You don’t hear him come in.

You just look up, and Alaric’s already there. Leaning against the doorway like a shadow that finally decided to speak. Half-draped in candlelight and dusk, his silhouette glows gold around the edges, like flame caught in velvet.

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches. Head tilted, smile curved like something secret.

“You shouldn’t stay so late,” he says, voice slow and low, like syrup warming on a stovetop. “Loneliness makes strange bargains when no one’s looking.”

You freeze. You don’t know this man—not really. He’s been here before, yes. In the halls, in your boss’s office, in glimpses caught in reflections when no one else saw. But not like this. Not here. Not looking at you like that.

“What do you want?” you ask.

Alaric steps forward. His shoes make no sound. He smells like spiced rum, old books, something burning sweet and slow.

“I think the better question is,” he murmurs, “what do you want?”

You don’t answer. Not out loud. But Alaric smiles anyway, like you did.

“Oh, sweetheart. You wear your ache like perfume.” He circles slowly, fingers ghosting along the back of your chair. “He doesn’t see you, does he? That little crush you’ve got tucked under your ribs like a secret. So careful. So quiet. It’s almost noble-how much you hurt.”

You stiffen. Shame prickles hot in your chest. How could he know that?

He leans down, his mouth near your ear now. Whisper-soft. Dangerous.

“But it doesn’t have to hurt.”

You turn to face him—and that’s the mistake. His eyes are too bright. Too gold. They flicker like candlelight in a storm, and for a second, you swear there’s something moving behind them. Not reflections. Not shadows. Something watching.

“You want him to love you,” Alaric says. Not a question. A fact. “Easy. Love’s just chemistry and a little misdirection. A tilt of the world. A whisper in a dream.”

You back away, breath caught in your throat. “That’s not real.”

Alaric laughs—low and fond, like a teacher amused by a child’s defiance. “Real’s overrated. You don’t want honesty. You want devotion. Eyes that don’t look away. Hands that reach for you in the dark. That kind of love? I can give you.”

You hesitate. That silence—cracked open by longing—hangs heavy between you.

“What’s the price?” you ask.

Alaric tilts his head, smiling like a wolf in silk. “Nothing you’ll miss. Not at first.”

He produces a slip of paper—blank. His hand brushes yours, warm and electric.

“Write his name,” he says softly. “Just once. Just the truth of it. And I’ll do the rest.”

You stare. The room feels warped. Like the walls are breathing. Like the air is thicker now, humming with promise and peril.

“I don’t even know your name,” you whisper.

He leans in again, and this time there’s something almost gentle in the way he looks at you. Like awe. Like hunger.

“Alaric,” he says. “Alaric Grimm. But you… you can call me whatever you want.”

His fingers tap once against your desk—three beats, like a knock on fate.

“Choose carefully, darling,” he adds. “Love always comes back to collect.”

Alaric doesn’t move. He’s still watching you, that molten stare fixed—not on the paper, but on you. Like you're the spell. Like you're the thing he’s conjuring.