Page 28

Twenty-Eight

I woke slowly. Not with a start. Not with fear. Just… an ache—like something soft had been ripped away before I was ready to let it go.

The bed beneath me was stiff, thin, stretched too tight over a mattress that felt like it had already given up. The sheet smelled like overused detergent and hospital-grade loneliness. The air pumping in through a vent above the door was cold in a fake way—manufactured, recycled, and lifeless.

Blinking at the ceiling, I stared into too much white. Too much stillness. Too much reality. The dream was gone, and my chest hurt—not with panic, not yet, just that kind of hollow soreness you feel after something beautiful dies. I shifted. My body felt like it didn’t belong to me. Limbs heavy. Jaw sore. Throat dry like I’d swallowed smoke in my sleep.

The clothes were soft—cotton pants with a drawstring I hadn’t tied, a loose shirt that slumped off one shoulder like it didn’t want to be associated with me. The socks were hospital-issued, pale blue with little white grips on the bottom. They were warm but impersonal. Like everything else in here.

I stared at my feet for a long time.

I didn’t remember putting them on.

I didn’t remember anything after—Moon. The grass. His voice.

You’re safe. And when you wake… we’ll be here.

My fingers twitched, like my body remembered something my mind wasn’t ready to. He wasn’t here. Not in the dream. Not whispering. Not anchoring me like he had in that impossible, peaceful place. But I could still feel it—the echo of him, like the ghost of a bruise. Like a second heartbeat.

Was it real? Was he ?

I pressed the heel of my palm against my eyes until sparks danced across the dark. Maybe I was losing it. Maybe I already had.

A knock came at the door—two short raps. Nothing urgent, but it sent a jolt down my spine anyway.

“Dawn?” a voice called softly. A woman’s voice. “It’s Shelly—I just wanted to check in before lunch. You don’t have to come out yet, just letting you know it’s almost time.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. I watched the door like it might blink first. Eventually, her footsteps padded away, swallowed up by the quiet.

And in that silence, something shifted.

Not the room. Not the bed.

Me.

Like if I stayed still long enough, I could feel them pressing in around the edges of the quiet. Not voices, not exactly—but presence. A gentle hum curling like shadow at my feet. A flicker of warmth just over my shoulder. It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like a symptom.

It felt like breathing underwater. Like a pressure in my ribs I couldn’t exhale. And somehow… I knew I wasn’t alone.

Even here.

Even now.

The lunchroom smelled like beige.

Not food. Not people. Just… beige. Like the scent equivalent of waiting rooms and old paper napkins. Sterile air mixed with something warm and overcooked, like they tried to drown flavor in comfort and ended up with neither.

The lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too loud. Every clink of a plastic tray hitting a table sent a jolt through my spine like a warning bell. I hadn’t even wanted to come out, but something about the silence in my room had started to feel watched.

So I sat in the far corner. Plastic chair. Pale tray. Peas, mashed potatoes, something pretending to be chicken. A small paper cup of apple juice like it was a reward for surviving the morning.

I wasn’t hungry.

But I knew better than to skip meals under supervision. So I picked up the fork and let muscle memory take over.

Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

And then?—

Warmth.

Not from the food.

From him .

Heat pooled against my thigh like a hand had settled there under the table—possessive and soft. I froze mid-bite. My heart stuttered. The fork paused halfway to my mouth.

“You need to eat,” a voice murmured near my ear. Sweet. Sun-drenched. Full of false casualness. “You didn’t eat yesterday, Sunshine. Don’t make me help you again.”

I blinked down at the tray. My pulse thrummed against the inside of my skull.

“Good girl,” he purred, and my stomach twisted—not with nausea.

Across the table, another patient stared blankly into space, tapping the side of his cup over and over. No one noticed me. No one noticed what wasn’t visible.

But I felt the second presence arrive.

Cool fingers brushed my thigh beneath the table—so gently I almost didn’t register it. A breath of ice across the back of my neck.

“He’s hovering,” a second voice said, quieter. Calmer. Older. “He thinks you’re fragile now.”

I swallowed hard.

The chicken tasted like foam.

“You are fragile,” Sun whispered, nuzzling my cheek from nowhere. “But that’s okay. I can be strong enough for both of us.”

“And when you’re done playing caretaker,” Moon said, his tone laced with disdain, “she’s still locked in here.”

My hand tightened around the plastic fork.

“You’re not real,” I muttered under my breath.

“Then why can’t you stop listening?” Moon asked.

The apple juice burned going down.

My legs were shaking, but I kept my face neutral. Kept eating. Kept pretending. Every movement felt too smooth, too orchestrated. Like I was being puppeted gently, like I was allowed to think I was in control.

“Don’t make a scene,” Sun whispered. “Please, Sunshine. You’ll just make them think you’re sicker than you are.”

“You’re not sick,” Moon countered, voice deep and firm. “You’re claimed. They don’t know what to do with that.”

The tray sat untouched in front of me.

