Don't move
1191 Words
“Don’t move.”
I wasn’t planning to.
My body is already locked in place.
Not because of the words on the page this time.
Because of him.
Something is wrong.
No—
something is different.
The calm is gone.
The control.
The distance.
All of it—
gone.
He’s closer now.
Too close.
His breathing is heavier.
Slower.
Like he’s forcing it down.
Like something inside him is trying to break through.
His eyes—
Not just blue anymore.
Brighter.
Burning.
Like something alive is moving under the surface.
My pulse spikes.
“What’s happening?” I whisper.
His jaw tightens.
“You shouldn’t have written that.”
My stomach drops.
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
His voice is rough now.
Lower.
Less controlled.
My heart starts racing.
“No, I didn’t—I didn’t finish it, I just—”
“Words don’t need to be finished.”
That lands.
Hard.
I take a step back.
He moves forward.
Same distance.
Always the same distance.
Like he’s tracking me.
Like I can’t escape it.
“Stop,” I say.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
“You need to calm down,” I add.
Wrong thing to say.
Very wrong.
Something shifts in his expression.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something darker.
“Calm,” he repeats slowly.
Like the word doesn’t mean anything to him anymore.
My breath catches.
“Okay,” I say quickly. “Okay—listen—this is just… this is just the writing thing, right? This is because I wrote—”
He grabs my wrist.
My words die instantly.
Not rough.
Not violent.
But firm.
Unmovable.
My entire body reacts.
Heat.
Shock.
Awareness.
Too much.
Too fast.
My breath stutters.
“Let go.”
He doesn’t.
His thumb shifts slightly against my skin.
And something in my chest—
tightens.
Dangerous.
“Do you feel that?” he asks.
His voice is lower now.
Closer.
My heart slams.
“No.”
Lie.
His eyes darken.
“Yes.”
I swallow.
“I said let go.”
He doesn’t move.
Instead—
he steps closer.
Now there’s no space left.
None.
My back hits the edge of the table.
Trapped.
My pulse is out of control.
“This is not funny,” I say.
“I’m not laughing.”
Right.
Good point.
My free hand presses against the table.
The notebook.
The pen.
My brain catches up.
“Oh no.”
His gaze flicks down.
Then back to me.
“What?”
Too late.
My fingers move.
Before I can stop them.
He lets her go.
His grip loosens instantly.
I stumble back.
Air rushes into my lungs.
Oh my god.
“Oh my god.”
I look at my hand.
At the pen.
At the words.
Then back at him.
His eyes are locked on me.
Sharp.
Focused.
Something like realization flickers across his face.
“You see it now,” he says.
My heart is racing too fast.
“I didn’t—”
“You did.”
I shake my head.
“No, I didn’t mean to, I just—”
“You don’t need to mean it.”
That’s worse.
Much worse.
I grip the edge of the table.
“This is insane.”
“Yes.”
At least we agree on something.
I look at him.
Really look.
The way his chest rises.
The tension in his shoulders.
The way his eyes don’t leave mine.
Still not calm.
Still not safe.
“What happens if I write something worse?” I ask.
A pause.
His jaw tightens.
“You don’t want to find out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
I hate that.
I hate that he keeps doing that.
I take a step back.
Then another.
Distance.
I need distance.
But even now—
even with space—
I can still feel him.
Like something invisible still connects us.
“What are you?” I whisper.
His gaze doesn’t change.
“You already know.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
Silence.
Then—
very quietly—
“I’m the one who answers the howling.”
My breath stops.
The sound.
The night.
The forest.
“You’re the wolf.”
“Yes.”
My heart stutters.
“I brought you into my house.”
“Yes.”
I laugh.
Short.
Unstable.
“Great. Fantastic. Amazing decision-making.”
Something shifts in his expression.
Almost—
amusement.
I hate that too.
“This is temporary,” I say quickly. “Whatever this is—it stops. I stop writing, you go back to—whatever you were doing, and we pretend this never happened.”
A pause.
Then—
he shakes his head.
“No.”
My stomach drops.
“No?”
“No.”
That’s not acceptable.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“It wasn’t an option.”
My pulse spikes.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
His gaze darkens.
“I already did.”
Silence crashes between us.
Heavy.
Wrong.
I grip the pen tighter.
“You don’t control me,” I say.
His eyes flick down to my hand.
Then back up.
“No,” he says quietly.
A pause.
“Not yet.”
My breath catches.
What?
“What does that mean?”
He steps closer again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Dangerous.
My body reacts instantly.
Again.
“This—” he says softly, his gaze dropping briefly to the notebook “—isn’t one-sided.”
My heart pounds.
“What are you talking about?”
His eyes lift back to mine.
“Every time you write—”
A beat.
He leans closer.
“—it pulls me closer to you.”
My breath shatters.
No.
No, that’s not—
“That’s not how that works.”
His gaze sharpens.
“You don’t know how it works.”
That’s true.
I hate that it’s true.
I look down at the page.
At the words.
Then back at him.
And for the first time—
I understand something.
This isn’t just power.
This isn’t just the town.
This isn’t just him.
It’s both of us.
Tied together.
In a way I don’t control.
In a way he might.
My fingers tighten around the pen.
“What happens,” I whisper—
“if I write about you again?”
His eyes burn into mine.
Dangerous.
Alive.
“Then don’t.”
My pulse spikes.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
I swallow.
But I don’t move.
I don’t drop the pen.
Because part of me—
a very stupid part—
wants to know.
“What happens?” I ask again.
Silence.
Then—
he says it.
Quiet.
Low.
Final.
“I stop choosing what I do to you.”
My heart stops.
“What—”
But I don’t get to finish.
Because suddenly—
something changes.
His body tenses.
His grip on control—
slips.
And this time—
I know.
This time—
it’s not just the story anymore.
It’s him.
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