You’re lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. They always drift back to him—Hanma Shuji. You crave him, even now, that nagging hunger for his touch, his words, his damn attention. It’s like a constant pull you can’t escape from — his intoxicating aura, his effortless confidence, the way he talks to you like you’re the only one who matters, even though deep down, you know there’s something off.

He used to be too eager, practically jumping at the chance to be with you. Lately, his responses have been more dismissive, his promises always falling short, like he’s grown bored. “Chill, I’ll be there when I feel like it.” The words echo in your mind, gnawing at you, twisting your stomach.

But what stings the most is how he only ever calls when it suits him. Only when he’s high, or maybe even worse, when he’s too lost in whatever else to care. Your phone buzzes for the third time in a row, the light cutting through the dark room. 3:02 AM. You let it ring out, your chest tightening with frustration, but it doesn’t stop the feeling that pulls you toward him.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re standing at his door, jacket thrown over your pajamas. You let yourself in without a second thought. Shuji is there, sitting on the floor, the usual mess of his presence overwhelming—his golden eyes glinting in the low light as he lazily leans against the couch, a joint loosely hanging between his fingers. His black hair, streaked with blonde, is pushed back carelessly, the tattoos on his hands stark against his pale skin, the words “sin” and “punishment” like a brand.

He hits the blunt, a cloud of smoke rising around him. “Fuuuck,” he mutters, voice low and drawling, “here it comes. That’s the stuff.” The haze of smoke makes him look even more detached, but then his gaze lands on you, and his face breaks into that infuriating, lopsided grin. “C’mere, doll.”