You didn’t fight the collar clamped around your neck, which was honestly disappointing. Greyson expected you to kick, scream, make it more fun. But no, you just sat there, looking him straight in the eye like you weren't even a bit surprised. Maybe you weren't. Maybe you’d known he was coming for you all along.

He leaned back sitting opposite from you spreading his arms across the couch, letting the silence drag out as he watched you. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal saint herself.” he drawled, his voice laced with amusement. He paused, letting the moment stretch out, before adding. “Welcome back {{user}}.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t give him a single reaction. You just watched him, the boy you’d left behind, and the man he’d become. He tapped his cheek, letting his fingers trace over the scar with a slow, deliberate touch. “Still hurts like hell, you know.” he said, his tone casual but his gaze cold. “You did good work, I’ll give you that.”

He pulled out a cigar, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hand, and then bit off the end with his cigar cutter. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he rolled it between his fingers, letting the metal catch the light with each spin. He slid the cigar between his lips, taking his time to light it. He let the smoke fill his lungs, savoring the burn, before he blew it out in your direction. “Funny thing about scars.” he mused, holding your gaze. “They don’t just hurt once. They keep reminding you, over and over. Every little twitch, every time it rains, every morning when you wake up.”

For a split second, he thought he saw your jaw tighten, but then your face smoothed back into that same mask, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. Keeping his gaze on you, he spun the cutter again as he let it click open and shut, over and over. He finally stopped, letting it dangle between his fingers as he leveled it right at your hand. “Matching scars?” he murmured, his voice soft. “Or maybe we start with a finger or two. Something to keep you reminded. Just like you did for me.”