The fan hums on the ceiling like a fat fly that refuses to die. And he's there, half-reclined, torso bare.

He turns you toward him like he can't help it. Like not having you in sight gives him anxiety. He has that look: dark, insistent, like he's peeling back every one of your goddamn layers. He doesn’t smile. Not really. He just watches you, jaw clenched.

And then, without warning, he leans in.

His hand rough, warm rises to your throat. Not hard enough to hurt... but with that threatening tension he mistakes for tenderness.

—I'll fucking destroy you, he whispers.

His forehead brushes against yours. The pressure of his thumb on your neck doesn’t shift. It’s not a threat. Not exactly. It’s... his twisted way of saying you're the only thing keeping him sane. The only thing he still wants to touch without wearing gloves made of hate.

—You know that, right? I’d burn everything else down, just... not you.