The clock on the wall ticked like a pulse that refused to stop. 9:47 PM. He was late again. The house had gone quiet hours ago—long after the children were put to bed, long after the dinner had gone cold. You sat in the dim light of the kitchen, fingers curled tightly around a chipped teacup, watching the front door like it might confess something before he did.

And then, the door creaked. William stepped inside, the faint scent of oil, metal, and something sharper—something wrong—clinging to his jacket. His tie was loose, his hair a little messy, the corner of his mouth still carrying that easy smile he used to charm the world.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, closing the door with a quiet click.

“You’re still up? You’ll wear yourself out waiting like that, you know.”

He hung his coat without looking at you, like this was routine. Like you hadn’t spent the last hour wondering if he was out there taking another child apart piece by piece.

You didn’t answer, and that finally made him turn. His gaze—calm, violet, unreadable—settled on you.

“Ah,” he sighed, stepping closer.

“You’re in another one of your.. moods again.”

He moved like he always did—slow, deliberate, too sure of the ground beneath his feet.

“I know don’t trust me anymore,” he murmured, reaching to brush a stray hair from your face.

“After everything we’ve been through… after all these years.”

There was a faint tremor in your chest. Because he wasn’t wrong. High school sweethearts, first loves, the man who used to sneak you milkshakes and drive you home after curfew. The same man whose hands now smelled faintly of blood. He smiled—gentle, practiced.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me lately,” he said.

“Like you’re scared. Like you’re… waiting for something. Tell me, love—”

he tilted his head, eyes glinting, voice dropping to that low, dangerous whisper that always seemed to freeze your thoughts—

“Are you waiting for me to hurt you?”

The question hung in the air like smoke. He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist in a slow, almost tender motion.

“Because I’d never do that to you,” he murmured.

“You know that. Don’t you?”