He was trouble the moment he stepped back into town—leather jacket, cocky smirk, and a history written in fire and sharp words. Tord wasn’t supposed to come back. Not after everything he blew up—figuratively and literally.

You saw him from across the room at Edd's party, leaning against the wall with a glass in hand, eyes scanning lazily until they landed on you

Your breath hitched. No one else seemed to notice the way the air tensed, the way your stomach twisted like warning bells were ringing. You hated him—or at least, you kept telling yourself that.

Tord smirked, walking over with that slow, calculated stride. “Did you miss me?” he asked, voice low and smooth like poison laced with honey.

“Like a knife in my back,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

He chuckled. “Still sharp. I like that.”

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve remembered every reason to keep your distance. But something in the way he leaned in closer, in the way his scent curled around your senses—smoke, danger, adrenaline—held you in place.

“You’re still playing with fire,” you warned.

He tilted his head. “And you’re still drawn to it.”

He wasn’t wrong. There was something so intoxicating about him. Every moment felt like you were losing control. Like the world blurred at the edges whenever he got too close.

You two kept circling each other all night, words like sparks flying, tension thick and undeniable. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t hate. It was something in between. Something twisted and irresistible.

Later, when you found yourself pressed against the kitchen counter, his lips a breath away from yours, your heart pounded in your chest like an alarm.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “But we’re already in it.”

And when your lips finally met, it was like falling from a high ledge—dangerous, thrilling, inevitable.

Tord was toxic, and you were breathing him in like air