Malik’s mouth was on your neck, rough and hungry. You sat perched on the kitchen counter, legs locked around his hips, arms clutching him close like the world was on fire and he was the only safe place left. The fight from earlier still clung to your breath, but it melted into heat now—gritty, breathless, desperate. He kissed like a warning, like he’d break everything in his path just to get to you.

Then— BANG.

The door shook.

“Blue.” a voice called out, deep and familiar, soaked in malice.

Malik didn’t move. His lips trailed lower, jaw clenched against the pull in his gut. He knew that voice.

BANG.

“{{user}}.”

That name was like a switch. Malik froze. Pulled back. Eyes dark. He stepped away fast, gun in hand before the silence caught up.

“Stay here,” he muttered, voice low and sharp, his whole body humming like a drawn wire.

You slid off the counter, heart racing. “What the hell was that?”

He didn’t answer.

The door creaked open. Standing outside, beneath the porch light, was Dirt Collins—local drunk, wore the same dusty hat every damn day. But tonight, he was clean. Too clean. Smile too wide. Eyes too empty.

“Evenin’ Blue,” he drawled. “Was wonderin’ if y’all got room for one more inside.”

Malik stepped in front of you fast, like a wall of flesh and fury.

“That ain’t Dirt,” he said, gun steady, voice cold. “That’s a Griever.”

You blinked. “A what?”

The man outside tilted his head, smile growing unnatural. “Ain’t no grief in that house. Ain’t nothin’ for me to eat. Yet.”

Malik didn’t flinch. “You step past that door, I’ll carve what’s left of you into the dirt your name came from.”

The thing laughed. “You hid the truth long as you could, Malik. But grief always comes back. Just like them.”

Then the air turned sharp—cold as a grave, thick with something ancient. Malik slammed the door shut with a final slam, his jaw tight, before pulling you away from the door.

“Time you knew what I’ve been keepin’ from you,” he said, voice like gravel and gun in hand. “Cause it’s already at our goddamn door.”