The next night, the basement was still, except for the quiet breathing of the others. The faint light of the narrow window cast long, thin shadows across the floor, and the air smelled faintly of damp stone and dust. I sat against the wall, knees pulled to my chest, letting the quiet settle around me.
He leaned against the opposite wall, not too close, not too far, knife resting idly at his side. I could feel his gaze on me even when I wasn't looking, steady and cold—but not without a flicker of curiosity.
"Can't sleep?" he asked quietly, almost casual.
I shook my head, letting a faint sigh escape. "Dreams don't let me," I murmured. My voice was soft, almost a whisper, but I could feel his attention snap to me.
He tilted his head slightly. "Again?"
I nodded. "Yeah. The same one… over and over." I forced a small laugh, brushing a hand over my hair. "It's… exhausting."
He didn't answer immediately. Just watched me, quiet, waiting. I caught myself wondering for a fleeting moment if he actually cared about why I couldn't sleep. And then I shook the thought away. Of course he didn't. That was just me hoping, like always.
I leaned back, letting my voice drift casually, testing him. "Do you… ever dream?"
His eyes flicked toward me, faintly surprised by the question, then away, as if it weren't worth admitting. "Sometimes," he said finally, low, clipped. "Not much. And not often."
I smirked faintly. "Guess that makes two of us." My tone was casual, but I let it linger just enough for him to notice, for the faint tension in the room to thrum quietly.
A pause stretched between us. The only sounds were our breathing, slow and measured, and the faint shifting of the others in their sleep.
"You're… different from the others," he said quietly. His words were careful, precise, like he was choosing them to measure my reaction. "You notice things. You speak… differently."
I tilted my head, letting my eyes flick to him, just briefly. "Maybe I notice because I have to," I said softly. "Maybe I speak differently because most people don't listen."
His jaw tightened slightly, and he leaned back a fraction, almost imperceptibly. "Maybe," he said, voice low, steady. Then he added, almost to himself: "Maybe you understand more than you should."
I let a small laugh escape, shaking my head faintly. "Or maybe I just know how to play the game," I murmured, letting the words drop between us, casual, teasing, almost flippant.
He didn't respond. Just watched. The faintest curl of his lips betrayed nothing—but it was there, a ghost of amusement, or something else I couldn't name.
I leaned my head back against the wall, breathing slowing, letting my voice soften. "You make it sound like you care," I said lightly, almost to myself, watching for any reaction.
He flinched slightly, just a twitch in his shoulder, then shrugged. "I don't," he said, clipped. But the tiny shift told me he was lying—or at least bending the truth.
I smiled faintly, looking away, feeling a flutter of excitement I hadn't expected. "Maybe not," I said softly. "Maybe I just like imagining it."
He watched me, silent. I could feel it—the weight of his gaze, steady, measured, unyielding. And yet, it didn't feel threatening. It felt… attentive. Careful.
Minutes passed in quiet conversation, soft remarks and observations. We spoke in whispers, sharing fragments of thought, teasing lightly, probing gently, never overt, never obvious. The room felt smaller, warmer, as though the walls themselves were holding in the tension between us.
I felt my eyelids grow heavy, the nightmares receding just enough to let exhaustion seep in. I shifted slightly, curling more into the wall, letting my breath slow.
He didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched. I felt it—the quiet, unwavering attention—and for a moment, it made my chest flutter in a way that was entirely unexpected.
I smiled faintly, eyes closing halfway. "Good night," I whispered, almost to myself.
For a heartbeat, I felt his presence bend just a little closer, though he didn't touch me. Then I felt the faintest twitch of a smile from him, ghosting across his face, subtle, brief.
And as I drifted toward sleep, the smallest thrill coursed through me. Maybe… just maybe… I liked him too.
The basement stayed quiet, shadows stretching across the floor. The others slept, oblivious. And for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt… a strange, dangerous warmth that had nothing to do with fear.