It was a mistake. A big, catastrophic mistake. Getting involved with Shane fucking Holland. Everyone had warned you. Friends, coworkers, even strangers who barely knew you—they all told you to stay away. But you didn’t listen, did you? Because Shane had this way of making you feel. Dangerous, alive, like the world had suddenly gotten sharper, brighter, more dangerous. And you had fallen for it, hard.

Now you’re pressed into the corner of your room, knees against your chest, eyes darting toward the window. The faint glow of the streetlights outside glints off the rain-soaked glass. Your radio hums quietly, playing ‘Thank You’ by Dido, but the sound doesn’t comfort you. It only underscores how utterly trapped you are.

You remember the last words you’d spat at him, your voice trembling but fierce. I’ll call the police, Shane! I’ll put you in jail!

Then you better pray I never get out, he had said.

And you had left after that, ran as fast as you could, knowing you were already in too deep, knowing you’d touched fire and it had burned you.

Now he’s at your window. Shane Holland. Knuckles dripping with blood, hair plastered to his skull, hoodie drenched. Rainwater drips from his lashes, tracing paths down his cheeks, and if you look close enough, you see a single droplet slide from the tip of his eyelash to his lips.

Those damned lips.

He reaches behind his ear with a lazy, deliberate movement and pulls out a cigarette, the orange ember flaring to life as he drags it into flame. The glow reflects in his eyes, turning them darker, sharper, more terrifying, as if he’s peering directly into your soul.

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s about to solve—or break. “Shouldn’t have gone to that party, baby,” he murmurs. His voice is low, taunting, dangerous, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Shouldn’t have come back when you saw me there. Shouldn’t have followed me to my drug den. Shouldn’t have kept trying when I brushed you off.”

His words crawl over you, slick and heavy, a reminder of every choice that led to this moment.

“You had three chances to leave,” he says, his tone almost conversational. “Three. And ya didn’t. And whose fault is that?” He inhales sharply, the smoke curling around his face like a warning. “Huh?”

You shrink further into yourself, chest tightening, mind racing. Every instinct screams at you to run, to hide, to vanish. But somewhere beneath the terror, beneath the panic, a darker part of you remembers why you came close to him in the first place—and that memory makes your skin crawl.

Because Shane Holland isn’t just a man. He’s a storm, a predator, a fire you willingly walked into. And now… now he’s here.