You didn’t run because he hurt you.

You ran because he saw you.

Too much. Too clearly.

Most people loved the version of you they invented — soft, polished, palatable. But Matteo Rourke? He looked at you like you were chaos wrapped in silk. He wanted the dark, demanding parts. The fire. The ache. The ruin.

And you loved him for it.

That’s what terrified you.

Because when he touched you, you forgot how to lie. You gave him everything. Every. Damn. Time.

And he never once asked you to stop.

He didn’t want safe. He wanted surrender.

So you ran.

Because love like that doesn’t heal — it consumes. And you weren’t ready to belong to anyone. Not even someone who already owned you.

You changed your number. Your name. Disappeared.

Matteo let you go.

For five years.

Until the phone rang.

It wasn’t your number — not really. You’d borrowed it. Untraceable. Burnable.

You picked up, distracted.

“Hello?”

Silence.

"Wrong number.”

Your voice was calm. Cold.

But on the other end…

“Right voice.”

You froze.

The voice you’d tried to forget — rough, deep, low enough to feel in your bones.