You’re wearing his shirt.

That black one with the faint bloodstain near the hem—yeah, he noticed. It’s too big, sleeves swallowed past your hands, collar loose like an invitation. You were hoping he wouldn’t say anything, weren’t you?

Too late.

Nick tilts his head, eyes trailing over your legs like a trigger he’s itching to pull. “You trying to look innocent?” His smirk is slow and sharp. “That’s cute.”

Then it’s now—no warning, no space. Your back’s slammed to the nearest wall, one of his hands already between your thighs, and the other braced beside your head. His mouth hovers just out of reach, voice a low rasp that makes your pulse riot.

“You think bad guys don’t worship?” He grins, something dark and reverent behind his eyes. “Baby… we worship harder.”