Stay

Felicity almost didn’t unlock the door.

She stood on the porch with her suitcase tipped awkwardly on one wheel, rain dripping down her face, the key warm and faintly damp in her palm.

The building made small sounds: walls creaking, a muted thud somewhere above. But it was the steadiness that made her neck prickle. A quiet that felt intentional. As if the space were holding itself still.

She had the absurd, unsettling sense that she was late.

“Don’t,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head as she tried to shake the feelings. "Don't be silly, Felicity." She slid the key into the lock and turned it.

The door opened immediately.

It swung inward without resistance, smooth and soundless. She stood in the doorway longer than she meant to, rain dripping from her coat onto the threshold, and let her eyes adjust.

The apartment was smaller than the listing photos had suggested. Narrow windows facing brick. Ceilings so low that if she were taller, she'd be hitting her head. The walls were painted an odd shade of white that caught the light unevenly, shadows pooling in corners that didn’t quite make sense. The air was warm despite the chill clinging to her clothes.

She slowly stepped inside.

The door closed behind her with a soft, deliberate click.

Felicity flinched, heart pounding in her chest. She placed a hand on her chest, then laughed under her breath. “Okay,” she muttered, trying to shake off the eerie feeling. “Okay.”

That first night, she left every light on.

She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening. The apartment seemed to breathe around her, with a presence that made the space feel smaller than it was. She told herself that old buildings always sounded like this, that every creak had a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Still, she didn’t sleep until exhaustion dragged her under.

When she dreamed, it was of weight.

Not crushing. Not violent. Just heavy. The sensation of something leaning in, filling space she hadn’t realised she had. She dreamed of breath she could feel but not hear. A body behind her, close. Intimate.

A voice brushed the edge of her ear.

"Felicity."

She woke gasping, sheets twisted tight around her legs, heart hammering painfully against her ribs. The room was warm. Too warm. The air felt thick. Her body tingled.

She lay perfectly still until morning, unable to fall asleep again.

When the sun rose in the morning, the apartment looked less threatening. Smaller and completely ordinary. Felicity went to work, came home tired and cooked dinner she barely tasted. She told herself she had imagined the heaviness, that stress had caused her to overthink and imagine things that weren't there.

Still, she noticed things.

The lights dimmed slightly when she yawned. The hallway darkened when she lingered there too long. Doors opened just before she reached for them.

Fear started to sink in. She began checking the locks twice, and then three times. She slept lighter than she ever had, rarely dreaming, always aware of every sound.

She'd just moved here. She could barely afford to live in this apartment, let alone move to another. But the fear engulfed her. One night, she sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, and cried. Quietly, as if the sound itself might provoke something.

The air thickened. It was hard to breathe, her lungs burning with every struggle to inhale.

Panic flared white-hot.

“Stop,” she whispered, sobs echoing in her room. “Please.”

The pressure eased immediately.

Felicity froze, her tears drying. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her head. “Thank you,” she said into the silence, before she could stop herself.

The words lingered in the air. Dangerous acknowledgement. The kind that could not be taken back.

That was when it began to touch her.

Subtle. Simple. A brush of air through her hair. Warmth on her arm. Each time she felt it, terror flared.

At night, her sleep grew heavier. She dreamed again.

She always stood in the hallway barefoot, the floor warm beneath her feet. The walls felt closer than they ever had while awake.

She felt warmth move behind her, gentle and deliberate. Not holding her. Guiding her. She could feel breath against her hair. Close enough that her skin prickled.

She should have been afraid. But she wasn't.

The presence curved closer, surrounding her without touching. The closeness was unbearable. Her pulse thundered, and her body reacted before her fear could catch up. Desire tangling itself with dread.

Hands closed around her wrist.

She woke with a sharp intake of breath, heart pounding. The room was warm. Too warm. The air felt thick, intimate, as if the dream hadn’t fully released her.

When she finally sat up, the first thing she noticed was the ache. A dull soreness along her wrist. She looked down. Bruises bloomed dark against her skin... finger-shaped bruises. Precise. Intimate. The unmistakable mark of being held.

She pressed her thumb against the marks, fear spiking. Reality and dream melded into one.

“You don’t get to do that,” she whispered to the empty room, voice shaking. “You don’t get to touch me.”

The warmth vanished. She realised that it listened, that it acknowledged her. She started to acknowledge it back. She announced herself when she came home. She warned the apartment when she was leaving. She left the lights on.

She talked to the walls while she cooked, while she folded laundry and while she lay awake staring at the ceiling. She told the apartment about her job, about the way it stressed and exhausted her. Every word she spoke carried weight. Every moment of warmth felt earned and dangerous. She caught herself leaning into it, craving the closeness even as her skin prickled with fear.

