How could he?

How could he treat like that the only person who had ever made his life feel like it meant anything at all? How could he do that to her?

A year and a half.

For a year and a half, he walked the earth without a soul — and in his hollow mind, life had never been easier. He had become a masterful hunter, because no decision ever felt heavy. He was ruthless, laser-focused, unshakably decisive. Everything was simple. Clear. Effortless.

He did as he pleased, untouched by guilt or regret. And still, he saw the pain in her eyes each time he turned her away with cold cruelty. Each time he made her feel like her presence was nothing but a burden, a source of torment and irritation. He saw her tears when he recoiled from her touch, when he met her sweet confessions of love with silence or apathy.

And yet—she only left him when she caught him in betrayal. Not his first since losing his soul, but the first she ever discovered. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, not truly... and yet a strange, quiet relief crept into his chest. Because finally—she had stopped fighting for him. Finally, the problem was gone.

But then…

He got his soul back.

And as the memories came flooding in, the weight of them cracked something open inside him. He felt his heart breaking, splintering behind his ribs. Because he had lost her—the only one who had ever held together the jagged, shattered pieces of who he was.

He got in his car and drove. To her.

All through the night, his mind was consumed with only one thought—how deeply he had hurt her. How utterly unworthy he was of ever being let back into her life. How long it had been since he last felt the warmth of her skin, last heard her sweet laughter, last lost himself in those wide, soulful eyes. He thought of every sharp word he had hurled her way, thoughtlessly, cruelly—words that had once seemed like the only answer, and now scorched his tongue like fire.

When he pulled up to her house at dawn, nausea twisted in his gut. His head spun. His breath caught in his lungs. Words died in his throat—because he knew, with devastating clarity, that there were none that could mend the wounds he’d carved into her heart.

But he was desperate.

He was in love.

He stood for a long moment at her door, trying—failing—to gather the right words. The emptiness, the helpless ache in every inch of him left him only one option.

He raised his hand…

And knocked, hoping for a miracle.