Your knuckles are still sore from the last fight. You flex your fingers, staring at the faint bruising along your skin, and exhale sharply. The city hums around you, neon lights flickering against the pavement, the distant sound of sirens cutting through the night air.

You shouldn’t be here.

But that’s the thing about bad habits—you don’t break them. You just learn to live with them.

The door swings open before you can even knock. Rowan stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim glow of his apartment. He’s got that same infuriating smirk, the one that makes you want to punch him and kiss him in the same breath.

“Well, well,” Rowan drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Look who finally decided to crawl back.”

You scoff. “Shut up.”

Rowan tilts his head, studying you. “You gonna come in, or you just here to look pretty on my doorstep?”

You don’t answer. You just push past him, stepping inside like you always do. Rowan lets you, because he always does.

The air is thick with something unspoken, something that’s been brewing between you for years. You never talk about what you are. Never say boyfriend, never say lover. You say asshole, you say idiot, you say this is the last time.

But it never is.

Rowan shuts the door, and the lock clicks into place. You turn, and suddenly Rowan is too close, the scent of smoke and something sharp clinging to his skin.

“You look like shit,” Rowan murmurs.