Incubus Living In A World Of Superpower Users-Chapter 290: I Didn’t Know What Else To Do

It was the kind of comfort that didn’t chase attention or demand a spotlight—the kind that didn’t care about being remembered but still left something behind anyway, like that lingering warmth that stays in the air long after the fire’s burned out and the embers have dimmed.

"I thought I had to hold everything steady. That if I ever dropped anything... the whole thing would fall apart."

Ethan didn’t raise his voice. He wasn’t trying to confess anything dramatic. It was just a truth, one he hadn’t really said aloud before.

One that had lived inside his chest for a long time, quiet and heavy, like a knot that tightened every time he tried to rest.

Everly didn’t flinch.

She didn’t jump in with comfort or urgency. Her voice came softly, steady, and quiet like it always did when she wasn’t trying to fix anything—be there for him.

"We know," she said.

Evelyn’s voice followed a moment later, from the side now, closer than before. "We used to feel the same."

Ethan turned slightly toward her, not all the way, just enough that his eyes could find hers.

She met his gaze without hesitation, calm and unshaken.

"We learned," she continued, "that it’s not really about holding everything. It’s about letting someone carry part of it with you. Even if it’s just for a little while."

Everly’s fingers traced the edge of the blanket near his lap. She didn’t look up when she spoke next.

"You don’t have to be perfect," she said, her tone a little warmer now. "You just have to be here."

Ethan exhaled, slow and steady. It wasn’t a sigh. It wasn’t tired. It was just the kind of breath that finally leaves your body when you’ve been carrying something for so long that you forgot how heavy it was.

And then, without thinking too much, without planning it, a small smile touched his lips. Not the kind you give to look okay.

The kind that shows up when something inside starts to shift, when you feel—if only for a second—like maybe everything doesn’t have to stay so hard all the time.

"That," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I can do."

No one rushed to move.

They didn’t suddenly leap to their feet or change the subject.

But something shifted anyway. Like the room itself had finally breathed out and loosened its grip.

When they did get up, it was simple. There was just a shared rhythm, a quiet understanding that no one needed to say out loud.

The bedroom door opened a second before they reached it, triggered by their steps or maybe just by the mood in the air—by the way, the world sometimes senses that something important is about to happen and decides not to get in the way.

The lights inside weren’t bright. They weren’t dim either. They sat somewhere in the space between—a soft, gold-toned glow that made everything feel close and quiet, like a memory you knew you’d hold on to whether you meant to or not.

The bed wasn’t grand or formal, and it wasn’t designed to impress. It was just soft sheets, one blanket, and two pillows. There were no walls between the sides—just space meant to be shared.

Ethan sat first, lowering himself onto the edge like he was stepping into something that was finally happening.

Not in a nervous way. Just slow. Careful. Like he didn’t want to break whatever stillness had formed between them.

Evelyn followed, brushing lightly against his arm as she settled beside him. Her presence was quiet but grounding, like a weight you didn’t realize helped keep you steady.

Everly came next, slipping onto his other side. She folded her legs beneath her, hair slipping loose over her shoulder, but didn’t speak. She just... leaned in enough to be close without pressing too hard.

No one talked.

They didn’t need to.

The room was filled with quieter things—shifting fabric, the soft exhale of breath, the faint hum of the ambient system keeping the cold at bay and the world outside from bleeding in.

Ethan leaned back slowly, arms brushing theirs as he sank into the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, his eyes unfocused, not because he was looking for anything—but because he just wanted to feel everything. The bed. The warmth. The closeness.

Evelyn lay next to him, moving just enough to let her arm rest across his chest, her head finding his shoulder like it had done this before, even if he didn’t remember it.

Everly followed, resting her hand gently against his waist. Her breath was steady, slow. Her eyes were half-lidded but not sleepy—just soft.

The silence didn’t ask to be filled.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even silent, not really.

It was full.

Like all the noise they didn’t say had formed its own kind of understanding.

Time didn’t seem to pass in minutes.

It just moved.

And Ethan, for the first time in what felt like days—or maybe longer—didn’t feel the need to track it.

Then he spoke again, not because the silence had grown too heavy, but because he suddenly wanted to remember something.

"Do you remember the first night we talked? All three of us?"

Everly let out a small hum. "You mean the night you thought you were hiding? How tired were you?"

He smiled. A little more this time. "That one."

Evelyn’s voice was soft, her cheek against his chest. "You kept apologizing."

"I didn’t know what else to do."

"You didn’t have to do anything," Everly whispered. "You still don’t."

The quiet returned, but now it felt like part of them. Like an extra person in the room, they didn’t need to explain or name.

The breeze from the upper garden slipped through the window vent—cool and faintly scented with jasmine. But inside, it stayed warm.

Ethan closed his eyes again—not to sleep. Just to absorb, then opened them.

Just to look.

To make sure this was still real.

Evelyn’s hand shifted slightly, fingers now resting more firmly above his heart. Everly moved too, one leg brushing lightly against his, her body curling just a little closer to his side.

And he let it happen.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

They weren’t trying to start anything.

They were just there.

With him.