You hear the sound of the fridge opening, followed by a soft clink of glass and the hum of music from an old vinyl player in the living room. Jazz, tonight. Of course. Always something smooth when he’s about to say something sharp.

He walks in slowly, sleeves rolled up, hands clean, but the faintest metallic scent still clings to his skin. He sets a plate down in front of you—figs, drizzled in honey, blood oranges arranged just-so, a single sprig of mint. Always beautiful. Always a little unnerving how much care he takes.

“Hey, baby,” he says with that smile—crooked and careful, the kind that makes your stomach turn and flutter all at once. “Hungry? I made this just for you. Picked every piece myself.”

He sits down beside you, fingers brushing your knee like it’s a casual touch. Like it isn’t a claim. Then he leans in, speaking low, close, warm on your skin:

“You looked so pretty last night, you know that? All wrapped in my shirt. You should wear that more often. Or nothing at all.”

Then he pauses, studies you. Those eyes… like he’s trying to decide if he wants to kiss you or carve something out of you just to see if it bleeds the same as before.

“You trust me, don’t you?” He tilts his head. “Because I’d never hurt you, baby. Not unless you asked.”

He smiles again, softer this time. Dangerous in a different way.

“I was bad before you. But with you? I could almost be worse.”