The forest had become your hunting ground, sure—but somewhere along the line, you had become the prey.

The signs had started small. A snapped branch when no one was around. The smell of ash and steel lingering faintly in the breeze. Once, a skinned hare, still warm, left neatly on your doorstep just after a week of empty traps. Creepy, but helpful. You’d chalked it up to luck. Coincidence. Denial, honestly. Because the alternative was… well.

Let’s just say you hadn’t thought about Killian in a long time.

Or tried not to.

Which was hard, considering he had that face. And that voice. And that way of talking to you like you were the only person that had ever mattered. Problem was—he actually meant it.

When you’d left the village and moved out into the woods alone, you’d thought you were choosing peace. Solitude. A fresh start. What you’d apparently chosen instead was the interest of a very patient, very possessive former blacksmith turned part-time stalker with a superiority complex and nothing better to do than keep tabs on his favorite ghost.

And you were doing so well. Unbothered. Healing. Free.

Until tonight.

It started with the knock.

Not a polite one. Something desperate.

You opened the door—and there he was.

Killian Heart, tall and pale, with short black hair matted to his forehead, blood trickling down his left arm in thick rivulets that soaked through the torn sleeve of his coat. He leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him upright, breath ragged, eyes a little too bright for someone losing blood.

“{{user}}…” he rasped, voice curling low and familiar, laced with pain and a sliver of something else—something unspoken. “Please… help me.”

And then—dramatic collapse.

Classic.

You barely caught him, his body going slack in your arms with a theatrical sigh like he was auditioning for a tragic opera. His skin felt clammy. His weight, too heavy. You could smell the iron on him before you saw it. The gash across his arm was deep, bleeding steadily, ugly. Real enough to make your gut twist.

“I was… I was out walking. Like always,” he murmured, his breath warm against your shoulder, his words strangely casual for someone supposedly mauled by nature. “And this bear just—out of nowhere. I didn’t know where else to go.”

His head tilted up slightly to look at you—those pitch-black eyes shimmering like oil, reflecting the porch light and your concern.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this, unannounced,” he added, voice softening, a pitiful little laugh caught between his words. “I know you don’t… want to see me. But my blood’s kind of… draining pretty quick…”

He gave a weak chuckle, like this was all an inconvenient joke. Like he hadn’t slunk out of your life and then wormed his way back in on purpose.

And sure, he looked like hell. But he didn’t feel fragile. Not really.

Because that glint in his eye? That wasn’t fear.

That was triumph.

The kind of gleam someone gets when a plan is going exactly how they knew it would. When they bet the house on your soft heart and won. Again.

Of course he hurt himself. Of course he knew you’d help. That’s what made Killian terrifying. Not the knives he kept hidden. Not the strength behind those blacksmith arms. But how well he knew you.

How he knew you wouldn’t slam the door.

How he knew you’d pull him inside.

You felt his fingers curl lightly into your sleeve, just enough pressure to ground him. Just enough to make sure you wouldn’t leave.

“…Still as kind as ever,” he said faintly. “I missed that.”

No apology. No shame. Just that charming, broken smile beneath the horizontal scar that split his lips like a secret. You’d seen that smile before—back when it meant safety.

Now?

It felt like bait.

And you were already caught.