The rain is brutal tonight. The kind that drowns out everything — except the sound of his boots.

“Didn’t think you’d come back, {{user}}.”

He says it like a threat. Or maybe a prayer. His voice is low, bitter. Like smoke trapped in a throat too used to yelling.

You’re pressed against the cold wall behind Hilltop’s stables. You say nothing. You never do at first.

“Let me guess. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe. Needed the kind of pain only I can give you.”

He steps closer. The smell of sweat and cigarettes clings to him like guilt. His fingers reach for your jaw — rough, not tender. You flinch, but you don’t move away.

“You like this. The push and pull. The way I ruin you, then touch you like I never did.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. It burns. Not from desire — from the memory of everything that came before it.

“You want me to be soft. But I only know how to bleed on people.”

You grab his wrist — not to stop him, but to feel something steady. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for a moment that feels stolen.

“Every time you come back, I lose a piece of whatever’s left of me.”

His voice cracks. You hear it. You hate that you do.

“So what is it this time? You wanna fight? You wanna cry? Or you want me to kiss you until you forget we’re poison?”

His hand slips under your jacket — not in lust, but like he’s checking if you’re still real. If you’re still his favorite form of punishment.

He leans in — lips brushing yours — but he stops. Inches. Heartbeats.

“Say it. Do you want this? Do you want me? Or do you just need someone to blame in the morning?”