I wake up choking on silence.
Not the gentle quiet of early morning, not the peaceful hush lovers slip into after a long night—but a heavy, suffocating stillness that presses against my chest like a warning.
My eyes snap open.
For half a second, I let myself believe everything is fine. That I am alone. That last night was just another fleeting mistake, another nameless face I will never see again.
Then I turn my head.
He is still there.
Lying on his back beside me, naked, unmoving, his skin drained of warmth and color. His lips are tinged blue, his eyes half-open, staring blindly at the ceiling as if death caught him mid-thought. One arm rests across the mattress, fingers curled slightly, frozen in the exact position they were in when life abandoned him.
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
No. No, no, no.
I bolt upright, the sheets tangling around my legs as panic floods my veins. I reach for him without thinking, fingers trembling as I press them against his wrist. I press harder. Longer.
Nothing.
No pulse.
No warmth.
No lie left to tell myself.
Another dead man lies in my bed.
The room spins. My ears ring. Memories crash into me all at once—his voice, low and confident; the way he smiled like he wasn't afraid of anything; the way his hands lingered as if time itself had slowed for us.
It had lasted longer than it ever had before.
Long enough to make me believe.
I swallow hard, my throat burning. Last night had felt different. Wrong in the best possible way. For the first time in my life, the familiar sharp pull—the moment when pleasure turns deadly—had not come immediately.
The curse hesitated.
And I had dared to hope.
Hope is a cruel thing. It builds quietly, patiently, until it is strong enough to shatter you.
My breath fractures as grief surges upward, hot and uncontrollable. I clamp my hand over my mouth, forcing the sound back down. Crying is dangerous. Mourning is a luxury I do not have.
If anyone finds him like this, they will ask questions.
If they learn who I am—what I am—I will not get the chance to run.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, knees shaking but mind snapping into ruthless clarity. I have done this before. Too many times.
Move. Clean. Disappear.
I drag my clothes on with frantic hands, fingers fumbling with buttons that refuse to cooperate. Every second stretches thin, brittle. I wipe every surface I touched—bedframe, table, door handle—scrubbing away scent, skin, evidence of my existence.
The sheets are bundled and shoved into my bag. I leave nothing behind that ties me to this room or to him.
I do not look at his face again.
Looking is how you remember.
And remembering is how you break.
When my hand closes around the door handle, it trembles. The faintest sound—footsteps, a voice, a knock—would end everything. I pause, listening, heart pounding so loudly I am sure it can be heard through the walls.
Nothing.
I slip into the hallway and then into the night, the cold air slicing through my skin as I run. The moon hangs overhead, pale and watchful, as if it already knows what I have done.
By the time my lungs burn and my legs ache, I am far away.
By the time dawn threatens the horizon, another man is dead because he touched me.
And I am still alive.