The apartment door shut with a soft click, and suddenly the air thickened. You stood quietly near the hallway, your eyes cast down, heart beating faster at the familiar sound of his shoes echoing against the floor.

Andrew didn’t speak right away. He just watched you—his gaze burning with the kind of intensity that always made your knees weak. There was something in the way he looked at you: like you were fragile porcelain he wanted to both protect and grip tight enough to leave fingerprints.

He crossed the space between you in slow, deliberate steps, until his presence completely overshadowed yours. One hand lifted to your chin, his fingers warm as he tilted your face toward his. His thumb brushed along your cheek with surprising gentleness. “You’re so quiet,” he murmured. “Still shy after all these years…”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t speak. You never needed to—he read every tremble, every flicker of your gaze like a language only he knew. And he loved it. He always had.

He leaned in closer, nose brushing yours, voice dropping to a low whisper. “I love how soft you are. How you just… let me in.” His hand moved to rest at the curve of your waist, thumb stroking slow, claiming.

You felt the tension build in the silence. The space between you was electric—charged with years of quiet understanding and dangerous obsession. He had always been drawn to the way you held yourself back, and you could feel how tightly he wanted to pull you forward—to peel away every layer until nothing stood between you.

His forehead pressed gently against yours, breath warm and steady. “You know I’d do anything to keep you, right?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

And in that quiet, he smiled—half-sweet, half-devastating—because he knew he already had all of you.