Page 27 of Hollowed

Sacred.

Like scripture written in pulse.

“You’re not alone,” he said.

I shook my head.

“It’s not just the silence. It’s what you put in me.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“I never meant to fill you,” he said. “I meant to hollow you.”

“Then why does it ache like I’m full of you?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

He pulled the blanket back from my shoulder.

And he looked at me.

Looked like he was deciding whether I was still sacred.

Whether I could take more.

Whether he should give it.

And whatever answer he found?—

It broke him.

Because he leaned forward.

Pressed his mouth to my throat.

And whispered:

“Because I am still inside you.”

I closed my eyes.

And let that be enough.

I didn’t know if I was allowed to ask for it again.

The ache was there—alive beneath my skin, in the softest parts of me where his vow had taken root. But something about the silence between us felt different now. Not because it was colder. Because it was full. Like the chapel itself had learned to hold breath the way I held want.

He hadn’t moved since he whispered into my throat. Since he reminded me that he hadn’t left me—because he hadn’t ever exited the place he carved inside me. He stayed close. Still not touching. But his presence was weight.

Not heavy.

Anchor.

I lay on my back, thighs drawn up slightly beneath the wool, breath slowing as I listened to him not speak. My pulse lived in strange places now. Between my ribs. Behind my knees. Deep inside me, where his cock had once pressed and filled and vowed.

It was terrifying, how much I missed it.

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