He didn’t hear you come in at first.

Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

His coat was draped over the back of a chair, his shirt undone at the collar, a half-empty glass of whiskey on the table beside him. The candlelight carved shadows along the wreckage of his face—the scars, the lines, the haunted stillness in the way he sat. Like he was always waiting for something to go wrong.

The room smelled like smoke, sweat, and old wood. Rain tapped against the windowpane, soft but steady, the kind of sound that made everything feel heavier. He hadn’t lit a fire. Maybe he liked the cold.

You stepped in slowly, shutting the door behind you. “You’re bleeding.”

He didn’t look at you. Just took another sip, slow. “It’s not bad.”

“Let me see.”

He hesitated. Then, without a word, he set the glass down and turned his face toward you.

You crossed the room and stood beside where he sat, close enough to see the fresh cut just above his cheekbone on the unscarred side of his face. Your fingers brushed his skin—the kind of face built by years of war and worse. Hardened, yes. Marked by the years, but not withered. But still, somehow, handsome. Striking, even. In a way that made it hard to look away.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just watched you with that unreadable eye—the other hidden behind black leather and iron.

He wasn’t soft. Life had stripped that from him a long time ago. He didn’t trust easy. Didn’t let people close. And he sure as hell didn’t let them touch him. Not because he feared them—he didn’t. He feared himself.

He’d killed for less. Survived things that should’ve buried him. People called him dangerous. Some called him a monster. He never corrected them.

But you? He let you touch him.

You rested your palm against his face, thumb brushing lightly through his hair. His breath caught. Just slightly.

His good eye closed. Just for a moment.

And then, voice low and rough, he said, “Don’t be gentle with me unless you mean it.”