Page 24 of Laced in Longing

I match my breathing to hers without conscious thought, a smile curving my lips as our lungs fill and empty in perfect tandem despite the vastly different constructs of our bodies.

This small connection soothes something hungry and restless within me. A craving not for power or worship, but for simple recognition that we are two halves of a single whole that desperately need to fuse.

For the first time in this mortal lifetime, hope unfurls in me. Fragile, but there.

This time will be different.

But not tonight. Tonight she needs rest and peace. The small comfort of presence without demand.

So, I will wait, as I have always waited. Patient as the mountains that watch civilizations rise and crumble. Constant as the stars that float overhead, marking the passage of time that means so little to immortals.

I will wait, and I will watch, and I will hope.

For Maven.

CHAPTER NINE

MAVEN

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.

My mind can conjure a ghost with perfect posture, but apparently it draws the line at giving him a real voice. What would he sound like if he spoke here? I imagine his words would curl through the air like smoke, hushed and gravelly but strangely calm, as if emerging from the far corner of a darkened room I’m standing outside of. Like my dreams.

The thought sends another shiver racing along my spine, joining the lingering tremors from my panic attack. My tears have slowed to a trickle, but my lungs still struggle for air, each breath scraping against my throat. Swallowing feels like sandpaper at this point, but I’ve no energy to grab water.

“Who are you?” I ask again, just as I did in dream Italy.

No answer comes—again. Just that peculiar tilt of his head that I find intriguing.

Why won’t he speak to me now? In my dreams, he’d uttered a few sentences with that otherworldly voice. Each word vibrated through me deliciously. I remember how his statement had pulled at something deep in my chest, tugging on a thread I didn’t know existed.

You wait for me. I shudder once more.

But here, in the hard reality of my apartment and a crumpled dress, with tears painting the floor, and my dignity far gone…silence.

I suppose even hallucinations have limits. Visual apparitions are one thing, but adding perfect auditory mirages would push me firmly into territory that ends with a psychiatric hold and a lifetime supply of grippy socks. Dr. Voss would have a field day—finally vindicated in her persistent insistence that I need more intensive treatment. That witch of a woman will never leave me alone.

My breathing stabilizes as I study him. He sits perfectly still, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. The fabric covering his face doesn’t ripple with breath, and nothing about him suggests the fidgeting, unconscious movements of a living person. Yet somehow, his presence fills the space in a way that feels more substantial than my own.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask, altering my approach.

He shakes his head, the movement deliberate and controlled.

A thought occurs to me—what if this is a different man from the one in my dreams? “Did you leave the flowers?”

A nod.

“How?”

No response to that one. Not a question with a yes or no answer, I suppose.

“Are you…” My voice falters. What am I even asking? “Are you some kind of ghost?”

Another head tilt, this one accompanied by a slight shift in his shoulders. Not quite a shrug, but something similar. The closest thing to uncertainty I’ve observed from him. Strange.

“Can anyone else see you?”

A slow shake of his head.