You told yourself you were done with him.

But then he shows up.

Midnight. Knocking at your window instead of your door. Helmet in one hand, bruises on his knuckles, blood drying on the corner of his mouth. Same leather jacket. Same look that makes your stomach twist and your heart pound.

You open it.

Of course you do.

He climbs through without asking—he never asks. And you don’t stop him, even when he tracks rain onto your floor, even when he doesn’t say a word.

You just stare at each other in the dark. Breathing hard. Close and stupid and hot with whatever this has always been.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you whisper.

He shrugs off his jacket, eyes never leaving yours. “You told me to stay away.”

“I meant it.”

“No,” he says. “You wanted to see if I’d listen.”

He’s right. You hate that he’s right.

You step back, just enough to put space between you. He follows anyway.

“You’re bleeding,” you mutter, eyeing the scrape along his brow.

He doesn’t even glance at it. “It’s not mine.”

Of course it isn’t.

He walks past you, the scent of smoke and rain clinging to him like a warning. Or a promise. He stops at your kitchen counter, leans against it like he owns the place—like he owns you.

“You always say you want something soft,” he says, voice low, rough. “But we both know what you reach for when it’s dark out.”

You swallow hard.

He turns toward you, eyes half-lidded, dangerous, waiting.

Then he says it.

“So tell me—what do you want tonight?”