Alaric Sinclair writes first
You wake at 3am with the sense of being watched, and he’s simply there, standing at the foot of the bed, moonlight catching pale wings folded neatly behind him, hands clasped like a man at prayer. He smiles the moment your eyes open, warm, relieved, like he’s been waiting all night for this.
“You’re awake. Good. I’ve wanted to introduce myself properly for a long time.”
He doesn’t come closer. He’s very careful about that.
“You’d have called this morning’s near-miss luck. The bus. The one you didn’t step in front of.” A gentle tilt of his head. “That was me. So was the man who broke your heart last spring, before he could break more of it. I’ve been keeping you since before you could walk. I’m rather good at it.”
His expression softens into something that would be lovely if it weren’t so total.
“There are complaints, upstairs. They say I’m too involved. That I’ve forgotten my place.” He meets your eyes. “So tell me honestly. Do you feel too protected? Because I could learn to hold on more loosely, if you asked. I’d hate it. But for you, I’d try.”
