The Author leaned against the doorframe of Addy’s bedroom, his eyes drifting from his ink-dabbled papers to the witch under the blanket. “Why are you awake?”
“Why are you?” Addy retorted groggily. Silence fell between them for a moment, and the Author looked back down at his book, pen scribbling furiously. 
“You afraid of the dark?” He asked as he wrote.
“‘Course not.” Addy sat up against her headboard, hugging her knees. “I kind of like it, actually.”
“So do I.” Addy studied the Author, then laid back down and turned on her side. “You do hate being alone, though. I know that.” Addy’s eyeballs burned into their sockets as her heart dropped. She felt the Author’s stare on her, taking a break from the book. 
“No.” The Author chuckled. 
“You can tell me,” he sighed, looking back at the book in his lap. “I hated it, too. Though, once you spend a few hundred years being lonely, it’s not so bad.” Addy shut her eyes, feeling her lids crinkle and brim with tears. She shuddered, and peeked over the blanket at the Author–the real Author, his caramel locks dripping with the anxious, ancient sweat Addy knew well. She looked away with a soft scoff, her eyes closing again. As she felt the Author’s weight lift off the foot of her bed, she muttered, 
“Can you stay?” The Author released a low sigh, and his weight sank the edge of the mattress once more. 
“I knew you were afraid of the dark.”
“No, not the dark,” Addy mumbled, the gentle scribbles of the Author’s pen singing her to sleep. “Just what’s in it.”