Andrew had a habit of arriving like a storm that never fully broke.

You heard him before you saw him boots against concrete, the soft click of a lighter snapping shut. By the time you turned, he was already there, leaning in the doorway like he’d been invited even when he hadn’t. Messy blond hair fell into his eyes, shadowing a gaze that always looked a second too knowing. The dim light caught on the metal of his piercings and the ink creeping up his neck, disappearing beneath the loose black fabric stretched across his shoulders.

“You’re late,” you said.

He tilted his head, lips curling slightly. “You waited.”

That was Andrew in a sentence. Always calm. Always just close enough to unsettle you.

He crossed the room slowly, not rushing, as if he understood that anticipation did half the work for him. Every step felt measured, intentional. When he stopped in front of you, there was barely a breath of space between you enough to behave, not enough to be comfortable.

“You look tense,” he murmured.

“Do I?” You crossed your arms, deflecting.

His eyes flicked down, then back up, sharp and unreadable. “Yeah. Right here.” He lifted a finger, hovering near your collarbone without touching. “And here.”

The restraint in that single inch of space was louder than any contact. Andrew didn’t rush things. He never had to. He let silence do the talking, let the moment stretch until it felt like a held breath.

“You always do that,” you said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Get too close and then pretend you’re not doing it on purpose.”

He laughed softly, low in his chest. “I never pretend.”

His hand finally found your wrist warm, firm, grounding. His thumb brushed once, slow, deliberate, and you hated how easily it pulled a reaction out of you. Andrew noticed everything. The hitch in your breath. The way your shoulders stiffened before relaxing.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he said. “That’s dangerous around me.”

“And what are you thinking?” you asked.

His gaze lingered, darkening just enough to make your stomach flip. “That you’re stronger than you think,” he said. “And worse at hiding things than you believe.”

He stepped past you then, fingers trailing away, leaving heat behind like a memory. The room felt colder without him in your space. He moved to the window, resting his hands on the sill, city lights reflecting in his eyes.

“I don’t chase,” Andrew continued casually. “But I don’t back away either.”

You joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel his presence without touching. The silence between you was heavy, charged, full of things neither of you said out loud.

Finally, he turned his head, voice softer now. “If you want distance, say it.”

You met his gaze. “And if I don’t?”

A slow smile spread across his face dangerous, patient, certain. “Then don’t pretend this is an accident.”

Andrew leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek, stopping just before the line where intention became action. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Some lines,” he said, “are more fun when you stand right at the edge.”

And he pulled back just barely leaving the choice hanging in the air between you.