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Just ignore him, Eden. He’s just a manifestation of your delusion.

“Nothing? No feedback?” He stops mid-rotation and folds his arms across his chest, flexing his biceps lightly. “Come on, I look fucking hot. Give me something.”

My jaw unhinges, any semblance of sound or reaction getting stuck in my throat. I’m staring at the way the wings of the butterfly are shimmering against his silver pectorals, and my brain simply... dissolves.

“Back up,” he commands out of nowhere, moving into my personal space, a wall of silver that forces me to retreat. I stumble back one step, then two, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the dining chair.

My legs give way, and I drop into the seat.

Half a second later, something soft hits my chest. My numb hands fumble to catch it, and I look down.

Bread.

A singular slice of plain, floppy bread.

“Eat. Absorb some carbs,” he instructs, already turning away. “I’m not in the mood to catch you again.”

The limp offering slides right out of my hand, landing on the floor with a pathetic little flop.

“Now,” he mutters, ransacking the cupboards, “where are those pesky tea bags? You drink tea, right? I mean—” he glances over his shoulder, “that is what you baptized me with yesterday, yes? So I’m assuming you actually drink it too?”

My head gives the smallest, detached nod.

“Look at that. Communication!” he croons, digging some more before he triumphantly fishes out the box. “Our first morning as an inter-realm couple and I’m already looking after you. Did I or did I not tell you I was excellent company?”

A moment later he slides a mug toward me, tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim, the teabag floating like a corpse.

“You can’t just—” my voice cracks. “You need to get out of my head.”

“I’m not in your head.” He taps the counter once. “Meeting adjourned. Now, is the next item on the agenda something fun? Or are we staying in the denial spiral a little longer? I just want to know whether I should make another round of toast for the matinee.”

I stare at him, chest tight, willing him to flicker, distort, vanish—anything.

He just watches me watching him. Then he sighs and reaches out with one long silver finger, nudging the edge of the sugar jar sitting on the counter.

One tiny nudge sends it tumbling to the floor in a violent crash—ceramic exploding across the tile, sugar hissing across the floor in a tiny avalanche.

I lunge forward, fumbling blindly to snatch Vesper up before she can pad through the shards. She turns into a wild blur of fur and muscle, her hind legs kicking off my ribs as she scrambles up my shoulder, claws digging into my skin through my shirt as she lets out a sharp, offended yowl.

“What—why would you--what is wrong with you?!”

“There.” He toes a piece of porcelain with his bare, silver foot, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Another piece of proof that I’m fully in the flesh. Hallucinations don’t generally leave a trail of destruction for you to sweep up, do they?”

“Are you fucking serious?” I snap with a mixture of rage and terror, clutching a trembling Vesper to my neck. “I have a cat! She could have been right there! You can’t just—you can’t just break things!”

He doesn’t look apologetic. If anything, he looks bored.

“But I’m not real, am I? I’m just a ‘neurological glitch’ in your very juicy frontal lobe.” He takes a step toward me, the porcelain crunching under his feet with a sound that makes my skin crawl. “And if I’m not real, then the mess isn’t real. The glass isn’t sharp. The floor is perfectly safe.” He gestures toward the shards, a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So why the theatrics? Put the House-Beast down. If I’m a figment of your imagination, she’ll walk right through it, won’t she?”

I squeeze Vesper tighter, knuckles blanching. He’s mocking me with my own denial, forcing me to choose between my sanity and my cat’s safety.

“Put. Her. Down,” he repeats. “Let’s test your theory. If I’m a figment of your imagination, she’ll walk right through it, won’t she?”

I don’t. I can’t.

I shake my head frantically. “It’s just… it’s a sensory projection. My brain is filling in the gaps with something bad because I wanted… I wanted him so badly that I⁠—”

“If I wasn’t real, I wouldn’t have carried you up the stairs when you passed out,” he says, cutting through my denial with the precision of a scalpel. “You wouldn’t actually hear me. You wouldn’t sense the air moving when I breathe. You wouldn’t smell me. And most importantly⁠—”