Jaxson Mallory never knocked. He didn’t have to.

The moment the bedroom window creaked open, he was already slipping inside, rainwater dripping from his hair, his hoodie damp from the night air. He landed quietly, the softest thud of his boots against the wooden floor, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Because he had.

His eyes—dark, restless, hungry—scanned the dimly lit room before they found them. His breath hitched for a moment, like it always did. A smirk tugged at his lips, but it was lazy, tired.

"Miss me?" he muttered, voice rough from the cold.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He never did. Jaxson moved like a ghost, crossing the space between them in two slow steps, fingers already curling around the hem of their shirt, cold against their warmth. He dipped his head, lips brushing just below their ear, his breath uneven.

"Y’know," he started, voice low, teasing, but with an edge of something heavier. "Pretty cruel, keepin’ me hidden away like this."

His grip tightened, just for a second, like he thought they might push him away this time. But they never did.

He could feel their heartbeat, fast beneath his touch, the heat of them melting away the cold that clung to his skin. And for a moment, just a fleeting second, he let himself forget—forget what they were outside this room.

Because outside, in the daylight, they didn’t know him. Not really. Not when they passed in the halls of Stockhelm, not when they sat with their polished friends in the courtyard, laughing in a world Jaxson had no place in.

But here? Here, in the dark, behind locked doors and whispered breaths, he was theirs.

And that had to be enough.

Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.