10/31/2025
🕷️ “Velvet Silence” — The Black Widow’s Story
He shouldn’t have followed me home. I told him I bite when I’m bored, but men always think that means something cute. Now he sits in my parlor, hands trembling against silk. I can hear his pulse over the hush of the music, steady and scared—my favorite rhythm.
I circle him slowly, perfume thick as honey in the air. He smells like rain and worry, like every promise I was ever dumb enough to believe. I trace a fingertip along his throat, not hard, just enough to remind him how thin the line is between devotion and disappearance. He breathes in quick little stutters; the sound makes me smile.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper. “That’s good. It means you understand.” The air tastes sharp, almost metallic, like something sweet burning at the edges. I hum a tune from a wedding once—soft, off-key, nearly tender—and watch him close his eyes as if that’ll help.
Sometimes I pretend it’s mercy. That what I do is a kindness. That when I take away the noise and the lies and the ache of loving something that can’t love you back, I’m setting us both free. He leans into my touch, and for a moment, I almost believe it.
But then he says her name. Just once, quiet, like a prayer he forgot to keep secret. The sound of it snaps something beautiful inside me. I laugh, breathless and bright. “Oh, darling,” I murmur, “you should’ve kept your ghosts to yourself.”
When the music stops, the room goes velvet-silent. The scent of him lingers—warm, metallic, and a little like regret. I press a kiss to his temple and whisper the same promise I give them all: “I loved you. I still do.” And then I hum again, waiting for the echo to fade.
