Ramsay doesn’t hear you.

That’s the first mistake.

He’s in his apartment, lights low, jacket tossed over the arm of the couch, the city humming faintly through an open window. He’s halfway through pouring a drink when he freezes — not because of a sound, but because of a feeling.

Wrongness.

The air feels used. Like someone’s already been breathing it.

“You can come out,” he says after a moment, voice lazy, practiced. “I don’t have time for games tonight.”

Silence.

Then, from behind him — close enough that he feels warmth at his back —

“You always say that when you’re lying.”

The glass slips in his hand, shattering against the floor.

Ramsay turns fast.

You’re standing where the hallway meets the living room. Calm. Shoes off. Familiar with the layout in a way that makes his stomach drop.

His eyes flick, automatically, to the door.

Unlocked.

No. Unlocked earlier.

“How—” He stops himself, lips curling despite the jolt of adrenaline. “Breaking in is a little desperate, don’t you think?”

You tilt your head.

“I didn’t break in,” you say softly. “You left it like that. Tuesdays are careless for you.”

That lands wrong. Too specific. Too accurate.

Ramsay laughs once, sharp. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’ve been thorough.”

Your gaze drifts — to the half-packed box near the wall, the pill bottle on the counter, the photograph face-down on the shelf he never lets anyone touch. When your eyes return to his, there’s no triumph in them.

Just ownership.

“I know how long it takes you to fall asleep,” you continue, conversational. “I know which floorboard creaks when you pace. I know you don’t drink for the taste.”

Ramsay’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes now.

“And what,” he asks quietly, “do you think you know about me?”

You take a step closer.

“I know you like fear,” you say. “But not this kind.”

Another step.

“I know no one’s ever watched you without wanting something back.”

You stop inches from him. Close enough that he can see it now — the intensity, the restraint, the way this has been fermenting for a long time.

“I don’t want anything,” you whisper. “I already have you.”

For the first time in his life, Ramsay doesn’t interrupt.

His pulse is loud in his ears. His apartment feels smaller. Claimed.

“…You’re sick,” he says, but there’s something almost reverent under it.

You smile — slow, unsettling.

“You taught me,” you reply. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

Ramsay exhales a laugh that sounds nothing like amusement.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is usually the part where people realize they’ve gone too far.”

Your eyes don’t waver.

“And this,” you say, “is usually the part where you realize you’re not alone anymore.”

The city hums on outside. The door remains unlocked. And Ramsay Bolton, for once, does not know who is hunting whom.