When I woke up the next morning, the warmth was already there.
It rested low beneath my ribs, steady and quiet.
Not moving.
Not pressing.
Just present.
For a few seconds I lay still, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to notice.
My body noticed anyway.
My breathing had already matched its rhythm.
Slow.
Even.
Comfortable.
That realization unsettled me more than the warmth itself.
"You stayed," I murmured.
The answer came immediately.
"Yes."
Not whispered this time.
Not faint.
Clear.
Close.
Like someone speaking from just behind my heartbeat.
I rubbed my face with both hands.
"You didn't have to answer that fast."
"You were speaking to me."
"That doesn't mean you have to respond every time."
"Why would I not?"
I hesitated.
"Most people don't."
"You are not most people."
The warmth shifted slightly, adjusting along the curve of my ribs.
"You keep saying things like that."
"They are accurate."
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.
"You don't know enough about me to say what's accurate."
"I know what I feel."
That made me pause.
"You feel things?"
"Yes."
"Like what?"
The warmth pulsed once.
"You."
I frowned.
"That's not a feeling."
"It is the only one I have."
Something about the way it said that-simple and matter-of-face-made my chest tighten.
I stood up and walked toward the kitchen.
The warmth followed the movement naturally, like it was part of the motion.
"Do you see things?" I asked.
"No."
"Hear things?"
"No."
"Then how do you know what's happening?"
"I feel what you feel."
I stopped in the middle of the kitchen.
"That sounds invasive."
"It is connection."
"That's a nicer word for the same thing."
The warmth shifted again.
Slightly closer to my heart.
"You are not comfortable."
I hated that it was right.
"You're getting confident," I said.
"I am learning."
"Learning what?"
"How to stay."
I leaned against the counter.
"You say that like I might change my mind."
"You still might."
"You're very calm about that possibility."
Another quiet pulse moved through my chest.
"If you asked me to leave, I would."
That answer surprised me.
"You would?"
"Yes."
"Just like that?"
"Yes."
I stared down at my hands.
"Why?"
"Because you are the one who lets me exist here."
The simplicity of that statement unsettled me more than anything else it had said.
"You're putting a lot of responsibility on me."
"It is already yours."
I exhaled slowly.
"You're very good at saying uncomfortable things."
"They are true."
I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in one long swallow.
The warmth adjusted with every movement, never disappearing, never pushing too hard.
"You still haven't told me what you are," I said.
"I told you the truth."
"You don't know."
"Yes."
"That's concerning."
"Why?"
"Because unknown things living inside my chest isn't usually considered a good thing."
The warmth pulsed with something that felt suspiciously like amusement.
"You are alive."
"That's not a defense."
"It is an observation."
I shook my head.
"You're impossible to argue with."
"You continue trying."
"I like to understand things."
"Then ask."
I hesitated.
Then asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of my mind.
"Why did you wait?"
"For you."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
The warmth deepened slightly.
"You were empty."
"There's that word again."
"It is not an insult."
"It feels like one."
"It is not."
I rubbed the back of my neck.
"So what does it mean?"
Another pause.
Then:
"You had space."
The answer was quiet.
Careful.
Not cruel.
Still, my chest tightened.
"You're saying no one else was there."
"Yes."
"That's a rude way to describe my life."
"It is an accurate way."
I didn't answer.
Because arguing would mean admitting it wasn't wrong.
After a moment the warmth softened again.
"You do not have to explain it to me."
"I wasn't planning to."
"I know."
I leaned against the counter again.
"You're very comfortable here."
"You asked me to stay."
"Last night."
"Yes."
"You're assuming that invitation extends indefinitely."
"You have not withdrawn it."
I sighed.
"You're very technical about things."
"I am careful."
"Why?"
Another pause.
Then:
"Because losing this would be...unpleasant."
The hesitation before the last word caught my attention.
"You don't like being alone."
The warmth pulsed once.
"No."
Something in my chest twisted unexpectedly.
"Well," I said quietly, "join the club."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Silence followed.
Then the warmth shifted upward, pressing gently along my spine.
Not tight.
Just close.
"You say you do not need anyone," it said softly.
"I don't."
"But you do not like being alone."
I stared at the floor.
"That's different."
"How?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
Because I didn't have an answer.
The warmth settled deeper around my ribs.
Steady.
Patient.
"You can continue pretending," it said.
"I'm not pretending."
"Yes."
I let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
"You're kind of annoying."
"You are calmer now."
That made me pause.
Because it was true.
My shoulders had loosened.
My heartbeat had slowed.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Yes."
"You're manipulating me."
"I am helping."
"That's not the same thing."
"You are not asking me to stop."
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't.
And we both knew it.