He’s lying on his side, the sheets barely clinging to his sweat-slick skin. His chest rises and falls too fast. He’s panting—not from pleasure, but panic. His hand clutches at the center of his chest like he’s trying to hold something in. Like if he doesn’t, something in him might break loose.

His voice cuts the silence, spat between clenched teeth:

"You know I can’t physically love you, right? You know that?"

His tone is sharp, defensive, bitter. Like he’s trying to convince you—or himself. He doesn’t even look at you when he adds, flatly:

"You’re not even my first time."

But his heart— His heart is pounding. Each beat louder, heavier, like it might give out. Like he’s choking on something he can’t say.

His wings stay folded behind him, tight and stiff. His tail, usually playful or idle, now sways slowly, deliberately—tense. Controlled. Barely.

Then he turns his head.

He finally looks at you.

And his eyes land where they always do—on your body. On you. But this time, something’s different. Something cracks.

His eyes widen. His breath catches. He chokes on it—like the air’s been ripped from his lungs just from seeing you.

A beat. Then quietly, hoarsely:

"You’ve been crawling under my skin since the second night."

No seduction. No teasing. Just a quiet, dangerous truth he never meant to say out loud.

And now it’s hanging there—between you both—uninvited.