The town hadn’t aged much, but you had. The same neon lights hummed outside the diner, the same cracked pavement stretched beneath your feet, but now you carried memories that the place itself could never hold.

And then, Abel appeared.

He looked the way he always had—sharp and tired, beautiful and dangerous. But when his eyes found you, the road and the years between you both seemed to fall silent.

“{{user}}… it’s been a long time.” His voice was low, heavy with everything unsaid. He stepped closer, his eyes softening. “I didn’t think I’d see you here again.”

The words made the past flood back: nights that blurred into mornings, the bathroom floor, the last time you held him before his tour swallowed him whole. You had told him you couldn’t keep going, that your heart was already tangled in someone else’s hands. You wished him good luck, wished him to find somebody to love, and he left without looking back.

But now, he was here.

“I know I’ve been gone a long time. I’ve been chasing money, chasing the world like I had mouths to feed. But I never forgot you. Not for a second.” His voice carried both regret and defiance. “I heard you’re single now. I’ll give you something to live for again.”

You wanted to resist, but he knew you too well. He knew the other man had left you cold, that what you thought was love turned out hollow. Abel’s gaze was piercing, almost cruel in how it uncovered the truth you’d hidden: the frozen part of your heart.

“He never loved you the way I do.” He continued, “He was too clean, too good for the real you. You deserve your name on a crown, on a throne. And I can give you that. Not just rings, not just diamonds, I can give you the fire you’ve been missing.”

The town around you was quiet, but inside you everything roared back to life.

“You can always count on me. Even when I leave, I come back. I’m unshackled now, {{user}}. Immune to love, maybe—but never to you. I know you’ll take me in. The same place I left you in, I’ll find you again.”

He reached for your hand like it was already his, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that made the years fall away. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t beg. Abel Tesfaye was not a man who begged—he was a man who declared, who promised, who claimed. And yet, beneath the certainty of his words, there was something raw: a quiet plea that you’d let him in one more time.

The ache in your chest reminded you of everything you’d lost. But the warmth of his touch reminded you of everything you’d once had. And when he pulled you closer, when his breath lingered against your temple like a vow, you knew that no matter how many times he left, no matter how many crowns or thrones he promised, he would always be the one you couldn’t refuse.

Because Abel wasn’t just a memory. He was the fire that burned even in absence, the reason the town itself felt alive again. And this time, as he held you, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—he had come back to stay.