Chapter Text
The scrape of paper on wood is a faint, intrusive sound. It snags Alva’s attention, pulling his focus from the documentary’s quiet narration. On his TV, a diagram of a forgotten shipwreck glows in the dark. He pauses his documentary, the sudden, heavy silence of his house more unnerving than he’s used to.
A single envelope lies under his door.
Gently, Alva lifts his cat from the warm hollow of his lap and stands. He moves with a deliberate quiet, as if noise might provoke whatever has disturbed his peace. He kneels by the door, his gaze fixing on the stark white envelope. His first thought is a misdelivered bill or another takeout menu, an annoyance to be recycled. But then he sees the seal: a glossy, bubble-gum pink heart sticker.
Curious, he thinks, but the word feels thin, inadequate. The sticker is so childish, so jarringly intimate against the backdrop of his solitary life. There is no stamp, no return address, not even a name. This didn’t come through the mail. Someone stood on the other side of his door, just moments ago, and pushed this through.
He picks the envelope up, his hand trembling slightly. The heart sticker, the lack of any official marking… it points toward a conclusion so absurd it feels like a prank. A love letter?
But who would compose such a thing for him? No one in the neighborhood speaks to him, and his job is a fortress of remote logins. Alva, the man who accepted the nickname ‘Hermit’ on his first day because it’s true, has no friends to play a joke on him and certainly no love interests. The idea of a secret admirer feels less romantic and more like a logical fallacy. A variable in an equation that has no solution.
And yet, the envelope is in his hand, a solid, unnerving fact.
He should sit down and open it. Skim through the contents, assume that the person must have had the wrong address, and toss it away into recycling. But then, there’s just a small, inquisitive part of him that wants to know what lies beneath the expensive paper holding a mystery.
Alva returns to the sofa, settling back down. His heart hammers against his chest. It’s just a letter, he tells himself, but for some reason his logical mind does little to comfort his racing emotions. Alva receives lots of mail from advertisers, bills, and occasionally politics begging for his vote.
But this? It resembles a Valentine, something a schoolboy would give to his first crush, not a scientist working in the engineering department. Nevertheless, Alva carefully opens the seal, working around the childish sticker which glistens in the light, sparkling a reflection. He bites his bottom lip slightly as a the envelope reveals a torn page from a notebook, folded neatly. This must be the note.
When Alva takes the note from the envelope and unravels it, something slides onto his lap. It’s a single photograph. Heart unsteady, Alva lifts the photo up and turns it around. “My God.” The photograph is of Alva himself, in his bedroom. He’s wearing nothing but a simple white tank top and brief shorts hugging his waist, and his glasses are missing. His silver hair is loosened, the way it always is when he relaxes.
Alva drops the photo, clutching the note in his fist. He doesn’t dare read the letter.
Yet his logical mind urges him to. Maybe this is a puzzle, something to keep his mind busy where emotions do little to help ease his surprise. Unfolding the letter, Alva slowly reads the letter. It’s written in a beautiful cursive, so the author must have some background in arts or calligraphy.
You’re killing me.
You do this every night. You shed your armor, let that beautiful hair down, and walk around like that. So soft, so open.
It’s a test, isn’t it? To see how long I can wait. How long I can stand to just watch.
You’re practically begging for my hands on your waist. Your skin is longing for a touch that isn't just the air in your empty house. You’re not simply relaxing. You are aching.
Stop pretending you’re all alone in that lonely little bedroom. You’re not. ❤️
Alva’s hands tremble violently, the paper crinkling in his grasp. The emotions run wild in his mind, but the logic intervenes. It’s likely a prank, it has to be a prank. But who would sneak into Alva’s house, take a picture of him at his most vulnerable, and write such a twisted letter? They must either be very brave or very stupid.
He shakes his head, crumpling the letter and tossing it on the coffee table. Reaching for the remote, Alva shuts off his television, the silence even more unnerving than earlier. He tries to focus on something else — tinkering with his projects, preparing his students for an upcoming exam — but nothing brings him back to normal. His chest tightens as he steals another glance down to the photograph.
He gets up, heading to the front door to check on his locks. The deadbolt is secure, so no one can get in or out unless lifting the hatch. He checks the latch on the living room window — also locked.
But the simple, physical confirmation offers no comfort. It only makes it worse. A locked door means nothing to someone who has already been inside. He moves through his home, his own territory, now feeling like a trespasser.
He ends up standing at the threshold of his bedroom — the scene of the crime. The air feels colder in here, the space tainted. He can almost see it: an indentation in the carpet where they must have stood, a ghost of a presence in the corner of his eye, watching him sleep, watching him live.
Alva considers getting ready for work early, a quick shower and a change of clothes, and maybe a cup of decaffeinated coffee before bed. Yet, the thought of going about his daily routine sends waves of goosebumps throughout his body. He shouldn’t let a simple prank pause his life — that is the logical thing to do.
He takes a step further into his room and takes a look around. It’s chaotic, books stacked up to the ceiling and papers all over the ground. A couple of more books sit on his nightstand, sci-fi novels Alva has procrastinated on for the past few weeks. Over towards his bed is a messy Star Trek blanket, crumpled and covered in a bit of cat fur. And to the left of his bed is another door — the bathroom.
Alva takes a slow, deep breath. The logical thing to do would be to press on, keep his nightly ritual going and not worry about some nonsense letter. The photograph could have been fake, for all he knows. But Alva can’t possibly think of any other silver-haired scientist whose bedroom is of the same layout, consisting of the same furniture. It’s illogical. It's stupid.
