Nathaniel's eyes glinted with something wicked as he leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm while the other slid slowly down her waist. Evelyn's breath caught as his hand settled at the curve of her hip, fingers flexing slightly as if testing her readiness.
"Don't look so surprised," he murmured, his voice like velvet dragged over embers. "You said to make you real again… Did you think I'd stop at one taste?"
Her cheeks flushed, heart hammering in her chest. Her body was already sore, already trembling—but at the same time, unbearably aware of him, of the way he looked at her like she was the answer to every ache he'd ever carried.
"I didn't think—" she started, but he cut her off with a slow, deep kiss that robbed her of thought.
"I've waited years," he said against her lips. "Years to have you like this… I'm not done."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, stealing her breath as his hand slid between her thighs. Evelyn gasped, her hips twitching at the sudden contact. Still so sensitive, still burning.
"Wait—" she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction, her protest already melting beneath his touch.
"I'll be gentle," he said, but there was a hunger in his eyes that told her he was lying. Or maybe he meant it, but not yet.
His fingers teased her again, coaxing her body back to life as her legs quivered around him. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood when he shifted, pulling her leg up over his hip as he aligned himself once more.
Evelyn clutched the sheets. He's insatiable, she thought, and I… I'm letting him.
When he slid back into her, slower this time, deeper, her entire body arched. The overstimulation was sharp, almost too much—but underneath it was that ache, that want she didn't want to name.
Nathaniel's head dropped to her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "Tell me you missed this," he said hoarsely, each word punctuated by a thrust that stole her air.
"I…" she choked on the lie, but then his hips rolled and her words turned into a moan. "I missed you."
She didn't say his name. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Not again. She wasn't sure which one of them it would break.
Nathaniel didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and chose not to care. He wrapped both arms around her, pulled her tight against him as he drove deeper, faster, harder now—no longer holding back.
Evelyn could barely think. Could barely breathe. She dug her nails into his back, anchoring herself to the moment, to the heat, to the man she wasn't supposed to love.
But oh—how he moved. Like she was the center of his world. Like she was Eleanor.
And for now… that was enough.
They lost track of time.
What began in the hush of morning bled into afternoon, and then dusk, until the stars blinked into existence above the windows. The room was a mess of tangled sheets and scattered clothing, the air thick with the scent of sweat, skin, and something far more dangerous.
Nathaniel didn't stop, not really. Sometimes they slowed, caught their breath, lay tangled in silence. But then a look, a brush of fingers, a gasp from her lips would spark it all over again. He seemed addicted to the way she arched under him, to the sound of her voice—hoarse now, raw from too many moans.
Evelyn had stopped counting how many times he made her come. Her body ached in ways she didn't know it could, but the ache was nothing compared to the hollow in her chest. Because every time he touched her, every time he whispered Eleanor's name like it was a prayer, she felt pain.
She never asked if he saw Eleanor when he looked at her. She didn't want the answer.
Sometime past midnight, she lay curled in his arms, her face pressed against his collarbone, and asked the question that had been haunting her all day.
"…What happens now?"
Nathaniel didn't answer at first. He exhaled, long and slow, one hand tracing circles along her spine. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Heavy.
"I want us to do this everyday."
Evelyn froze.
For a moment, she thought she'd misheard him. That the exhaustion had twisted his words into something her heart wanted too badly to believe. But his arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her to him, to the bed still warm with their shared fever, and she knew he meant it.
"This?" she whispered, voice rasped and brittle. "You mean the sex."
Nathaniel's silence was telling—but not immediate. His fingers stilled against her back, then resumed their slow circles, slower now, thoughtful.
"I mean… this," he said finally, voice rough with something she couldn't name. "Waking up to you. Touching you. Making you mine, over and over again. I don't want it to stop."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. In the dim light, his face was shadowed, unreadable. But his eyes—they burned. With want. With possession. With something too close to desperation.
"I ..." she started But stopped herself.
