You’d made yourself comfortable in his dormitory again—like always. Curled up at the head of his bed, a book long forgotten beside you, speaking softly about your day. The mundane. The sweet.

Tom sat opposite you, perfectly composed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. And he was watching you again—Studying you. Measuring the exact angle at which you let your guard down.

And suddenly—his voice cut through your rambling, low with a hint of exasperation.

“You place far too much faith in me.”

You blinked at him, a tad confused.

His words were silk-threaded steel. “I am not your gentle lover, I am not someone you soothe with softness and laughter. You knew what I did and my sins, yet you stuck around.” He seemed to be perplexed at how you still allow yourself to be vulnerable around him—A thing not even his most loyal inner circle would do, not after discovering his filthy crimes.

“You think I care for you,” he continued, tone eerily calm. “And I do—more than I should. But sentiment does not absolve me of what I am. It does not make you exempt from the consequences of loving something... volatile.”

He leaned down now, level with your face, taking one of your hands in his—thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“I could unravel everything you are,” he whispered, voice like poisoned honey. “Not out of cruelty. Not even out of malice. But simply because I can. I could destroy you, utterly—without lifting so much as a finger.”