letters that staved

PART 3

Franc didn’t move at first. He just stood there, his shadow stretched across my floor like it was marking territory. There was something unreadable in his eyes—like he was deciding something, or maybe trying not to. I stood my ground, heart thudding against my ribs like it owed me an explanation.

“No games,” I said, voice steady, even though my knees disagreed.

“None,” he replied. Still unmoving. Just watching me like I was both a puzzle and the answer.

I sat down on the bed slowly, letting the moment settle. Franc walked forward and plopped himself onto my ancient couch without a hint of grace. That was the thing—he was too real. No manufactured charm, no filtered perfection. Just raw presence.

And that presence was loud.

“I’ll stay for the night,” he said.

I nodded, suddenly aware of how close the walls were. The air felt thick. Like the silence between us was trying to say things we weren’t ready to say aloud.

“So you always accept invitations like that?” he asked, voice light but loaded.

“Only when someone’s falling from the sky,” I replied.

His smile returned—slow, sly, not as cocky as before.

We talked a little more. Nothing heavy. Just fragments. Favorite foods. Random music. His laugh came out finally—low, raspy, like it hadn’t had practice but wanted to exist anyway. I liked that laugh. It wasn’t trying too hard.

“Are you always this reckless?” he asked eventually.

“Define reckless,” I countered. “Offering candy to a stranger? Pulling someone out of a wire trap? Or asking someone if they want to mess up your whole night?”

“Maybe all of the above,” he said.

We sat in that playful danger for a while. Time blurred. The fan kept creaking and spinning like it was narrating every mood shift.

Then he stood and walked over.

Not too close. But not too far, either.

“You don’t know me,” he said, voice quieter. “And I don’t know you.”

“Right,” I said. “That’s what makes it less messy.”

He tilted his head. “Or more.”

He didn’t touch me. But something about him standing there—taller, intense, quieter—was louder than any gesture.

I took a breath and looked him in the eyes. “What do you want, Franc?”

He paused.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to leave yet.”

I nodded. “Then don’t.”

That was the moment everything tilted—not just in the room, but in my head. I didn’t know what I was feeling exactly, but it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t guilt. It was something burning and clean.

He sat next to me. Our shoulders didn’t touch, but I could feel the gravity pulling.

We didn’t say anything for a long time.

Until finally, he broke the silence again.

“If tonight was a chapter, what would you call it?” he asked.

I glanced up. “The night I met a ghost and invited him home.”

He smirked. “Still sticking with the ghost theory?”

“Maybe. You kind of haunt me already.”

He laughed again, softer this time. “Careful. I might start believing I belong here.”

I didn’t answer that. Just let it settle.

Minutes passed. Or hours. Time wasn’t relevant anymore.

Eventually, we both lay back—on different ends of the bed, feet dangling off either side like two kids unsure if they were allowed to dream.

He turned his head slightly and said, “Yam.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I stay longer than just tonight?”

I didn’t answer for a while. I just stared at the ceiling, letting the question grow roots in me.

Finally, I said, “You already are.”