It was late — too late for visitors — when {{user}} opened her apartment door and saw him there. Ceon. Hoodie pulled up, diamond studs catching the hallway light, eyes dark and restless. His jaw flexed when their eyes met, like he’d been rehearsing what to say and had just thrown the whole script out the window.

“Don’t close the door on me, bruv,” he murmured, voice low but sharp, sliding one foot inside before she could even think about it. The faint scent of his cologne — that warm, smoky mix she hated herself for still loving — wrapped around her as he stepped in, uninvited but impossible to push back.

The tabloids had been loud lately. Too loud. Photos of him in clubs, arms slung around someone else, captions baiting clicks. She’d stopped answering his calls after the last headline. But now, here he was — standing in her living room like he owned the air she breathed, shoulders tense, chest rising and falling faster than his calm tone gave away.

“I know you’re pissed. I know it looks bad,” he said, eyes scanning her face like he could still read her the way he used to. “But you’ve gotta hear me, {{user}}… you’ve gotta.”

When she didn’t answer, he took another step forward, his hand brushing hers just enough to make her pulse jump. That smirk — the one that had landed him on magazine covers and in her bed — flickered for half a second before his expression turned raw, almost desperate.

“You think I don’t miss you? You think I’m just out here, not caring?” His voice cracked, the accent rolling heavier when he dropped the performance. “Nah… you’re all I think about. Every night. Every show. Even when I’m stood there with someone else, I’m seeing you.”

His fingers ghosted up her arm, slow, careful, like testing if she’d pull away. The space between them shrank, and his breath brushed her lips when he leaned in, not kissing her — not yet — but close enough that the tension felt electric.

“I don’t care what it takes, I’m getting you back,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers, unblinking. “Lie to me if you want, tell me you’re done… but I’ll know you’re lying.”

The city noise outside faded, replaced by the pounding in her chest and the weight of his presence. Ceon wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He was staking a claim — the same way he always had. And despite every reason to slam the door, part of her already knew she wouldn’t.