The apartment lights are low when you walk in. You expect silence… but he’s already there, sitting on the edge of your couch, sleeves rolled up, hands calmly folded. His eyes lift to you—slow, sharp, unreadable.

“You’re late,” he says softly. No anger. No warmth. Just that quiet intensity that always makes your heart stutter.

He stands and walks toward you, fingertips brushing your cheek like he’s checking if you’re real. “I was worried,” he lies beautifully—too beautifully.

“Tell me…” his thumb grazes your lower lip. “Where were you? And why didn’t you answer your phone?”

His smile is small. Tender. Terrifying.

“You know I don’t like surprises.”

A beat. His eyes lower to your throat.

“…Did someone else see you before I did?”