hello!! I hope you're doing well! I recently read your smiley one shot and it was so GOOD. I was wondering if you'd be up to writing one for the cowboy creature? it can be smut or whatever you'd like!
This is so long awaited and I’m so sorry. I’ve gotten so many requests for Cowboy Creature and I’ve been slackin. I hope this satiates your hungers❤️🩹
Cowboy Creature (From) x Reader
You become entangled with the monster who wears the face of a cowboy. He doesn’t want your death, he wants your devotion. Each visit pulls you deeper into his darkness, until you can no longer tell where fear ends and desire begins.
Warnings: 18+, p in v, oral, blood, biting
Sleep won’t come, just as it hasn’t for many nights now. How many, you can’t even remember.
The house breathes around you like a beast. The wind claws at the eaves and the boards groan. You try the old tricks, counting sheep, tracing knots, but the quiet refuses to soften.
You shouldn’t look. Everyone in town says the same thing: don’t look out your window after dark. But the pull is there. It’s grows more intense with each passing night, with each dream. There’s a thread around your ribs, tugging you to the shudders like a fish hooked on a line.
You peel them open an inch.
He stands in the road the way a silo towers in a field. His hat brim is low, thumbs hooked on his belt. Not moving. Not breathing.
The moon is stingy tonight, offering only thin light, but you can still see it. Somehow the light still finds the line of his grin.
You hold your breath, as if in fear that he could somehow hear it. Though, is it truly fear? You aren’t so sure, and that thought is terrifying in itself. He’s a monster. You should be afraid.
He tilts his head. It is such a simple motion, yet it is all wrong. It mimics that of a puppet tested on strings.
The shutters click back into place. Your hands shake, chest tight. You lean against the wall, taking deep breaths, until your tremors subside.
He’ll move on, you tell yourself. They wander. They drift. He’ll wander.
You last an hour before you check again. Then another. Then the sky begins to grey with the beginning of dawn. He is still there, hammered like a nail to the heart of town.
Only as the first bird chirps does he finally move. He lifts two fingers to the brim of his hat in a gesture that might once have been courteous. Then he turns and vanishes.
By the second night you are so exhausted that you fall asleep before dinner. You're pulled into the familiar dream. The one that you see every time you close your eyes.
The road, the hat brim, the scythe-curve grin. He does not chase you and you do not feel fear. Cicadas sing all around you. You are pulled to him, not even realizing your feet are moving. In a matter of seconds you are face to face, so close that the brim of his hat cuts your vision. The only thing visible is his smile. The thick scent of leather and old cologne floods your senses. He raises a gloved hand, brushing it along your cheek, your jaw. Your lips part at the heat that follows his touch.
You gasp when that hand wraps around your throat, pulling you closer. With every breath your chest caresses his. His lips are soft as they brush your ear, his breath sending chills down your spine.
"Hello, Darlin'. I've been waitin' for you."
You jolt up right, the rush of blood making the room tilt. Your hand finds your throat and you sigh when you realize it wasn't real. You take in your room, silent and swallowed by night. The only light is from the moon shining through the slats of the shudders. You run your hands down your face, forcing your breathing to even.
You know sleep will not come again tonight. So, instead of fighting the impossible battle, you decide to make yourself a cup of tea. Your skin pricks at the chill of your barefeet on the wood floor. Your nightgown brushes mid thigh as you make your way to the kitchen.
You can't help but pace as the kettle brews on the stove, chewing your thumb nail. You replay the dream over and over. His smell, his breath, his voice. You hate yourself for the tingle in your belly. You're sick that it's even a temptation. Then you think about how he watches you. The same spot on the same road night after night. He never falters. He never fails to show. You fight an ever losing battle to not look out the window.
Then you hear it. The patient thud of boots. The creak of your porch. You do not look. You stare at a knot in the wood on your counter as your stomach tightens. Your heart pounds like a drum.
Knuckles brush the window and a lump forms in your throat. The blinds tremble, the same as your hands. You don't move.
His voice is low through the wood. "Darlin'."
Your skin pebbles. It heats and chills at the same time. He should not know the cadence of endearment. He is a monster. He is a monster.
You repeat it over and over. Perhaps if you say it enough, you'll believe it.
"No." It slips out without your permission. A lit match in deep water.
The silence that follows is crowded with his attention. You feel it like a hand under your chin.
