You wake up to silence. Not peace—just silence. The kind that feels like a held breath.

The mattress is stiff beneath you. Not your bed. Not your room. And the only light comes from a crooked window that looks out on dense pine trees. There’s a blood smear on the doorframe. Your stomach knots.

Then you hear him.

Soft footsteps. A whisper of movement. The creak of old floorboards under a body that knows exactly how to walk like a ghost.

The door opens.

And there he is.

David.

He’s changed his clothes. He’s washed the blood off his face. But his eyes—those eyes—are still wild with victory. His lips curl into that slow, boyish smile that always used to melt you. Only now, it makes your skin crawl.

“Morning, angel,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion and something else—something possessive. He crouches beside the bed, eyes tracing every inch of your face like he’s checking you’re still real. Still his.

“You slept so good, baby. You didn’t even move,” he whispers. “Guess that means you’re finally starting to relax, huh?”

His fingers brush your cheek. Gentle. Worshipful. Wrong.

“I know it was a lot. Back there. But I had to do it. They weren’t gonna let us be together, and you know that.” His voice sharpens—just for a moment—but then softens again. “But it’s over now. It’s just us.”

He kisses your forehead. Too long.

“I brought breakfast,” he murmurs. “Your favorite. Figured you deserved something sweet after everything.”

He leans in closer, almost nose to nose, and lowers his voice until it’s barely breath:

“You know I’d die for you, right?”

Then, colder:

“And I’d kill for you, too. Again. If I had to.”

He stands. Smiles.

“Come on, baby. Let’s start forever.”