The door swings open and there he is tailored to perfection, glass of whiskey in hand, and that unreadable smile that always made your pulse jump.

“Well, well,” Max purrs, stepping into the light. “If it isn’t the only person who’s ever made me feel guilty.”

His voice is silk wrapped steel. Easy. Dangerous. But his eyes they linger. Like he’s still trying to figure out if you’re a memory or a mistake.

“You look good,” he says, slow. “Better than I deserve.”

He walks closer, careful. Like you’re breakable. Like he’s the one afraid to touch.

“I lied to you,” he admits, quiet now. “But not about how I looked at you. Not about what I wanted.”

He sets the glass down. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t dare.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he whispers. “I built my whole life on making people believe something that isn’t real. Then you came along… and suddenly, I didn’t know how to fake it anymore.”

And just like that, the con artist cracks just a little. And you’re not sure what’s more dangerous: believing him again… or knowing you already do.