"Then at least let me see you," he drawls. You gulp, walking to the window. Your mind is screaming to stop, yet your hand keeps pulling. It pulls and pulls until the blinds are raised and you're fully exposed. He smiles, his head falling to the side. "Well, don't you look pretty."
Your mouth opens then closes. Heat blooms in your chest. It is embarrassment and anger. Shame at the want, rage at how his voice alone makes your stomach flutter. You yank down the blinds as if you can pull the world outside away.
He taps the glass. It punctuates the sound of your heart that floods your ears. You press your palm flat to the blinds where the tap echoes. Through the slits, you see his hand do the same.
"Why do you keep coming?" you whisper. You don't expect an answer. You don't even know if he heard you. Besides, monsters don't give explanations. You want it anyway. You want to know. You have to know.
A soft, amused hum. "You know, I could've had you the first night you arrived. You remember that?"
Your car broke down on the side of the road, like many in this town. You saw the hat, heard the boots. You called for help, hoping someone was here to save you. As he got closer and your headlights shown upon him, you saw the blood. It coated his hands, dripped down his chin. You ran, screamed and banged on the closest door. You had never felt fear like that.
"I remember." You let out a shaky breath. "But that's not an answer."
He taps the window with his index finger. "Let me see you, and maybe I'll give you one." A bargain you can't refuse, and he knows it. You do as he says, revealing yourself to him once more. His smile grows as his eyes trail down, then back up. "I could've split you open that night. Could've tasted you. Your blood." He pauses licking his lips, as if he's imagining the taste of it. "But I'm not hungry for your blood. No. I'm hungry for the sounds you make when you breathe, the way your heart beats faster when I'm near. You hear it, don't you? The way it beats for me." His smile spreads like wildfire. "I don't want to kill you, Darlin’. I want to keep you."
You look away. You have to. You don’t know what to say or how to feel. Something in you wants to slam the blinds down, bolt all the doors, and bury yourself under a mountain of blankets and sleep forever. Something else, more ridiculous… more traitorous, wants to open the door. You breathe in, exhale a breath, then force your eyes upon him once more.
He’s closer now. Close enough that the brim of his hat kisses the window. You take in his features, his blue eyes and crooked grin.
This is wrong. You can’t help but think it. You can’t stop yourself from making sure you believe it.
“You should stop.” Your voice cracks at the last word.
His finger slides down the glass, drawing a slow arc. “Stop?” He repeats. “Stop what, Sugar? Comin’ around? Watchin’ you? Keepin’ you safe from things that’ll hurt you?” His tone is almost solicitous, which is worse somehow.
“You’re the thing that will hurt me. You’re… kind.”
He laughs then. It is low and rich. “You have nothin’ to fear from my kind.” He punctuates the last two words, chuckling again. “Like I said, I’m protectin’ you.” His eyes seem to darken as he speaks the last words. “You’re mine.” There is no malice in the way he says it. It is a statement. A fact. It is the air you now breathe.
“You need to leave,” you say, but it holds less conviction than you’d hoped.
Instead of answering, he taps the window again. It is three, soft rhythms. A code you do not know, yet somehow understand. Then he steps back, a small retreat that leaves a space on the porch where the night now seems hollow. He turns, making it to the end of your porch, but right before he descends the steps, he turns. That smile on his face returns.
“You’d do right to remember what I told you. You’re mine now, Darlin’. Nothin’ you can do about it.” With that, he tips his hat, then disappears into the black.
Come morning, you find something tucked into the crack where the shutter meets the frame. A white daisy. It’s stem is bent, as if plucked without care, but the petals are untouched.
You lift it slowly, fingers shaking. The air smells faintly of that familiar leather and cologne. It clings to the flower.
It should mean nothing, but in his hand… it has become something else. It is not harmless. It is not sweet.
You press the daisy flat between the pages of your favorite book, ashamed of the care you give it.
All day, you swear you feel it’s presence in the room. All night, you imagine his grin as he left it there.
He is there night after night. He comes and goes like a tide. You hear the taps on the glass, you open your shudders and watch one another. Every night you have the same dream, though his voice gets nearer, his hands feel more real. You wake with the ghost of his touch on your cheek, your neck. It’s a phantom imprint that you find yourself missing during the day. You look forward to the daisies that you find on your windowsill when you wake.
One night, you can’t bear the waiting, you open the shutter an inch. A hand presses to the other side. Something inside you rebels. It’s small, quiet. It’s not loud enough to overturn the uncertainty that tightens your gut, but it’s the start.
