Between 1952 and 1968, Addie tells herself that what began with Luc is “only sex,” a way to get him out of her system while he treats her as a novelty to enjoy. She expects the connection to burn out in a single night.

Instead, Luc returns. Two months later he steps out of nothing into her life again, and then comes back in widening rhythms—weeks apart, then only days—filling the long stretches that used to be defined by Addie’s solitary waiting, hating, and hoping.

In the space between visits, Addie makes rules meant to keep her safe: she will not linger in Luc’s arms, fall asleep beside him, or feel anything beyond his physical presence. She breaks these promises, and the relationship shifts from purely physical into something that holds emotional weight.

As seasons and years pass, Luc asks for more: “Dine with me,” then “Dance with me,” and finally “Be with me,” as a decade turns. One night Addie wakes to Luc tracing patterns on her skin and sees not just desire in his eyes but knowledge; for the first time, she wakes beside someone who does not forget her and hears her name after sleep.

That recognition fractures something in Addie. She realizes she has not hated Luc for a long time, feels tired of being alone, and finds herself happy with him as a place to rest. But she resists naming it love, grounding herself by listening to Luc’s chest and hearing no human life—only the hush of the woods—reminding herself that Luc is not human and his body is a disguise.