Lustborn

I felt him before I saw him.

The mirror above my dresser caught my eye, its surface warping gently—as if heat shimmered off it, bending the edges of my reflection. The air in the room thickened. My breath hitched.

He was coming again.

But this time, it wasn't a dream.

I backed away, my fingers trembling slightly as they grazed the corner of the wooden dresser. The room was dim, lit only by the dying blue glow of evening outside my window. The candle I'd lit earlier had burned low, its scent—amber and smoke—clinging to my skin.

I heard his voice, not aloud but within, threading through the hollow of my chest.

You called me.

"I didn't," I whispered, lying to us both.

The mirror rippled once more, and then he stepped out.

He didn't walk through it—he emerged, like mist becoming flesh. Shadows curled around him, warm and sentient. His eyes locked with mine, those dark, unreadable depths that always seemed to know what I was too afraid to admit.

I stood frozen. I wasn't dreaming. I wasn't safe.

"Why are you here?" My voice cracked.

He tilted his head slowly. "You let me in."

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell him to leave. But my lips parted, and nothing came. My pulse betrayed me—fluttering wildly beneath my skin, heat rising through my chest.

He stepped closer, slowly, like he had all the time in the world. His presence filled the room like smoke, like silk. Every nerve in my body was alive, raw, waiting.

"This world doesn't deserve you," he said, his voice low, heavy. "But I do."

His hand reached for me—gently. It hovered just above my cheek, close enough to feel the heat but not the touch. My breath shook.

"You're not real," I said.

He smiled. "And yet you ache for me."

My knees weakened. I stumbled back a step, and he caught me—arms solid and warm around me like I'd imagined too many nights before. But this was no dream. I could feel the thrum of him, the heat, the pulse.

I looked up, and the moment our eyes met, something inside me gave way.

I kissed him.

It wasn't careful. It wasn't gentle.

It was hunger.

His mouth met mine like it belonged there. His grip tightened, pulling me closer, deeper. My body melted against him, and my thoughts scattered like dust in a storm. Every touch felt like fire and comfort, ruin and salvation.

He laid me down on the bed, slow and reverent, as if worshiping something forbidden.

I should've stopped it. I didn't.

I wanted it. I wanted him. And not just in the dream.

The sheets tangled around us, the dim blue light slipping over bare skin and tangled limbs. He whispered my name like a prayer, and I whispered his like a curse.

When I woke the next morning, the room was still.

The candle had burned out.

The mirror was whole.

And I was alone.

Except for the mark.

A faint, dark shimmer at the base of my throat—where his lips had rested last. I touched it. My fingers trembled.

He had crossed over.

And now, I didn't know where he ended and I began.