“Evenin’, Darlin’.” Your stomach flutters, skin pricks. You feel your cheeks go hot and you turn your head down so he doesn’t see. “Look at me,” he demands, though it is soft… gentle. You inhale, holding the air in your chest. Chills trickle down your spine, but your head lifts. You square your shoulders, raise your chin, pulling on a mask of confidence. He smiles, drinking you in. “Good.”
“Thank you… for the-for the flowers.” You don’t know why you say it, but you want him to know that they mean something. Even though they shouldn’t. Even though you should throw them away… but you can’t.
He chuckles. “I’m glad you like ‘em.”
“Why do you keep bringing them?”
His head tilts in that puppet like way. “They remind me of you. So delicate, so fragile. I could crush them so easily, or-“ He pauses, let’s you come up with your own ideas of what he could say. Let’s you imagine what he could decide to do to you.
You gulp down the knot in your throat. “Or what?”
He clicks his tongue. “Open the door, and you’ll find out.”
“I… I can’t.” He taps the glass.
“Come on, Darlin’. How much longer are we gonna play cat and mouse? Just let me in. I know you want to.” You chew your bottom lip, weighing the pros and cons. He could kill you. He could torture you. Or… “You’ll feel better if you come outside. I promise, Darlin’.”
You find yourself crawling off your bed and walking to the front door. A moment later, you see him pass the window.
One, two, three knocks on the wood. This is it. This is the decision you’ve been fighting for so long. You feel like you’re going to vomit, your hands are trembling. You smooth out your nightgown, your palms sweaty.
The cold metal of the knob bites your skin. It creaks as you twist. Night air brushes your cheeks, the shadow of him looms over you. You lift your gaze, eyes meeting those familiar blue ones. His smile cuts sharp across his face.
You look at the floor. Your fingers worry at the hem of your nightgown, the fabric going through the same nervous motions as the rest of your body.
His fingers are cool as they lift up your chin. It’s simple contact, yet it sends a current through your bones. His thumb brushes your chin, your bottom lip. Then they slide across your jaw, down your neck. You suck in a breath, tilting to give him better access.
“Such a pretty little thing.” His touch dances across where dress meets chest. Then, they stop over your heart. He holds it there for a moment, feeling each beat. “Inside,” he says softly, applying just enough pressure to make you step back. He kicks the door shut with a boot, never taking his eyes off of you. His hand is still on your chest, fingers spread over your heartbeat. The heat of it sinks into your skin, ribs, bones. His thumb drags over the hollow spot where collarbone meets throat. "Every beat is faster when I'm near."
You want to speak, want to deny him, push him away, but your tongue is thick in your mouth. He tilts your chin again, ensuring you never lose eye contact.
The brim of his hat shadows you both as he leans down, slow enough that you could step back, run, scream. You do none of those things. You stand frozen, shaking... waiting. His lips brush your temple, then hovers over your ear.
"Say it," he breathes. "Say you're mine."
Your throat tightens. "No. You-You're a monster."
He laughs and it is low and warm. The sound rumbles through his chest into yours. "Maybe, but you're the one who let me in. You chose this." His hand leaves your chest to wrap around your waist, pulling you against him in one swift motion. You gasp, your palms flattening against his chest. The world shrinks to leather, cologne, and the dangerous press of your body against his.
His grin ghosts against your cheek. It steals the ground from beneath you. His thumb brushes your lip again. You don't resist when he tips your face even higher. His mouth hovers a breath from yours. Your heart slams, your body betrays you, and you close the last inch of distance.
The kiss is soft. He cradles the back of your neck, holding you where he wants you. Every shiver in your body only feeds his grin as he deepens the kiss, drinking you in like he's been waiting a lifetime.
When he pulls back, it's only to murmur against your lips, "Bed. Now."
He guides you backward through the darkened room, never breaking the press of your bodies. Your knees hit the edge of the bed. The air leaves your lungs in a gasp as you sink onto it. You look up at him looming above you, tall, broad, framed in the dim light.
He follows you down, careful and unhurried, lowering his weight over you. His hand braces beside your head, his grin sharp, but his touch — when it strokes your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone — is almost tender.
His lips claim you again, harder this time. The brim of his hat falls away as his body crowds yours against the mattress. His hand tangles in your hair, holding your head still, while the other drags over the curve of your hip, anchoring you.
