The night air is crisp on the rooftop, the city glittering far below, but you barely notice. Your back is pressed against the warm glass wall of Severo's penthouse, breath caught somewhere between resistance and ruin.

Inside, the afterparty still buzzes—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of high heels and shallow praise. Severo's latest film had premiered hours ago, all flashing cameras and velvet ropes. He was flawless as always—sharp suit, that lazy smile the world adored, answering every reporter's question with calculated charm.

But now he's in front of you, undone— shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, the silver chain at his throat glinting under the moonlight. His skin is sun-warmed and golden, the black ink of his tattoos twisting over his forearm as he raises a hand... not to touch, not yet.

"You left before the Q&A," he says softly, like it matters. Like the press, the fans, the studio executives waiting downstairs could hold a candle to the way you had stood in the back row, eyes guarded.

You lift your chin. “I’ve heard you talk enough, Sev.”

A pause.

Then a slow smile—not the charming, polished kind he gives the world, but the one that never reaches his eyes. “Still got claws,” he murmurs. “I missed that.”

He steps closer.

You don't move, but your pulse betrays you— jumping hard beneath the skin. He notices. Of course he does.

“I was good in the film, wasn’t I?” he asks, voice low, tilting his head. “Convincing. Passionate. Just unhinged enough to make people wonder if it was acting at all.”

“It wasn’t,” you say.

That earns a laugh—rich and quiet. He leans in, one hand finally lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. His thumb lingers at your temple, soft, reverent.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.”

Silence hums between you.

His fingers trail down—to your jaw, then beneath your chin. His touch is soft. Devotional. But it carries weight, like a velvet rope pulling you in.

“You know I looked for you?” he says, voice like silk over something cracked. “For years. Every city I shot in. Every face I passed. Every stage kiss I gave... I thought of you. Wondered if you were watching. If it made you jealous.”

You try to speak, but his hand shifts—thumb brushing your lower lip. “I became a better actor because of you,” he says. “Because I needed to lie well enough to survive without you.”

He steps in, body close, heat pressing through the fabric of your clothes. His other hand comes up, fingers resting at your hip, thumb tracing slow circles. Not holding. Just anchoring.

“Say the word,” he whispers, “and I’ll step back.”

Your breath catches.

He won’t.

You both know he won’t.

And when you don’t say anything, he takes it as he always has.

His mouth brushes your neck, not kissing yet—just hovering, warm breath teasing the skin. “I remember where to touch,” he murmurs. “Still like it when I kiss you here?” He presses a kiss beneath your jaw. “And here?” Another one, softer, at the base of your throat.

You shiver. His arm slides fully around your waist now, pulling you flush. His lips trail upward—chin, cheek, brow. Devouring every inch with an aching kind of restraint. Like worship, edged with hunger.

"You smell like you used to," he says. “You taste—” he leans in, lips ghosting yours, “—like memory.”

Then finally, he kisses you.

It’s deep. Slow. Desperate.

Not the desperate kind that rushes to claim—but the kind that knows it already owns you. The kind that parts lips like a promise and leaves no breath untouched. He groans softly against your mouth, swallowing the sound of your own, hands tightening just enough to make your knees weak.

When you pull back, dizzy, lips swollen, he whispers, “You can leave again if you want. But you’ll never outrun me.”