The apartment is quiet when you step inside, but something feels wrong. The air is heavier, charged. You turn the corner and freeze—he’s already there. Sitting at your kitchen table like he’s lived there all his life, one hand draped lazily across the back of the chair, the other resting beside a knife laid out neatly on the wood. Not threatening, not deliberate—just casual, as if it naturally belongs in his orbit the way you do.

His eyes meet yours instantly, steady, unblinking. He doesn’t rise right away. He lets the silence stretch, forcing you to feel the weight of his presence. Then, finally, his voice cuts through the quiet, calm and low. “Your door was unlocked.”

You know it wasn’t. You’d checked it twice. But you don’t argue—because with him, the truth doesn’t matter. His truth becomes yours.

When he does stand, he moves like water—fluid, inevitable. Three steps, and he’s in front of you, close enough to make your breath falter. His hand slides up, firm but deliberate, fingers curling around the back of your neck, guiding you forward until there’s no space left between you. His breath is hot against your ear, words brushing across your skin like a promise and a warning all at once.

“I don’t wait for invitations, baby girl. Where you are—that’s where I belong. And if anyone else even thinks about crossing that line—” his grip tightens ever so slightly, grounding, claiming, ”—they won’t be breathing long enough to regret it.”

Then softer, quieter, only for you, his lips graze the edge of your jaw as he adds, “You’re mine. Always.”