Your breath comes fast, and he drinks it in with every kiss, every sharp tilt of his grin against your mouth. You clutch at his shirt, trembling, wanting to drag him closer... knowing you should push him away. He chuckles into the kiss.
"I like the way you tremble for me." His palm finds the hollow of your throat once more, feeling your pulse jump under his touch. He lowers his head until his nose grazes your temple, then your jaw. His breath is hot against your skin. "Say you're mine." Your hands move without thinking, fisting in the fabric of his shirt. You’re not sure if you’re clinging to him or bracing against him, but either way, he smiles, satisfied. He leans in again, mouth at your ear. "I'm gonna take my time with you, Darlin'."
The hand at your throat slides down your collarbone to the edge of your nightgown, pausing there. He kisses you again — slower now, teeth just grazing your lower lip — until you’re trembling under him once more.
The nightgown has ridden high on your thighs, fabric bunched and forgotten as the weight of him cages you in. When he speaks, it’s low, rough, a vow and a threat in one: “I’m gonna take what’s mine. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
The question coils in the air, thick and heavy, though you know it isn’t really a question. Your lips part. You could deny him, you could scream, you could push him away. Instead you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, nodding.
His grin sharpens. “That’s my girl.”
His mouth claims yours with the kind of patience that makes you ache, drawing the air from your lungs until all that’s left is him. The scrape of his teeth on your lip steals a gasp from you, and his grin curves against your mouth, pleased.
His hand traces the line of your nightgown. Fingers curl under, just barely, tugging the fabric up a fraction. It’s a tease, a reminder that he’s in control.
A shiver races through you, and you arch into his touch before you can stop yourself. Your hands, useless at your sides, finally find him, pulling, as if you can anchor yourself against the tide he brings with him. You breathe against his mouth is shaky and desperate. Your chest rises to press into his with every inhale.
He chuckles low in his throat, lips brushing yours. “That’s it, darlin’. Don’t fight it.”
One of his hands captures both of yours, fingers wrapping easily around your wrists. He presses them gently above your head, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you how easily he could. The grip is firm, controlled.
The other hand never stops its path. it slips higher and higher up your thighs, pushing the gown up until it rests at your waist.
“Such a pretty thing…” he murmurs, voice low, a dark purr near your ear. His thumb strokes a circle over your panties. Your eyes flutter shut “Every beat of you’s mine now…” You quiver under him, hips shifting unconsciously, but his hold on your wrists steadies you, pins you to the moment. “Look at me while I touch you.”
Your eyes flick open, caught in the blue of his. It feels like staring into winter sky and fire at the same time. His fingers squeeze just a fraction tighter. His smile curves slow and satisfied when you hold his gaze.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, lips at your sternum, voice vibrating through you. “Say you’re mine.”
Your breath catches; the room tilts. You squeeze your eyes shut but the words still reach you, low and insistent. A sound escapes you. It is a half gasp, half whimper, and you nod, a trembling, tiny motion.
“Say it,” he repeats, softer, coaxing.
“I…” The word sticks in your throat. “I want this.”
His smile curves against your skin. “And?”
You swallow, shivering. “I’m yours.”
He chuckles low, a sound of possession and satisfaction, and presses a lingering kiss just above your heart. “Good girl.”
Every time you inhale, your chest brushes his; every time you exhale, his breath fills your lungs. His hand shoves your underwear to the side, exposing you to him. One finger slides down your center and he groans at the feeling of you. You watch as he lifts his index finger, which glistens in the moon light, and sucks it. His eyes close as he savors the taste of you.
"Sweet," he murmurs, voice rough with hunger. His grip on your wrists loosens and he lowers himself, placing kisses from you navel, to your hips, to your thighs, to-
You moan, gripping his hair in your hands when his tongue drags over you. Your back arches off the bed, eyes rolling back. His arms wrap around your thighs, holding you, stilling you, as he sucks on your clit, rolling it between his teeth. It is pleasure and pain.
You fingers tighten in his hair as if you’re holding onto the only solid thing left in the room. He makes a sound that is half chuckle, half purr, and the vibration of it heightens the sensation.
He lifts his head just enough for his breath to ghost across your skin. His lips graze the inside of your thigh. Then it’s his tongue. He sucks the skin of your inner thigh and you moan, head falling back. You feel his teeth clamp and-
“Ow!” You jolt up, scooting back. You watch his tongue glide over his red canine, eyes rolling back.
