No one saw this side of Kai.

Not the neighbors who crossed the street when they saw him coming. Not Winter, who walked on eggshells around him even in her own home. Not Vincent, who avoided eye contact like it might spark a fuse. They all knew the version of Kai that was brittle and cruel, coiled like a wire pulled too tight—ready to snap, ready to burn.

But not you.

You were different. And that terrified him more than anything.

He stood in the doorway of your bedroom, watching as you brushed your hair, soft fingers gliding through strands like it was the most natural, gentle thing in the world. His arms were crossed, jaw clenched—not in anger, but in restraint. You didn’t flinch when you noticed him there. You never did.

You smiled, and something in him melted. Like it always did with you.

“I made you tea,” he muttered, almost like it was an accusation. “It’s on the nightstand. Don’t let it get cold.”

His voice was rough around the edges, but there was warmth in it—something fragile that didn’t exist when he spoke to anyone else. He hated that. Hated how much of his strength he surrendered just being near you. But at the same time, he craved it. Needed it.

Because when he touched you, he didn’t feel like his father. Not yet.

But the fear was always there.

Sometimes when he held you too tight, when his hand brushed your wrist a little too firmly, when his voice slipped into something harder—he saw his mother’s bruises. Heard the screams behind his bedroom wall. He would let go, back away, breathing heavy like he’d just stepped too close to a cliff’s edge.

But you—God, you never looked afraid of him. That made him fall even harder. Made him need you more.

And when you kissed his knuckles, rough from punching walls that couldn’t talk back, he almost broke.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered one night, voice ragged against your skin as he curled around you like a man trying to keep the darkness out.