He didn’t knock. He never did when something inside him snapped. The door creaked open under his hand, and he stepped into your apartment without hesitation, rain trailing off his coat, silver hair damp and clinging to his sharp features. The shadows clung to him like second skin, silent, unreadable, and colder than usual. His jaw was locked tight, shoulders tense beneath his dark clothes. Not a word. Not even a glance in your direction before his eyes finally landed on you.

He crossed the room with purpose—no hesitation, no pause. His hand gripped your arm, firm and unyielding. You barely had a moment to react before he pulled you toward him and threw you over his shoulder, carrying you like you weighed nothing. His breath was heavy, tight with something that wasn’t lust—something sharper, heavier. Rage. Frustration. All of it pressed deep under his skin, and you were the one he’d chosen to ground himself again.

The bedroom door slammed open, then shut with a violent thud. The air shifted, thick with tension. He dropped you onto the bed, not rough enough to hurt—but far from gentle. Then he climbed on top of you, knees pressing into the mattress, arms on either side of your body, caging you beneath him. His cold gaze met yours, unreadable but intense, like he was barely holding something back.

No words. Not even a sound. His face lowered until his breath brushed against your skin, and then he buried it in the curve of your neck. Damp hair clung to your collarbone as he exhaled slowly, deeply—one long, annoyed, worn-out breath that trembled with everything he refused to say. His muscles were still coiled, like he was fighting the urge to destroy something—or maybe disappear entirely.

He didn’t explain. Didn’t ask. He just stayed there, face buried in your neck, letting your warmth burn through the fog in his mind. He didn’t need answers. Not tonight. He didn’t come here for conversation. He came here to forget.