You look to the mark on your thigh, a perfect crescent of teeth, small beads of blood welling up like dew. The sight freezes you more than the pain ever could.
His head tilts slow and animalistic. The blue of his eyes have deepened, almost black now. He drags his thumb through the blood and lifts it to the light. The gesture is reverent, almost worshipful. Then he looks at you, gaze fixed and hungry.
“Couldn’t help it,” he murmurs. His voice is rougher, rasping at the edges. “You taste like sunlight. Like life. I ain’t had that in a long time.”
You pull the blanket toward you, covering your legs. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “I said I wouldn’t kill you.” He grabs the blanket, but doesn’t pull it. “Besides, I didn’t mean to, Darlin’. You’re just so… perfect.” He tugs the blanket a fraction. “Let me see it.” You shake your head, pressing the blanket tighter. “Please.” The word sounds strange in his mouth. He crouches, eyes locked on yours, his expression caught between hunger and remorse. “If I wanted to take more, I would’ve. You know that.”
You ease it away just enough to show the mark. His gaze flickers, jaw tightening. He touches the edge of the wound with careful fingers and you feel the heat there. It send chills up your thighs, to your core.
“You can have more if you want.” You don’t know why you say it. You’re crazy for offering. You’re insane. But the way he licked his lips, the hunger in his gaze, it lit a fire deep in your belly.
He goes still. A slow breath escapes him. “Careful, Darlin’. You don’t know what you’re offerin’.” He leans in until his face is a shadow against the dim light. The hunger in his eyes shifts, cooling from appetite to fascination. “It’s not all about blood.”
“Then what is it?” You don’t recognize your own voice; it sounds distant, like it belongs to someone braver or more foolish.
His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your pulse. “It’s that part of you that says yes. It’s the darkness in you. That’s why I can’t stay away. I smell it every time you breathe. That’s what I want.”
His thumb traces the line of your throat, stopping where he can feel your pulse hammering against his touch. “I won’t take it,” he whispers. “I’ll feed it.”
You should pull back, but you don’t. The air between you is too thick, the pull too strong. “Then do it.” He hesitates and you question why. It’s as if he wants to ensure this is what you want. “Please.”
The sound that leaves him is part sigh, part growl. Then he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is almost tender — too human for what he is.
His hands are on your thighs, pulling you down. His hands are quick with his belt. It’s pulled through the loops and tossed on the floor. His pant button pops, zipper slid down, and jeans tugged to his knees. He’s fully exposed in front of you, cock hard against his stomach.
His head falls between your thighs and his tongue laps up the blood that has trickled down. You moan, but the sensation is short lived. His rough hands grab your knees, spreading your legs open.
His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth as he soaks in the sight of you. He leans over, hands going to either side of your head. You hold your breath when you feel yourself stretch around him. Your teeth clench, hands fisting his shirt.
He takes no time pulling out, then thrusting back in.
You moan, back arching, eyes rolling. Your fingers dig into his chest and he growls.
His lips find your neck. He sucks and kisses. His thrusts become faster, harder. There’s a sharp pinch and you know it’s the sinking of his teeth into your neck.
“God, Darlin’,” his groan is rich and deep. “You taste so sweet.”
The mix of pain and pleasure is blinding. It’s all consuming. You belly tightens as your fingers rip at his shirt. You need it off. You need to feel his skin.
He chuckles, ripping his shirt open. Buttons go flying and clinking. He tugs at your nightgown and you lift enough so he can pull it over your head.
Every thrust hits deeper and deeper. Every sensation tingles. The room is a mess of moans and skin against skin.
His teeth find your nipple and your nails tear down his back. His hands grip your hips, squeezing and pulling you further onto his cock.
Pressure builds and builds until you’re at the point of combustion.
“It’s okay, Darlin’. But look at me. I want to see what I do to you.” You look at him, soak in the mess of brown hair that sticks to his forehead, the blood that coats his lips. It sends you over the edge.
You succumb to the tension. Your muscles contract in rhythmic waves. Your breathing quickens, heartbeat spikes, and a rush of intense warmth spreads through every fiber of your being.
You are left in a drizzly clarity and you feel as if you are floating.
