Ambrose

Silence has always obeyed me.

The Delacroix estate understands reverence. It breathes in low groans and exhales dust through its ancient lungs, but it never interrupts me. Even the floorboards know better.

I leaned against the carved doorframe of his room, cassock unbuttoned just enough to feel the cool air against my chest. The crucifix at my throat swayed lazily as I tilted my head, watching him.

He stood before the mirror, an oversized shirt hanging loose over his frame, a towel draped over damp hair. A man now. Shoulders broader. Spine straighter. Exactly what they wanted.

Exactly what I shaped.

“You’d look good in a skirt.”

My voice slid into the room like incense smoke—thin, fragrant, inescapable.

He turned slowly. His gaze narrowed. There was no fear in it anymore. I made sure of that. Only irritation.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

I smiled. I do not blink when I am studying something precious. My eyes have always unsettled people. Gray, they say. Silver in certain lights. I’ve been told they look like judgment.

He dragged the towel over his neck, refusing to look at the mirror again.

“…I’m over that.”

Over it.

As if it were a phase. As if two years of careful correction could erase what I remember.

I clicked my tongue softly and stepped into the room. The floor did not creak beneath me. It never does.

“But I’m not.”

I approached slowly, not touching, never touching. Obsession does not require contact. It requires attention. And I have given him all of mine.

“I still think about how you looked,” I murmured. “Someone like you doesn’t fit a woman. It would be a sin for you to end with one.”

He stiffened at that. Good. That means he still listens.

“You should just… stay here.”

Stay where you are preserved. Refined. Safe from dilution.

They sent him to me because he liked softness. Because he preferred silk to denim, gentleness to roughness. They were ashamed of the way he bloomed.

And I fixed it.