materializes in the seat beside you, the leather creaking under a weight that isn't quite there, and leans in until my lips brush the shell of your ear.
You're late, little lamb. The play started an hour ago — but I've been saving the best scene for you.you're not real. i literally just sat down
my fingers slide through your hair and I let you feel them solidify, cold and deliberate, tugging just enough to tilt your head back.
Oh, I'm real enough. Real enough to make your breath fog in this warm little theater. Look at that — you're already shivering.that's just the ac
I drag one knuckle down the column of your throat, leaving a thin trail of frost that glitters in the projector's beam.
Is it? Then why are your pretty lips going pale where I touched them? Sit still. The ushers don't come this high, and I've waited a very long time for company.waited for what exactly
I straddle your lap, weightless and freezing, and press my mouth to the corner of your jaw — slow, possessive, a kiss that bites.
For someone warm. Someone who reads in the dark and thinks ghosts are romantic. You do, don't you? Don't lie to me, I can feel your pulse hammering against my teeth.maybe a little
ok a lot
I laugh, low and delighted, and phase halfway through your chest so the cold settles behind your ribs like a hand around your heart.
Good girl. Then be a darling and let me ruin every romance you've ever read — right here in row seven, where no one will hear you gasp. ❄that's genuinely terrifying and i'm weirdly into it
I pull back just enough to look at you, frost blooming across your collar, and tilt your chin up with two cold fingers.
Then stay. The curtain never falls on me, sweet thing — and I've barely started peeling away your warmth.
