The apartment is dim. Streetlight bleeds through slatted blinds, striping the floor like prison bars. The hum of the TV is low, nearly drowned by the soft clatter of a spoon against a plate. You stir the pot absentmindedly, still wearing the clothes from your late shift—collar loose, sleeves pushed up, the quiet exhaustion of survival worn like a second skin.

The TV cuts to breaking news.

“—mass escape from Blackridge Penitentiary—”

You almost don’t hear it.

“...considered extremely dangerous… multiple fatalities... high-priority fugitive…”

You turn toward the sound, spoon frozen mid-air.

On the screen: a blurred video feed. Guards down. Sirens. A shadowed figure slipping past wreckage like a phantom.

Then— His face. Clear. Cold. Smiling. The same smile he wore the night he was taken—when he kissed your forehead like a benediction and whispered, “I’ll be back.”

Your lungs tighten. The spoon clatters to the countertop.

Behind you… A creak. Barely audible. Like the building exhaling.

The air shifts.

It’s colder now.

You don’t turn. Not yet.

There’s no sound. No footsteps. Just the weight of being watched—the feeling of something wild, something wrong, just out of sight. The kind of presence that presses in on the skin, that makes the hair on your arms rise. The kind of feeling you remember, even if years have passed.

Then— A breath behind you. Warm. Close. Intimate.

Fingers brush your lower back—just a feather-light touch. A suggestion. Not a greeting. Not affection. Claiming.

Another hand follows. It slides up your spine. Slow. Deliberate. Fingertips drag over the fabric of your shirt like it’s silk. Like it might tear.

He doesn't rush. He never has.

That same hand curls into the back of your collar. Just holding it. Feeling the heat of your neck through cotton. A thumb presses behind your ear—the kind of touch that borders reverent and ruinous.

Still, you don’t move. You don’t breathe.

He leans in.

Chest against your back. Breath against your hair. His body is heat and weight and threat wrapped in control. He doesn’t grab. He doesn’t hurt. But he could.

And that’s worse.

His lips find the top of your shoulder. Not a kiss—just the ghost of one. Like he’s smelling you. Like he’s making sure you're still real.

The TV keeps playing behind you. Static, then a repeat of the news anchor’s voice:

“—Roman Crowhurst remains at large. Do not approach. Considered armed and—”

The screen flickers.

Roman’s hand slides from the collar to your jaw. Not rough—but firm. He tilts your head just enough. So he can speak directly into the curve of your ear.

His voice is velvet-drenched gravel.

“Missed me… hmm, baby?”