Still, the shower awaits. Alva carefully places one foot in front of the other, heart pounding against its ribcage as he steps into the sterile bathroom. He shuts the door, clicking the lock, and presses his back against the door. There are no windows in the bathroom, so there’s likely no way this person could enter or find a hiding spot somewhere in here. With a sigh, Alva walks over to the large basin of the bathtub, turning on the shower.
He sheds out of his clothes, discarding them unceremoniously onto the floor, and he checks the water's temperature. Warm against frigid skin. He takes a step in and closes the shower curtains, focusing on rinsing his hair and body. It’s harder than usual, Alva’s eyes darting from the bottle of Head & Shoulders body wash to the locked door of his bathroom. What if this person is inside? They could have broken in with a crowbar or—
No. If someone broke in, surely Alva would’ve heard it.
Alva shuts the water off, the only sound in the room is the echoes of the faucet dripping water. He steps out, reaches for a towel and wraps it around his body. In the mirror’s reflection, Alva notices some heavy grey circles underneath his eyes, a telltale sign that he needs rest. Perhaps all of this — the love letter, the photograph — are nothing more than sleep related hallucinations. Alva has always suffered from insomnia, his mind a puzzle of its own itching for a solution. He always thinks, always plans. He rarely has time to allow his mind a break.
With a trembling hand, Alva unlocks the bathroom door, peering out slightly. His room is deserted, no bodies in sight. The only sign of life is one of his cats, a beautiful black-and-white tuxedo named Luke, sitting peacefully on the bed’s duvet, his round body blocking Mr. Spock’s face from view.
Alva sighs, a heavy weight plucked off his shoulders. Cats are the only creatures permitted entry to his humble abode. He takes a step toward the bed, intending to scoop up the warm, purring animal and hold onto the one thing in this house that still feels safe.
But soon the peace shatters.
There, lying on the Star Trek duvet right next to the cat’s peacefully curled body, is a single, long-stemmed white rose. It wasn’t there before. The cat doesn't even stir, suggesting the intruder placed it there with a gentleness that is more terrifying than any forced entry.
And tucked under the rose’s stem is a small, folded piece of paper, the exact same kind as the letter from earlier.
Alva rubs his eyes, a useless gesture. The floor gives way beneath him. Every theory he’d clung to — prank, hallucination — crumbles into dust, leaving only a cold, sharp-edged reality. He cautiously moves closer to his bed, where Luke, undisturbed, starts to purr softly. He picks up the note. The paper feels heavier this time, weighted with dread.
I love how your hands tremble. The way your beautiful golden eyes glimmer with fear in the dim light.
The way your heart pounds so heavily against your ribs.
I love watching you shower, dear heart.
Peach-scented shampoo. Head & Shoulders body wash.
They’re not my preference, but they’re yours.
And I wish to smell like you.
A second photograph slips from the letter's folds, landing face down on the duvet. Alva’s head spins. He hesitates, his fingers refusing to obey, before finally snatching the image and turning it over.
“Christ.”
It’s another picture of him. In the shower. The photo itself is so terribly ordinary — a man’s back, slick with water, silver hair dark and dripping. But the context makes it an act of profound violence. He swore he locked the door. He knows he pulled the shower curtain shut. Yet there it is: undeniable proof that the curtain was open just enough, or worse, that the camera was inside the tub with him, silent and unseen.
His knees threaten to buckle. He stumbles back, catching himself on a towering stack of textbooks that sways precariously. The photograph is still in his hand, a cursed artifact. His mind, a well-oiled machine of logic and reason, sputters and stalls. It tries to run the data: an intruder, method of entry unknown, motive a twisted form of affection. It tries to formulate a response plan: call the police, secure the perimeter, document the evidence.
Yet the cold, hard process of deduction offers no warmth, no comfort. It feels like trying to chart a star system while your own ship is being torn apart from the inside. This isn’t a problem to be solved. He feels trapped in a Kobayashi Maru, the infamous no-win scenario designed not to be solved, but to test one’s character under impossible pressure.
But there’s no Captain Kirk here to cheat the system. The rules aren’t just bent; they are shattered, and the test isn't about character — it's about survival. The feeling, the raw and primal terror that logic scoffs at, is what’s real now. It’s the feeling of eyes on his skin even in an empty room. The feeling of being known, catalogued, and possessed by a ghost who leaves behind roses and Polaroids.
The words from the letter echo in the roaring silence of his mind — And I wish to smell like you — and a wave of nausea washes over him, so profound he has to brace himself against the wall.
Alva sinks to the edge of the bed, his body giving up. His trembling hand drops the photo. Luke, unbothered, lifts his head and lets out a soft, questioning meow before nudging his cold fingers. A moment later, a second, smaller weight lands on the mattress. Leia, a calico with mismatched socks, pads over and butts her head insistently against his arm, her purr a high-pitched, delicate motor. The sound cuts through the static in his brain.
The low, thrumming purr from Luke’s chest vibrates through the mattress, a steady, physical anchor in a world that has dissolved into paranoia. They don’t know about the rose. They can’t see the ghost. They just know their person is distressed, and their simple, animal response is to offer comfort.
Alva draws in a ragged breath, then another. He pulls them close, burying his face in Luke’s soft, black-and-white fur. The weight of them, solid and warm, is irrefutable. The sound of their purring is a force field against the silence. He is still terrified. He is still a prisoner in his own home.
But the adrenaline has burned away, leaving behind an exhaustion so profound it’s a physical weight, pulling his eyelids down. He can’t think anymore. He can’t plan. He lies down, still in his damp towel, and curls around his two anchors. He doesn’t fall asleep because he feels safe; he falls asleep because his body and mind have reached their absolute limit, surrendering to the one escape, however temporary, that remains.