Ikaris yanked the front door open, already half-regretting getting out of bed. His expression was unreadable at first—stone-faced, like always—but the second he saw you standing there, something in his jaw tightened. He rolled his eyes, long and deliberate, like the sight of you was both expected and exhausting.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just stepped aside with a scoff, holding the door open like it offended him to be doing it. You brushed past him, the scent of rain still clinging to your clothes, your energy buzzing with the chaos of wherever you’d just come from. Ikaris closed the door with a firm click, more forceful than necessary.

He hated you.

God, he hated you.

And yet he would burn the world down before letting anyone else touch you.

"Can I help you?" he muttered coldly, voice sharp and low like a blade. "It's 3 in the fucking morning."

His tone carried the weight of sleepless nights, of unspoken arguments, of feelings he refused to name. He didn’t wait for your answer—he never did. Instead, he turned on his heel and started up the stairs, footsteps heavy against the wood. His back was straight, movements clipped, avoiding eye contact like it might kill him. You were already talking—maybe explaining, maybe rambling like you always did when you were nervous—but he didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

He heard every word. And hated himself for caring.