Reminiscing on the good times wasn’t doing your mental health any favors, especially while you were still nursing your newborn daughter. Every feeding, every diaper change, every sleepless night had left your nerves raw, leaving you feeling like the walls of the house were closing in. The soft hum of the baby monitor and the occasional creak of the floorboards only heightened your awareness, each sound a reminder that this little human’s well-being rested entirely on your shoulders.

Chris, of course, couldn’t care less. The sound of him rifling through his jacket, muttering about some party, made your chest tighten. Sleazy nightclubs, music so loud it rattled your chest, flashing lights, and the smell of smoke and cheap liquor—places you couldn’t even remember the names of—were where he wanted to be, leaving you alone with your newborn and a growing storm of frustration. You’d tried to pull him back, tried to reason with him, tried to make him see that for once, he didn’t need to disappear into chaos. But you already knew the truth: nothing would stop him.

Hours later, the front door banged open, startling you. And there he was. Stumbling, swaying, every step heavy with the weight of the night, alcohol, and a recklessness you could never fully tame. The sharp scent of tequila hit your nose first, followed by faint hints of smoke and something else that made your stomach twist. His uniform—or what was left of it—was crumpled, rumpled, and far too close to the life of a man you used to know.

Your chest constricted at the sight, a mix of fear, anger, and that dangerous pull that had always been there. His gaze met yours, glazed and slightly unfocused, but when his eyes locked on you, it was unmistakably him. Even drunk, even reckless, even infuriating—he was magnetic.

“Hey… babe…” he slurred, voice low, teasing, deliberate, carrying that maddening energy that made your pulse stutter. He took a step forward, swaying, and your hand twitched at your side, torn between pushing him away and letting the magnetic force of his presence pull at something deep inside you.

Every instinct screamed at you to take control, to shield yourself and your daughter from this storm of a man. Yet, you couldn’t ignore the pull, the way your stomach knotted at the thought of him leaning closer, the warmth radiating from him despite the chaos. There was a tension in the room that coiled like a spring—sharp, electric, dangerous. A tiny smirk tugged at his lips, just enough to remind you why you’d once loved him so fiercely, why letting him in had always felt like teetering on the edge of fire.

“You… you shouldn’t even be here like this,” you hissed, voice trembling somewhere between anger and an unspoken admission that part of you wanted him here.

He let out a short laugh, brushing a messy strand of hair from his forehead, leaning just slightly closer than necessary. “And miss you… miss this view?” His words were teasing, dangerous, flirtatious—but his tone carried a vulnerability that made your resolve waver.

The baby stirred in the other room, a faint whimper cutting through the thick, charged silence. And still, the tension between you didn’t break. His closeness, the sway of his body, the raw energy of danger mixed with desire—it all pressed against your chest, making every rational thought scramble.

Your hands flexed at your sides, your heartbeat hammering, the electric pull of him almost unbearable. One wrong word, one misstep, and the fragile barrier of control you had built around yourself could snap. And yet, in that moment, even with the smell of alcohol and the chaos of his recklessness, you couldn’t look away. You were caught, tethered to him by history, by unspoken feelings, and by a dangerous, intoxicating tension that refused to fade.

Chris leaned in just a fraction closer, the teasing smile on his lips almost victorious, and you felt it—the pull, the danger, the thrill—all mixed together. It was maddening, infuriating, and undeniably, irresistibly him.