"Stabbed Hearts" *Michael Myers X M! Oc

XXII

His hand stayed at my throat, firm but not crushing now the pressure no longer suffocating, just enough to remind me who held the power.

Water dripped from his mask onto my chest. Each drop hit like a spark of cold, burning against my skin.

"Michael..." My voice was raw, cracked.

He tilted his head, that same slow, unnerving motion curious, not cruel. His fingers loosened just enough for me to breathe, but he didn't move away.

The air between us felt alive, heavy with steam and something thicker - an invisible thread that bound us in that small space.

I met the black holes of his eyes through the mask. "Why?" I whispered. "Why me?"

No answer.

Just that silent stare.

Then unexpectedly his other hand lifted. For a second I thought he'd strike me. But instead, his thumb brushed against the side of my face, smearing away the streak of condensation there.

Gentle. Almost careful.

The touch sent a shiver down my spine worse than the fear had.

He released my throat completely and stepped back, the towel hanging low around his hips, water still dripping from his hair. He stood there, watching, like he was waiting for me to run.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

My mind screamed move, but my body stayed frozen, heart pounding out a rhythm I couldn't escape.

He turned toward the mirror the word STAY still fogged across it and for a strange, surreal second, it looked like he was looking at it too. Like it meant something to him.

When he turned back, he raised his hand again, this time holding out a towel. My towel. He pressed it against my chest a silent command to cover myself, to breathe, to stay.

My fingers closed around it slowly. "You... patched me up, didn't you?"

A pause. Then, the slightest nod.

I swallowed hard, my throat burning. "You could've killed me last night."

Another pause. Another tilt of his head.

He didn't nod this time. Didn't deny it either.

Just stepped closer again close enough that the warmth of him soaked through the fabric of my hoodie. I could feel every breath he took.

My heart tried to hammer its way out of my chest. "What do you want from me?"

The question hung between us like the steam itself.

Michael reached up slow, deliberate and tapped two fingers against the word on the mirror.
STAY.

Then he walked past me, the air shifting as he went, heavy footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded into silence.

I stood there, shaking, staring at the dripping letters until they blurred and ran down the glass.

He could've hurt me.
But He didn't.
He could've left.
He hadn't.

And the scariest part wasn't that I was still alive.

It was that a part of me didn't want to leave, either.

Every creak of the floorboards seemed to echo with his presence, even when I couldn't see him. Especially when I couldn't see him.

I found myself moving slower, quieter, like the air itself demanded it. The towel he'd handed me was still clutched in my hands, damp from the steam and my own sweat.