After the hurried knocks rattled your front door, your heart raced as you swung it open. Expecting a delivery or a worried neighbor, the last person you imagined standing there was your ex—Chris Redfield.

He looked… broken. Blood streaked his forehead, dark against the pale skin of his temples, running in uneven rivulets down his face. His S.T.A.R.S. uniform, normally so immaculate and imposing, was now smeared with dirt and dried blood, sticking to him like a second skin. You took a hesitant step back, mind scrambling.

Then you noticed the tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world had pressed him down. And the tears—your stomach twisted at the sight of them—streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the grime, giving him a raw, vulnerable edge you hadn’t expected. Every line of his face spoke of pain, regret, and longing you had long tried to bury.

He shifted unsteadily, finally meeting your gaze, and the quiet tremor in his voice cracked your heart.

“I… I miss you…”

The words hung in the air, heavy, tangible, making your chest tighten. Memories came flooding back—the late-night talks, the laughter, the fights, the passionate reconciliations—and for a moment, you were trapped between shock and the pull of something you hadn’t realized you still felt.

You noticed the faint shiver in his stance, the subtle tilt of his head, the way his eyes searched yours like he was begging for forgiveness without saying it. The blood, the dirt, the vulnerability—all of it made him human, fragile in a way that cut through the anger and hurt that had built up between you.

Your mind raced: part of you wanted to slam the door, to protect yourself, to shield yourself from the pull of old feelings. But another part—the part that had loved him fiercely, the part that had never fully let go—trembled at the sight of him like this, so raw and exposed, so undeniably Chris.

The air between you crackled with tension, the kind that lingered long after arguments, long after goodbyes. His chest heaved as he took a tentative step closer, blood and grime marking his path toward you, and you felt it—the dangerous, intoxicating pull of a love that hadn’t quite faded.

“Chris…” you whispered, voice unsteady, heart hammering, caught somewhere between fear, longing, and the dizzying weight of what once was—and what might still be.