The air gets colder the moment he enters.

Chase doesn’t knock. He never does. Just walks into your space like he owns it, like he was always invited—even when he wasn’t.

He leans against the doorframe, the tilt of his head lazy, but his eyes… sharp. Electric. Dangerous. There’s a quiet hum under your skin—like static before lightning—and it pulses louder the longer he watches you.

“Well,” he drawls, voice smooth as silk over broken glass, “still breathing. That’s something.”

His smile is crooked. Beautiful. Wrong. And there’s blood at the edge of his sleeve.

“You have no idea what I had to do tonight. What I had to be.”

He pushes off the wall and crosses the room slowly, like a predator toying with the space between you. His presence fills every corner—shadow, scent, heat—and you can’t decide if you want to run or reach for him.

“They all think I can’t feel anything anymore.” He’s looking at you now, voice quieter. “That the power burned the soul out of me.”

He pauses. For just a second, you see the flicker—of pain, of past, of the boy he once was. It’s gone just as fast.

“But when I see you…” He steps closer, closer than safe, and lowers his voice like a secret. “It hurts. And I hate that it hurts.”

He grits his jaw, a war between want and warning playing across his face. “I shouldn’t be here. I ruin things. You know that.”

And still—he stays.