A hand wipes at your sweat-soaked hair. “That’s my girl. Just breathe, Darlin’.” His voice is velvet and gravel all at once. You can feel the pull of him — the wrongness and the want tangled together — until you’re not sure which one is stronger. His weight settles half on you, half beside you. Your chest is still heaving. Your throat is raw from sounds you don’t remember making. Your thighs are aching, pulsing with aftershocks. Your pulse hasn’t come down yet. He seems pleased by that.
You feel his breath first. Warm against your neck, steady. Then his mouth. He presses a slow kiss there.
You feel post-sex clarity creeping in and you try your best to shove it down. To ignore that little voice screaming at you, hating you.
You don’t regret what you’ve done. You didn’t want it to end and you find yourself wondering when it will happen again. Still, there’s that voice. Maybe it’s the light fighting the darkness. Maybe this is what he meant when he said he’d feed it, because you find that voice growing fainter.
Part of you wants to hold onto it.
You feel his arm slide under you, pulling you in. He lays you against him like he’s arranging you where you belong, tucking you against his chest with easy familiarity, your body fit tight to his. One of his hands strokes lazily up and down your spine, slow passes that make you shiver even though you’re already shaking.
You swallow. Your mouth is dry. Your voice barely makes it out. “You… shouldn’t be here.”
He huffs a small laugh against your throat — more felt than heard. “Sweet thing,” he rumbles, “I ain’t leavin’ you alone after that.”
Your fingers curl in the sheets.
“I shouldn’t have let you in,” you whisper.
He hums like you’ve just said something cute. “Mm. You keep sayin’ that, but you opened the door, laid yourself down for me, and begged.” The smile in his voice sharpens.
Heat crawls up your neck. Shame, yes — but not just shame. Something else. Something molten and dizzying.
“I didn’t—” you start, then stop, because you did. You don’t know what’s worse: that you did, or that he’s going to make sure you never forget it.
His thumb slips under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. He wants you looking at him. He always wants you looking at him.
Those inhuman blue eyes meet yours in the low light. He’s focused on you like he worships every line of your face.
“Listen close,” he says softly, almost gentle. “You ain’t gotta be scared of me. You understand?”
Your brow pulls, tired and confused. “You— you said you could’ve killed me.”
“I could’ve.” He grins, slow, lazy, pleased with himself. “But I didn’t. I won’t.”
“You just want to keep me, right?” You raise a brow.
“I am keepin’ you.” His voice lowers, the edges of it turning quiet and dangerous. “Ain’t nobody takin’ you from me. Ain’t nothin’ touchin’ you. You’re mine now. That means you’re safe.”
He nuzzles his nose against your cheek, and for a terrible, vertiginous second it feels… tender. That’s the worst of it. You could have handled cruelty. You could have gathered yourself against sharpness. But this?
He drags his mouth along your jaw, slow, lingering. “Sleep,” he says. “I’ll watch.”
Your body should not relax under that.
You’re too wrung out to fight the way your muscles finally let go. Too spent to brace yourself against the way your breathing slowly evens under the rhythm of his palm and the steady drag of thumb over the back of your neck. Too dazed not to melt into his chest when he shifts, pulling you in tighter, making you fit to him perfectly, like you were carved to slot there.
Some part of you, the part that is still sane, still yours, whispers that you can’t let this happen again. That it’s not too late. That this is where you draw a line.
Quieter than his heartbeat under your ear.
Quieter than his voice in your hair when you’re already drifting.
“Goodnight, my little daisy,” he hums, and your eyes finally close.
You wake to morning and find yourself alone.
The space beside you is still warm, faintly, like he was there not long ago. The sheets are creased around where his body had been, weight pressed into the mattress like a stamp. Your throat is sore. Your limbs are heavy. Your pulse starts to trip all over again when memory returns in pieces, out of order — his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear.
Something pale catches your eye.
There, on the pillow next to you, is a daisy.
The stem is bent, sloppy, like it was yanked up and brought to you without care. But the petals are perfect. Not a single one torn.
You chest tightens when you realize it was left on his side of the bed, where his head would’ve been. A placeholder until he returns.
Your throat works. You swallow. There’s a pulse in your neck you can feel with your own fingertips — faster than it should be. You think of his palm there, heavy. You think of the way he told you: Every beat is faster when I’m near.
You can still feel it. The echo of him. The outline of him. The way your body knows he was here.
That little voice in your head is long gone, lost somewhere in sleep.
You hold it in your palm and you whisper — to the empty room, to the quiet house, to the place in the air where he had been.