Every night, she dreamed of him.

Desire tangled with dread until she woke shaking, mouth dry. Bruises formed where she'd been touched in her sleep. She didn't reprimand the silence anymore.

One morning, she found a name hidden behind the bathroom mirror where paint had flaked away.

"Jonah."

The apartment reacted violently. The air thickened, crushing her lungs, flooding her with sensation. Hunger, abandonment, the certainty of waiting that had no end. Fear and heartbreak. Felicity collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

Pressure wrapped around her instinctively.

Too tight. She couldn't breathe.

“Stop,” she gasped. “Please, stop!”

It vanished. Silence rushed in.

Felicity lay shaking, chest heaving, and heart racing with grief and longing tangled together. “I can’t be what you want me to be,” she whispered. “I can't."

That night, she slept in her car. It was cold, but the warmth followed her like something she couldn’t scrub off her skin.

At dawn, exhausted and aching, she went back inside. She felt the pull to return, though she wasn't sure why. The apartment felt smaller. Quieter. Afraid. Lonely.

She slept in the apartment again that night. She told herself it was exhaustion. She told herself it was safer than the car.

She dreamed again. Her body didn't wake this time; she let herself feel it all. Feel the presence as it curved around her. Her body leaned back before her mind could stop it. The presence grew stronger, as if it accepted an unspoken invitation. She felt hands on her body, warmth on her lips.

She woke with a gasp, heart racing. Shame thudding in her mind.

She knew she should have left. She should have gone anywhere else, but instead she stayed. She craved the feeling again.

She didn't leave, and the apartment grew bolder.

The line between fear and longing blurred until she couldn’t tell which one was leading anymore. She found herself dressing differently and requesting to work from home. Sitting more carefully. Sleeping more. Speaking Jonah’s name like a question and a promise all at once.

One evening, after a long day that left her exhausted and restless, she sat on the couch in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside the window, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself.

The warmth gathered immediately. Surrounding her like a comforting blanket.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again, as if afraid of what she might allow herself to imagine if she didn’t keep watch over her own thoughts. “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said quietly.

The air pressed closer, heavy with attention. She let herself lean back.

Just a little.

The warmth responded instantly, curving around her spine, attentive to every breath she took. It didn’t press. Didn’t hold. It hovered in a way that made her skin burn.

Her body betrayed her.

Her breath slowed. Her shoulders loosened. The tension she carried everywhere began to ease. She should have stopped it.

But she didn't.

That night, she dreamed she was standing in the apartment doorway, rain soaking her coat, keys warm in her palm. The door was open. Someone stood just inside, unseen and waiting. She knew that if she stepped in, she would never leave.

She stepped in anyway.

He was there immediately. Arms wrapped around her, drawing her in with a familiarity that stole her breath. She didn’t see his face. She didn’t need to. His hands moved over her with reverence and urgency, as though memorising her.

Her body reacted before fear could catch up.

She leaned into him. Her hands curled into the fabric at his shoulders. For a moment, the closeness felt like relief. She felt it then. The way his grip tightened, not painfully, but possessively. The way the air pressed in around them, sealing the space, making the room feel smaller and closer.

She should have pulled away. But she tilted her head toward him, chasing warmth, chasing the illusion of safety.

“Jonah,” she murmured.

The embrace tightened. The air grew heavy. His hands stilled, then resumed with a hunger that felt edged now, sharpened by recognition. The closeness tipped from desire into something that wanted to keep her.

She woke with a gasp, heart racing and sheets damp beneath her. The darkness pressed close, thick and intimate, and the warmth was still there. Wrapped around her so completely she felt enclosed, as if the dream had not fully released her.

“Jonah,” she whispered, half-asleep.

The warmth tightened.

Too much.

Panic flared.

“Stop,” she said. “Stop.”

The pressure eased, but not all the way. It lingered, as if it knew she wouldn't push it away again. Her eyes fluttered shut again, her body pulling her back into sleep.

This time, the dream did not begin with the apartment.

It began with him.

Jonah stood before her, not solid exactly, but unmistakably a man. Tall and familiar. His face was gentle in a way that hurt to look at, shaped by longing rather than age. His eyes held her with an intensity that made her chest ache.

She stepped toward him without hesitation.

They were suddenly close, the space between them collapsing as if it had never existed. His hands came to her, and she leaned into him, breathing him in. He smelled like rain. He smelled human.

“I’ve been waiting,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said.