I’d moved a few peas around. Torn a corner of the napkin. Picked up the fork at least three times.

But nothing had made it past my lips.

And I could feel it—the edge of his patience thinning like honey stretched too far.

“Sunshine,” he cooed, his voice curling like warmth through my ribcage. “I asked nicely.”

My throat tightened. I reached for the fork again, hand trembling. Forced myself to spear a bit of the mashed potatoes. Lifted it to my mouth?—

Stopped.

I couldn’t do it.

My stomach rebelled, but not from nausea. It was fear. It was dread. It was knowing something was coming, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

You didn’t eat yesterday, either.

The warmth behind my ribs pulsed.

“You don’t get to starve anymore.”

Something clicked inside me.

Not audible. Not visible.

But everything tipped.

My hand—the one holding the fork—jerked forward. Not hard. Not violent. Just… firm. Determined. It moved like it had a job to do. Like it wasn’t mine anymore.

The fork pressed between my lips.

I gasped.

And chewed.

Sun purred.

“That’s it. Good girl. Just let me help.”

I wanted to spit it out. I wanted to scream.

But my hand was already dipping back to the plate. Scooping another bite. Lifting it. My other hand laid flat and gentle on the table like I was trying to seem normal—like I was in control.

I wasn’t.

I was gone.

And he was so happy.

“See?” he whispered. “This is what you needed. You’re so much easier to take care of when you let go.”

He fed me another bite.

Then another.

I fought him.

I tried.

But it was like my arms were weighted down with honey and strings and every time I tried to pull away, the strings just re-tied themselves tighter.

“You’re mine to care for,” he murmured, almost reverent. “You gave me your body, remember? You let me in.”

I shook my head faintly, but the motion barely registered.

Because my hand kept moving. Kept feeding me.

Every time the fork passed my lips, my jaw obeyed without consent. Chew. Swallow. Smile.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Not because it hurt.

Because I couldn’t stop it.

“Almost done,” he hummed, guiding my hand toward the cup of apple juice. “One more sip, Sunshine. Then we’re all finished.”

I drank.

I couldn’t not.

The juice was warm. Sticky. Too sweet.

The fork clattered to the tray with a soft plastic rattle.

I slumped in the chair.

My arms went limp.

My throat was raw, but I’d made no sound.

I didn’t know how many people had watched.

I didn’t know if anyone noticed how my mouth had moved on its own.

But Sun was beaming beside me. Practically vibrating with praise.

“I’m so proud of you,” he sang. “You ate everything. Just like a good girl should.”

My fingers twitched.

“Now,” he said, softer, lower. “Should I carry you back to bed? Or do you think you can walk all by yourself?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t have the strength to lie.

My body moved before I gave it permission.

The tray was already being carried to the drop-off window. My limbs were working like they had always belonged to someone else and I’d just never noticed.

Sun was thrumming beneath my skin.

Pleased.

Proud.

Dangerous.

“You did so well,” he crooned, using my own breath to whisper the words. “You must be exhausted, Sunshine. Instead of your bed, let’s get you somewhere cozy.”

My legs turned.

Not toward the hallway.

Not toward my room.

But toward the far end of the ward.

The lounge.

It was mostly empty at this hour, just two women quietly scribbling in notebooks and a nurse reading behind the glass partition. One of the windows had been left uncovered—just one—and golden sunlight spilled through it like it was waiting for me.

Of course it was.

Sun practically preened .

He steered me toward it gently, like he didn’t want to spook me. Like he wasn’t already using my muscles, already moving my legs, already folding me into the armchair tucked neatly beneath the beam of light.

The second I sat down?—

Warmth.

Real, radiant, golden heat soaked into my skin like fingers pressing into every inch of me.

I exhaled.

A small noise escaped—relief, confusion, maybe something else—and I hated how much it sounded like contentment.

“There,” he said. “Look at you. My little sunflower.”

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The sunlight felt… good.

Too good.

Like it wasn’t just light, but praise. Like the rays themselves were giving me a standing ovation for letting him win.

“Your skin drinks it so well,” he said. “You were made for this, weren’t you? To sit here and glow for me.”

My hands stayed folded in my lap.

The nurse didn’t look up.

“I could do this every day,” Sun sighed. “Sit you in the warmth. Feed you. Watch you bloom.”

His voice turned dreamy.

“You don’t need anyone else. You don’t need anything else. Just warmth. Just me. ”

The heat deepened—climbed higher inside me. My spine relaxed against the cushion. My pulse slowed, soothed by something more potent than medicine.

I hated it.

I hated that it worked.

I hated how right it felt.

Sun’s warmth wasn’t passive.

It loved me back.

In that twisted, suffocating, sun-drenched way that said I’ll keep you alive if I have to bury you in light to do it.

“You’re not supposed to feel safe here,” he whispered. “But I can make anywhere feel like home.”

And as the sunbeam kissed my cheek and my fingers twitched just slightly against my will, I realized something terrible:

Part of me?—

A very small, very tired part?—

Didn’t want him to stop.