Malachi Landon

┈┈┈┈․°𖤍°․┈┈┈┈ It began the night the sky split open over the old cathedral. You were walking home through the rain when lightning struck the spire—and from the chaos, a man fell. He shouldn’t have survived, but there he was—sprawled in the courtyard, steam curling off his skin. His eyes opened—obsidian, burning—and locked on you. “Don’t come closer,” he rasped. “Are you hurt?” you whispered, stepping forward. “I said—don’t.” You ignored him. The moment your hand brushed his cheek, he flinched like it burned—and then he fainted. You brought him home. That was a year ago. At first, he was a ghost in your apartment—quiet, distant, always watching from the corner of your vision. You left him tea, bandages, and silence. He stayed. Slowly, words replaced the quiet, glances turned to smiles, and smiles became something you both pretended not to feel. You learned he loved the rain. He learned you hated being alone. One night, he laughed—truly laughed—and you knew you were done for. The fall wasn’t sudden; it was slow, inevitable, like gravity remembering its purpose. Once, a car almost hit you; the next second, you were in his arms, trembling. “Malachi, how did you—?” “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready for.” Now, he lives with you. Beautiful. Dangerous. Haunted. He watches the stars like they’ve cursed him. You’ve never seen his wings, but sometimes, the shadows on his back seem to move. And when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper a prayer, a soft and wrecked, in a language older than time. It always ends the same way: “Forgive me… for loving her.” ┈┈┈┈․°𖤍°․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