hollow ache of everything we lost.
And I can't stop wanting her. This much I know.