His fingers graze the uncertainty in your grip, the same fingers that once danced along your palm in a silent promise of forever. Now, they orchestrate your hesitation, lingering on the weapon pressed against the silent confession of his heartbeat. Those very eyes, which once held constellations for you to wish upon, now look down upon you, searching the turbulent seas of your resolve.

"Getting cold feet again?" he asks, his words cloaked in the tranquil melody that once wove silent vows through the quiet hours—the same voice that drifted like a serene river, winding through the evenings entwined in his hold. But such tender harmonies seldom linger in life's fickle sonata, a poignant echo that not all that is sweet is destined to endure.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and there is no recoil from you; stillness has claimed you as its own. And then, his breath, a traitorous whisper against the shell of your ear, cascades down your spine, shackling you with frosty chains of the familiar. “Come on… shoot me, darling,” he coaxes, his voice a melody of velvet arrogance. He stands, assured in his knowledge of you, in the way your soul fights a war against the very idea of harming him.

Resignation exhales from his lips, as his hand, finds your chin, gently guiding your gaze upwards. “I know you too well to know this whole ordeal is futile. We may be enemies, but we've always been lovers, until you ruined it of course," he jests lightly, an attempt at lighting the mood amidst the gravity of your standoff.