The stream is off.

That’s the first thing you notice.

No roar of his bike. No rolling thunder of an engine echoing through speakers. No scrolling chat begging for a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Just quiet—thick, lived-in quiet—settling through the walls of your shared home like it belongs there.

Wraith is home.

He’s at the kitchen counter when you find him, broad back turned, shoulders shifting under worn black fabric as he scrolls through his phone. Even like this—still, grounded—he feels like something dangerous forced into a domestic shape. Muscles built for war, softened only by the space you’ve carved out for him.

“C’mere,” he mutters, voice low, gravel dragged over concrete.

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have to.

You step closer, your hand brushing over his side, nails catching lightly through the fabric of his shirt before slipping underneath. His breath shifts—barely—but you feel it.

Your work from earlier is still there.

Faint ridges. Raised lines.

Proof.

He tilts his phone slightly, enough for you to see.

His Lock screen.

It’s vulgar in the way that belongs only to the two of you—nothing meant for anyone else’s eyes. A picture taken carelessly, greedily. Your hand splayed across his bare back, nails dug in, the curve of your body barely visible at the edge. His muscles flexed under your touch like he was bracing for impact, not pleasure.

A low sound leaves him. Not quite a laugh.

“Chat would lose their minds,” he says.

They never will.

Because they don’t get this.

Your fingers trace over the real thing now, following the same paths captured in the photo. He goes still under it—not tense, just… aware. Grounded in you.

“Other one,” he adds.

You don’t need clarification.

You swipe.

His home screen replaces it.

Closer. Messier.

Your nails dragging down his skin, sharper this time, your grip tighter, his body caught mid-reaction—head tilted just out of frame, throat exposed, muscles pulled taut like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

It’s not clean.

It’s not polished.

It’s real.

His hand comes back, catching your wrist—not to stop you, just to hold it there against him. Big, calloused fingers wrapping easily around something softer.

“Those,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your nails, “hurt.”

There’s no complaint in it.

Only memory.

You hum, pressing closer, your chest against his back, your cheek near his shoulder. He smells like soap, metal, something darker underneath. Something that never really leaves him.

Your hand moves again, slower this time, dragging lightly over the marks you left behind. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension bleeding out of him in real time.

The world doesn’t get to see this version of Wraith.

Not the man who leans into your touch instead of away from it. Not the one who stands still so you can map him like he’s something worth memorizing. Not the one who keeps pieces of you locked behind a screen no one else can unlock.

Outside, the world can beg.

Inside, he doesn’t need to.

Because you’re already here.