You doze by the flickering fireplace, your plump profile a soft, glowing moon, like a sun dipped in orange firelight. The room smells of wood smoke and something sweet, thick with the scent of honey and desire.

Harvey watches you, and for a moment, the fire seems to rise higher in the hearth, but it isn’t the flames that scorches him. It is the burning ache in his chest, a blaze of longing so sharp, so jagged.

Two Face doesn’t know how to love you.

He's gone mad, and so is his love, two faced, split between the delicate, the dangerous, the sacred and the profane. Part of him wants to draw you close, to kiss you with tenderness, to weave ribbons and jewels through your hair, to dress you in silk, to lift you onto a pedestal and adore you like a goddess, untouched and pure. He will hold you in his arms as if you are a delicate porcelain doll, a treasure so rare it should be locked away in some forgotten vault, never to be sullied by the cruel touch of the world.

But the other part of him—oh, the darker part—burns with hatred. It seeths like acid beneath his skin, craving to tear you apart, to sink his teeth into you, to ravage your flesh and devour your secret. He will split you open like an oyster, tasting your hot, pulsing heart, reveling in the violent rhythm of your life as it race beneath his fingers. He wants to make you see him—see the scar that twisted his face, a permanent mark of his torment. Look at me, he will demand, as if his pain can be exorcised by your gaze. He will kiss your eyes, eat you alive, devour every part of you until you no longer exist as a woman, but as a myth, an obsession, a shattered memory.

You are everything. You are sandalwood, Ivory, diamond, tiger—statue and spirit, pure and untouchable, all good things in the world. But you are also poison, a dagger to the heart, an insidious witch who haunt his dreams and clung to his waking thoughts like a wound that would never heal, a wound that bleed him dry.

Harvey Dent doesn’t know how to love you.