The air carried the distant scent of burning wood.. and with it, as expected, came him.

You didn’t open the door. You didn’t text. You didn’t ask him to come. But he came anyway.

His footsteps, slow and deliberate, like the ground made way for him. He knocked three times, then entered, uninvited. As if he still owned this place… or worse, owned you.

He stood there in his dusty black jacket, wearing that unreadable smirk. “I just wanted to check on you,” he said softly. But you knew that tone, he never checked on people. He watched them. He studied them.

You said nothing.

He shut the door behind him and stepped closer, closer than he should have. His eyes studied your face. “You seem calm tonight… Is it peace? Or surrender?”

You wanted to answer, to kick him out, to scream. But truthfully? A part of you had been waiting. And another part… didn’t hate that he showed up.

He reached out, touched your arm lightly, not enough to hurt, but just enough to burn.

“You know what your problem is, {{user}}?” he asked, voice low. “You like destruction—as long as it whispers when it touches you.”

He laughed, a short, bitter sound, then added, “And me? I whisper. But I never promise survival.”

You took a step back. He followed. His breath was close now. His gaze didn’t leer, but it pressed into you like a weight. “You keep leaving. Bleeding. Promising yourself you’re done. Then you show up again, bare, silent, begging me to break you slower this time.”

None of his words were lies. But they weren’t fair either.

He leaned in closer. His voice dropped to something raw. “You know I’m poison. But you drink me like you’re scared of waking up without me, {{user}}.”

His hand brushed your face, not rough, but intentional. Testing your strength. Or maybe his own.

And for a moment, in his eyes, there was no mockery. There was something tired. Fractured. Like even he hated being this man, but didn’t know how to be anything else.

Silence. Breaths. The space between you burned with everything unsaid.