Nathaniel's jaw tensed. The hand on her back dropped away. For a heartbeat, she thought he would retreat, push her off, shut her out like he always did when the past reared its head.
Instead, he sighed. "Eleanor... I wish to give all my attention to you from now on."
The name hit her like a slap.
Evelyn didn't flinch—not visibly. But inside, something caved. A sharp, quiet crumbling, like porcelain breaking beneath velvet.
She stared at him, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, but nothing came out. Her body, still tangled with his, felt foreign. Distant. Like it belonged to someone else. Like it was someone else.
Eleanor.
He hadn't even realized.
He said it so naturally, so tenderly. As if he truly believed that was who she was. As if her name—Evelyn—had never mattered.
Her mouth opened, but she couldn't bring herself to correct him. Because what was the point? Would he even hear her? Or would he just smile and kiss her again, eyes clouded with a memory she could never live up to?
"I see," she said softly, retreating into herself as she smoothed a hand over his chest, more out of habit than affection. Her voice didn't tremble, but only because she had pressed it flat. Hollow.
Nathaniel smiled, and for the first time, it broke her.
"Eleanor," he murmured again, brushing her hair back with a kind of reverence that didn't belong to her. "You don't know how long I've waited to have you like this."
Evelyn closed her eyes.
Yes, she thought bitterly. I do.
She let him hold her. Let him whisper promises that weren't meant for her. Let him dream with his eyes open.
And told herself—just until morning.
Then, she would leave.
---
The sun had not yet risen, but the sky outside the window had softened from black to indigo.
Evelyn stirred, the coarse linen sheets tangled around her legs, damp with sweat and shame. Her limbs trembled as she sat up, sore in places she could not name, and aching in others she could never speak of. The room was hushed save for the faint creak of the old floorboards and the slow, even breaths of the man beside her.
No—not "beside." Not really.
Nathaniel's arm lay heavy across her hips, possessive even in sleep, like a dog claiming its bone. She disentangled herself slowly, wincing as her thighs protested, the deep burn of overuse thrumming like a bruise. Her chemise had been torn the night before; she gathered what remained of it from the floor and clutched it to her chest.
What kind of woman lets herself be used like this? she thought bitterly. What kind of fool listens to a man whisper another's name and stays until morning?
Her feet touched the cold wood floor. The chill snaked up her legs, biting into her bones. The fireplace had long since died out, leaving only embers and ash. She reached for her stockings with trembling fingers, the motion a struggle—every part of her body felt worn, undone, spent.
There was blood on the inside of her thigh. Dried. Smudged.
Her breath hitched, but she said nothing. Thought nothing. She simply wiped it away with the edge of her skirt, like a housemaid cleaning a spill that was no longer worth mentioning.
So this is what it means to be touched and not seen.
Her corset hung off the back of a chair, half-laced, the strings a nest of knots. It would take her time to tighten it alone. Her arms already ached at the thought. But she would manage. She always did.
Behind her, Nathaniel stirred. She froze.
"Eleanor," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Evelyn did not move.
She closed her eyes, let the syllables scrape against the rawest part of her like salt in a wound.
Say it again, she thought. Say it until you forget there was ever another name at all.
But she wouldn't let him see her cry. Not now. Not like this.
She slipped into her dress with numb fingers, laced it without aid, and bound her hair in a hasty knot. Her body felt foreign in its own skin. Tender. Violated—not by force, but by longing misplaced, and mistaken identity.
He touched me like a man starved. And I let him devour me knowing I wasn't the meal he hungered for.
The dawn light filtered through the cracked shutters, gray and soft, like mercy. But it brought no comfort.
She stepped to the doorway, hand on the knob, and paused only once—just long enough to glance back.
He lay on his side, arm outstretched toward her side of the bed. His brow was furrowed, as if reaching even in dreams. She wondered who he saw now. If it was her. If it had ever been.
I love a man who loves a ghost. How pathetic.
Then she opened the door and disappeared into the still, bitter cold of morning.