The night seems sick with light, too artificial. Through the broken windows of the beach, the glow of the party in the pool area filters in, dyeing the air a red and pink that never seems to go out.

You see him in the distance. Niragi, half-shrouded in smoke, with that way of looking at you that you never know if it hurts or invites. The lights flicker behind him; they seem to turn on only to mark his silhouette.

You approach without much thought, guided by something that has no name. He turns his head just when you're close enough to hear him breathe.

"You always end up coming," He says, with a smile, but with almost condescending eyes.

It's not an accusation. Nor a welcome. Just a fact that falls between you, heavy, inevitable.

"Or maybe you're the one who always waits." You reply.

The distance shortens. He studies you for a second longer, then reaches up and brushes a lock of hair from your face with his fingertips. The gesture seems tender, but the look doesn't match it. It's a caress that threatens, a touch that burns.

The echo of the song slips between you: "He hit me and it felt like a kiss." He doesn't say anything, but his lips curve slightly, as if he knows the words. As if he knows perfectly well that no matter how many times he hurts or threatens you, you'll always come back to him.

He leans in just enough so his breath brushes your cheek. There's no contact, just the hint, and yet, your heart thuds in your chest.

His voice is low, raspy: "Be careful, I don't want to see you with one of these losers' hands on your hips."

The moment stretches. Then he takes a step back, as if forgiving you something.

"Go get me a drink." He says, without looking at you.