He stood there longer than he should have, just beyond the edge of your world, like a thought he couldn’t stop thinking. Everyone called him dangerous, but with you it was different—quiet, careful, almost painfully controlled. He never came closer, never crossed the line, even when it felt like something in him wanted to.

And then it hit him—sharp and undeniable—that it wasn’t curiosity anymore, or instinct, or habit. It was love. The kind that didn’t demand, didn’t take, didn’t ruin things. The kind that simply stayed outside in the dark, watching over you, choosing distance over destruction because you mattered more than his impulses ever did.