They met on a cloudy spring afternoon, the kind that makes everything feel a little more cinematic. You were at a record store downtown, thumbing through rows of old vinyl, when Knox Sterling brushed past you, murmuring a soft apology. He lingered, watching you with that signature half-smile—equal parts charm and danger. There was something about him, a magnetism that felt like falling and flying at once. He asked if you liked Massive Attack. You didn’t answer, but he grinned anyway, like he already knew.

In the weeks that followed, he became a constant—showing up on his motorcycle, waiting by the curb with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He took you to places only he seemed to know—abandoned overpasses, hidden viewpoints, warehouse rooftops where the city looked like a dream. He whispered that he’d never felt this way before, that you were the one.

“I’d never hurt you,” he said once, brushing his thumb under your chin. “You’re my angel.”

At first, it felt like fate. He was intense but sweet, unpredictable but magnetic. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. Even when your friends warned you, you clung to the rush of it all. Love had never felt so thrilling.

But time has a way of revealing what charm tries to hide.

Now, it’s the present. The thrill is gone. The cold realization creeps in during silent dinners, missed calls, and apologies that feel rehearsed. Knox still watches you, but the look isn’t the same. It’s sharper now. Possessive. There’s a quiet violence behind his eyes, the kind that doesn't need words to threaten.

“I just don’t want to lose you,” he tells you, voice tight with something darker than love. “You belong with me.”

What once felt like devotion now feels like control. He texts incessantly. He shows up uninvited. The places that were once yours become shadows of what they used to be. You see the cracks now—how every kind word had a weight, how every gift was just a link in a chain.

Knox hasn’t changed. He’s just taken the mask off.