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Your eyes rove over your couch—and catch on a figure. Your bag slides to the floor with a soft thump as you stare, dumbfounded, at the sight before you.
He’s sleeping. Michael is sleeping on your couch.
You’ve never seen him like this before. When he sleeps, you are always pulled down with him. Never does he sleep alone. But here he is, looking positively angelic. His hard expression is softened in sleep, and his curly brown locks are strewn across his face. You feel the urge to touch them. Your gaze moves to his delicate eyelashes, then to his lips—you wish you could kiss them. Everything about him is beautiful, like a sculpture straight out of the Renaissance.
In this moment, with him looking so... defenseless—you can pretend so easily that Michael is a normal human being. That he is your boyfriend and tomorrow he will wake up and kiss and hug and speak to you.
But the fantasy doesn’t last. It can’t. Too quickly, you see the grime, the blood decorating his clothes and skin—and now, your couch. Unshakable evidence that he has killed, and recently. And under the fresh blood stains, there are old blood stains, patches of faded red that never came completely out in the wash.
Michael is a killer. A cold-hearted murderer.
Yet you climb onto the couch with him all the same.