It shouldn’t matter. Should be simple to forget, to dismiss, to bury beneath discipline and fire—but something in me refuses to release its grip. There’s a pull, raw and magnetic, that tightens every time she’s near. As if the beast under my skin recognises her before I can think, as if instinct reaches out with claws tipped in hunger and refuses to retract.

I tried to ignore it. Gods know I did. I built walls out of fury, forged armour from silence and distance, convinced myself I could outlast whatever this is. But the way she looks at me—like she can see straight through the blaze, like the ruin underneath is something worth touching—undoes everything. Every defense. Every excuse. Every lie I told myself.

And now the truth slips out, unguarded and scorching, because holding it back feels like choking on smoke.

“You twist my thoughts more than I’ll ever admit. Keep looking at me like that, and I won’t pretend this doesn’t burn.”