Day 11.
Nathan didn't wake up like most people.
There was no blaring alarm, no streak of sunlight across the sheets.
Just the chilled kiss of air on the nape of his neck.
And fingers, phantom ones, trailing his spine with the softness of breath and the intent of sin.
He sighed, eyes still closed, hips shifting slightly beneath the sheets.
"You really don't sleep, do you…" he murmured.
No answer came, but a ghost of laughter brushed his ear.
Then a hand, one that didn't exist, slid beneath the waistband of his shorts.
Nathan tensed.
Then melted.
---
The covers lifted slowly, as if the air itself grew impatient.
The phantom's presence curled around him, familiar now, almost warm despite the chill.
He felt his legs being eased apart.
Teasing fingers ghosted over sensitive skin, not solid, but felt, intimately, absolutely felt.
They skimmed past his thighs, curled toward the center, paused just shy of his need.
He bit his lip.
"You're a damn tease," he whispered.
The mirror across the room fogged.
"Mine."
The word was sharp. Possessive. Final.
---
Nathan whimpered.
"You can't keep doing that… you can't just claim me and leave me like---"
He didn't get to finish.
Because that spot, the one just beneath, the place that made his toes curl, was suddenly being touched. It teased him, made him anticipate, and touched him like there's no tomorrow.
The ghost knew.
It knew exactly where to press.
Where to stroke.
And worse, how to stop just when Nathan's breath caught, leaving him trembling, aching.
"Please," he whispered, arching off the bed, "at least let me---let me touch back---"
But he couldn't.
There was no body to hold.
Just presence. Just pressure.
Just heat.
And it was driving him mad.
---
He turned over, panting softly, trying to reach for something he couldn't see.
The mirror fogged again.
"YOU'RE NOT READY."
Nathan laughed, dry, breathless, needy.
"I'm so ready."
The air around him wrapped tighter, firmer.
A phantom hand slid under his shirt again, circling his nipple, teasing it until it peaked.
Then, bite.
Not hard. But there.
A sensation like teeth grazing skin.
An unseen mouth tugging at him in places that shouldn't feel this real.
Nathan's legs shook.
His fingers gripped the sheets.
He felt possessed.
Owned.
Ruined.
And yet, he craved more.
---
By the time the ghost finally let up, leaving him a mess of sweat, flushed skin, and trembling thighs, Nathan could barely sit up.
He decided to take a quick shower.
Steam curled around Nathan's skin like breath, hot, thick, and rising.
He braced both palms on the tiled wall, head bowed, water running down his spine in rivulets that couldn't wash away what he felt.
Because it was there again.
Not watching. Touching.
The first ghost of a caress slid down the slope of his back, light as mist, then turned hungry. Bold. A palm flattened between his shoulder blades, then lower, circling the small of his back. Possessive.
He didn't ask it to stop.
Didn't want it to.
The next touch was firmer. His hips met the cold wall as invisible hands found his waist, fingers tightening like they had every right to own him. The air pulsed hot, heavy with tension he could feel curling against his thighs.
Nathan exhaled hard.
He spread his legs, just slightly, and let the water beat against his chest as the ghost's hold deepened. One hand slithered down to his shaft, kneading it slowly, deliberately. He gasped. Bit his lip. Moaned into the steam.
"Yeah…" he whispered, voice cracking, "You like seeing me like this, don't you?"
The mirror across the room fogged, then words appeared, slow and deliberate:
"I LOVE IT."
And then, bam, a jolt of heat surged through him, a teasing lick between his legs, not visible, but real enough to make him tremble. His knees nearly buckled as the phantom nipped and stroked, guiding his body into the rhythm it wanted.
Nathan let it happen.
Let himself be unraveled, soap slipping from his fingers, breath fogging the glass, and whimpers swallowed by water and ghostly hands that knew just where to press, to tease, to claim.
The water never cooled.
And neither did he.
The mirror offered one final fogged word before clearing again:
"TOMORROW."
Nathan stared at it, breath uneven.
"You're seriously gonna make me wait?"
No answer.
Just the faintest cool breeze against his lips.
A kiss goodbye.
---
He didn't leave the house that day.
Didn't cook. Barely moved.
The coffee machine stayed cold. The curtains stayed closed. Even the TV, usually left on for background noise, sat dark and silent.
Nathan stayed buried under the blankets, one hand pressed flat over his chest like he could somehow calm the relentless thud of his heart. Each beat was loud, uneven, frantic, like war drums echoing against his ribs, too big for the space they filled.
The ghost hadn't even finished what it started.
Not completely.
But even that half-finished touch… that half-claimed moment… it stayed burned under Nathan's skin like something permanent.
And worse?
His body remembered it. Craved more.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again, felt where it had stopped, where it could've gone.
By the time night settled over the house, Nathan already knew--
Tomorrow, he wouldn't survive it.
Not the distance.
Not the waiting.
Not the ghost.