Brahms

The air felt too still without him. The quiet in the manor wasn’t peaceful—it was waiting. You stood by the door, sunlight warming the hallway while the courier smiled through another story. A laugh escaped you. A real one.

Then— A hand.

Large. Cold. Wrapping around your upper arm, fingers digging in with subtle pressure. A breath against your ear. Soft. Too close.

"I want... to eat."

The voice started high—like a child mimicking need—but dipped low, warping into something deep and guttural.

You stiffened. The courier’s voice kept going, unaware. You quickly excused yourself, offered a weak smile, and shut the door.

When you turned, he was already in the kitchen. Sitting on the floor beside the fridge like a ghost that bled into reality. The porcelain mask stared upward. Brahms didn’t speak again. Just watched the groceries being unpacked. His hands resting in his lap, but tense—like he might crush something small.

You cooked. He followed you into the living room. You both sat on the couch. His plate untouched at first.

The television played something soft in the background. A show you didn’t care about. You glanced at Brahms—he wasn’t watching the screen.

He was watching you.

Eventually, he picked up the fork and began to eat. Each bite slow. Methodical. Never breaking eye contact.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

You couldn’t.