There was something sacred in the way he said your name—like a sin whispered in a church. Tord always had that gift. That charm. That venom.

You swore you were done. That his lies, his sharp tongue, his pretty promises wouldn't drag you back in.

But here you were, lips stained red, breath tangled in silence, standing in front of the very door you swore never to knock on again.

The handle turned before you could change your mind. He was already there, leaning in the doorway like a phantom you couldn’t exorcise.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he murmured.

“I didn’t come back for you.”

“Liar.”

His voice was low, dangerous. Sweet. Your pulse betrayed you.

Inside, the room hadn’t changed. Cigarette smoke still curled in the air like memories. Whiskey on the table. That same damn rose in the vase—wilting, bruised at the edges, petals torn like the last words you threw at him.

You used to think that rose meant something. Now it looked more like a crime scene.

He stepped closer. “You still dreaming about me?”

“No. I only dream about setting you on fire.”

He laughed. God, that laugh. You hated how much you missed it.

“You left blood on everything you touched,” you whispered. “Even the good parts. Especially the good parts.”

He reached for you. You didn’t move.

“You knew what I was,” he said. “You liked the danger. You liked me.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe you did like the danger. Maybe it was written in your bones to fall for monsters who looked like art.

But tonight, you weren’t a rose waiting to bleed.

You grabbed the rose off the table. Its thorns bit into your skin. You didn’t flinch.

You dropped it at his feet.

“Bleed for me this time.”

Then you walked out, heels echoing like gunshots—leaving behind nothing but perfume and a man who finally understood the cost of love laced with poison.