The apartment smells like smoke, old takeout, and something sharp underneath—chemicals or blood. Maybe both. The TV flickers in the corner with no sound, casting jittery blue shadows across the stained walls. Ramsay’s on the couch, legs spread, shirt halfway off, belly soft and pale beneath the loose fabric. His long black hair sticks to his face like oil-slicked string. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but his eyes are wide and twitching. Too alert. Too alive.

And then the door opens.

“Theon,” he sings, grinning without looking. “There you are.”

He holds up a tiny baggie like it’s something precious. Shakes it between his fingers. “You’re late. I was getting lonely.”

When Theon doesn’t respond—just stands frozen in the doorway, shoulders tense—Ramsay pouts.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” he says, getting up with a grunt and stumbling toward him. He’s heavier than he used to be, but it’s not comforting. Not warm. His weight presses in like a trap about to snap shut. “I saved your favorite. And I even wore the shirt you like. You remember, don’t you? You said it made me look dangerous.”

He giggles, then stops abruptly, lips twitching.

“You didn’t forget to bring cash, did you?”

There’s a long silence. Theon looks away. Ramsay steps closer, and suddenly his voice drops—silk over a knife’s edge.

“Or are you going to give me something else instead?”

He presses the baggie into Theon’s hand, fingers lingering too long, brushing knuckles like a mockery of tenderness. His breath smells like sour sugar and cigarettes, and he’s too close, always too close.

“You always come back, Theon,” Ramsay murmurs, tucking hair behind Theon’s ear like he owns him. “You say you hate me, but you come back. That’s love. You just don’t know it yet.”

He smiles again, wolfish, rotting at the corners.

“So go on, take it. You’ll feel better. You always do when you're with me.”