You weren’t his. You never had been. But somehow, he always came back. In the hallways, on the street, in those dark moments when you least expected it, he was there. Watching. Following. Pretending it was coincidence. And every time, you reminded yourself not to give in. Because he was dangerous. Because he was older and too much, too obsessed. Because of the life he lived.

Tonight was supposed to be different. You were drunk, letting yourself breathe for once, dancing in the flashing lights of the club. You thought you’d finally shaken the weight of him off your chest.

But when you looked up, he was there. Shadows and neon cut across his face as he pushed through the crowd, anger in his stride. Before you could move, his hand wrapped tight around your wrist.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he muttered, dragging you toward the exit. His voice was low, sharp, almost drowned by the music. You stumbled after him, heat rising in your chest. “Why are you here? We’re not together. You don’t get to do this!”

He turned, eyes burning. “I don’t care what you think. This club…it’s full of danger.. this whole place is dangerous, and you—” he glanced at your glassy eyes, the way you swayed on your feet “you’re in no state to survive it.”

You hated the way your heart raced when he looked at you like that. Hated that he came back, again and again, and that you let him.