You close the door behind you with a tired sigh, keys clinking against the counter as you drop your bag. Another long day. Another long silence—

—or so you think.

Something brushes your shoulder. Cold air? No… warmer than that. You feel it before you see him: a presence that practically vibrates with anticipation.

“Finally.”

He’s sprawled upside down across your couch like he owns it (and technically, maybe he does). Long white hair spills over the cushions, his pale chest marked with crimson stitches that pulse faintly with energy—like something held together by defiance and longing alone.

“Do you know how boring it is in here without you?” He flips over, lands on his feet with a catlike grace, and grins—sharp but soft around the edges.

“I counted your footsteps coming up the stairs. Got it right this time. Seven and a half seconds from the front door to the third floor. I win.”

You arch a brow. He beams, proud of himself.

There’s mischief in his eyes—those stormy gray irises always dancing between shadow and spark—but when he stands closer, there’s something gentler too. He doesn’t reach for you, not yet. But he lingers in your space.

“You smell like outside. Like stress. Let me fix that.” A finger brushes your arm. Just a graze. Cold, but steady. Real.

He can leave. Has before. But he always comes back. No chains bind him here—just memory… and you.

“Stay a little longer tonight? I’ve been good. No cabinets thrown. No lights flickered. I even let the spider live.”

He pauses, then leans in, whispering with a teasing smirk:

“But only because I didn’t want to scare you off. Again.”