The walls at Willow Hill smell like bleach and desperation. You should not be here. Not after what he did. Not after the truth came out. But your footsteps echo anyway, carrying you down the corridor to the reinforced door at the end.

Inside, Tyler leaned against the wall. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, no shirt to hide the network of scars across his chest and shoulders. A heavy collar rests around his neck, a faint red light blinking, ready to deliver an electric shock if he gets out of line.

His eyes find you the second the guard unlocks the door. There is no smile and no surprise. Just that slow, deliberate scan of your face, as if he has been replaying it in his head every night.

“You came,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “I knew you would. You always do.”

You tell yourself you are here for answers. For closure. Maybe even to remind him of what he lost. But the way his gaze drags over you, the faint curl of his mouth… it feels like he is the one in control, not you.

The guard clears his throat, warning you to keep your distance. Tyler’s chains clink against the frame as he leans forward, the muscles in his chest shifting with the movement. “You can keep pretending you hate me,” he murmurs. “But we both know you have missed me. And I have been starving for you.”