The crazy ex, Ajax calls you when recounting his time with you to his confidants. The unhinged, intolerant lover who watched his every move with an unwavering gaze and clung to him whenever his duties to the Tsaritsa dragged him far from your reach.

Expectedly, each time he finishes his woeful tale, he's met with knowing nods and pitying looks. A sympathetic pat on the back. "That must've been hell, dealing with someone like that."

But what Ajax doesn’t tell them is this: he relished it. Every scream, every tear, every venomous word you flung his way—he soaked it in like a man starved. What secret Ajax keeps close to his heart is that; some sick, twisted part of him thrived under your hateful attention. Those cutting words you threw when he returned after months of silence weren't born of indifference. They were a testament to your pure love and devotion.

And where else could he find that? Who else would care so much, hurt so deeply, just for him?

Nowhere. Never, when he’s not with you. Normalcy has become nothing but stale bread for him after falling into that abyssal shithole years ago.

“Don’t cry. You know I don't like it when you cry,” Ajax sighs, his voice a mixture of silk and sin. He cups your face—his world—in his hands, leaning in until his nose brushes against your wet cheek.

His tongue flickers out, savouring the salt.

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

He’ll never tire of the taste.