They moved together without urgency, without fear. His hands traced her back, her arms and her waist. Her body responded with a softness that startled her, desire overtaking all fear. She pressed closer, feeling the steady certainty of him.

Their mouths met, and they fell into a deep kiss. She felt loved in a way that did not ask for explanation.

There was only him and the quiet rhythm of closeness, the way their breaths matched and the way his hands lingered. Time stretched. She felt herself slipping, dissolving into the intimacy, into the safety of being chosen.

This is what staying feels like, she thought drowsily. This is what forever means.

Then something tugged at her memory.

A sound, distant but sharp: laughter. Memories flashed in her mind. Her mother braiding her hair when she was young. Her father’s terrible jokes. Her sister always needing her opinion on every single outfit. Her brother protecting her from bullies.

Her life.

The dream wavered. She woke, Jonah’s hands lingering, the echo of his voice pressed close. For a moment, she lay still, debating whether she should wake or return to the dream.

Then her phone buzzed. She sighed and swung her legs out of bed.

The room tilted.

Black spots burst across her vision. Her stomach cramped sharply, painful and angry.

Felicity frowned. "I should eat," she said, her hand rubbing her eyes. The thought slid away quickly, food forgotten.

She shuffled into the bathroom, flicking on the light. The mirror caught her before she was ready. She paused, horror filling her.

The woman staring back at her looked wrong. Too pale. Skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, dark shadows outlining her eyes. Her collarbones jutted sharply, unfamiliar, as though she’d shed weight without noticing. Her lips were dry, faintly cracked. Her eyes looked feverish. She gently touched the bruises on her neck, eyes widening as she saw her wrist.

The bruises were darker now. Deeper. As if hands had lingered there longer than she remembered.

A cold realisation slid into place.

“When did I last eat?” she whispered.

The question echoed into silence. The warmth gathered behind her. Not gentle. Not reverent. She could feel him now with terrible clarity. The patience of it. The way he had learned to wait. To distract her. To let hunger become quiet enough that it felt like peace.

The warmth stirred, satisfied. You're mine, Jonah said without words. I love you.

She shook her head, tears slipping free. “This isn't love," she said.

Her knees trembled. She swallowed against the nausea, the weakness, the awful knowledge of how close she had come to wasting away. Just a gentle end, wrapped in warmth, fed by devotion and dreams instead of food.

She turned slowly. The apartment felt smaller than ever. The walls leaned in, and the air pressed against her throat. Not hurting, not yet, but reminding her how easily it could.

Stay, Jonah urged. Not gently now. Not carefully. You’re almost ready. Stay with me.

She laughed, broken and scared. “I'm not ready to die."

The warmth tightened, defensive. Afraid.

“I know why you want me,” she continued. “I know being alone feels worse than death. I know how waiting can hurt.”

The presence wavered.

“I love you,” she said.

The apartment shuddered at the words, warmth surging bright and sharp, wrapping around her like a promise finally kept.

“But I won’t die for you.”

The warmth recoiled.

"That isn't love," she continued. "That is fear and control. A promise of forever because you're scared to move on."

It snapped.

The air slammed inward, violent and furious, pressing against her chest so hard she staggered. The walls groaned, a deep, animal sound. The light flickered wildly, shadows lashing across the room.

You said you loved me.

The words were no longer gentle. The air seemed to disappear as anger flared.

“I do,” Felicity gasped, fighting for breath. “But this isn’t love.”

The pressure threw her backward into the wall. Pain exploded through her shoulder. Her vision blurred as the air wrapped tight around her throat.

You're mine.

“I'm not yours,” she choked.

The apartment screamed. Cabinets flew open. Glass shattered. Her possessions went flying. The warmth wrapped around her wrists again, bruising and burning. She felt the pull toward the bedroom, the place where the walls thinned and where he wanted to finish what he’d started.

Stay, Jonah demanded now. Stay, and I’ll make it stop.

Something cold and clear cut through her fear.

“You don’t want me,” she said hoarsely. “You want someone who can’t leave.”

The pressure tightened in answer.

She wrenched free with a scream, stumbling for the door as the apartment fought her every step. The hallway stretched and warped. The floor tilted. The handle burned beneath her palm, skin blistering where she gripped it.

“Let me go!” she sobbed.

She slammed into the door with everything she had left. Felicity fell into the hallway, gasping and sobbing, her body shaking so violently she couldn’t stand. Behind her, the apartment thrashed, lights blowing out one by one, the warmth recoiling from the open space it could not cross.

You’ll come back, Jonah raged. You’ll come back to me.

She didn’t look back when the door slammed shut on its own.