The wind howled outside, making the old glass windows rattle in their frames. Inside, the small, dimly lit room was thick with smoke. You could barely see across the room through the haze, but you didn’t need to. Theodore’s presence filled the space, an intoxicating blend of nicotine and arrogance. He lounged in the bed, legs stretched out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His steel-grey eyes, cold and calculating, flickered over you with a familiar air of indifference.

“You’re late,” he muttered, his voice low, laced with that distinctive Italian accent that still sent shivers down your spine, even though you knew better by now. He didn’t look up as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his attention fixed on the view outside the window.

You took off your sweater, hanging it on the crooked hook by the door, feeling the weight of his unspoken expectations pressing down on you. It was always like this—his quiet, passive judgment, the way he never raised his voice, but somehow made you feel like everything you did was wrong. You crossed the room, your heart racing, trying to find something, anything, to say that wouldn’t set him off.

“I had to—”

“I don’t care.” Theodore cut you off sharply, finally glancing up. His eyes flickered with something that might have been annoyance or amusement—it was hard to tell with him. “Excuses are beneath you.”

You stood there, frozen for a moment, the sting of his words familiar but still sharp. He always had a way of making you feel small, insignificant. And the worst part was, you kept coming back. Every time.

He took another drag from his cigarette, his lips curling into a half-smile, the kind that made you feel like you were the punchline to a joke only he understood. “Honestly, carissima, do you even know what you’re doing anymore?” He tilted his head slightly, that cold, superior gaze sweeping over you as if he were examining a flawed piece of art.