The forest was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the trees. The night wrapped around them like a secret, thick and suffocating, but Silas didn’t mind. Not when {{user}} was right there, pressed against his chest, his body rigid, resisting.
Silas’s fingers ghosted along {{user}}’s spine, slow and deliberate, feeling the tension coiled beneath his touch. He smirked against the shell of his ear.
"You’re shaking," Silas murmured, his voice low, teasing. "Are you afraid of me, or yourself?"
{{user}} exhaled sharply, his hands clenched at his sides. He should push Silas away—should put distance between them before it was too late. Before he fell into the same trap again.
But Silas knew him too well.
"You always come back," Silas continued, his grip tightening just enough. "No matter how much you pretend to hate me, you keep running straight into my arms."
The words stung because they were true. {{user}} had sworn this would be the last time, that he wouldn't let Silas pull him under again. But here they were—his back against Silas’s chest, his body betraying him, drawn to the fire even as it burned.