The campus café hums with quiet conversation and clinking mugs, but all you notice is Ethan—his hands curled around a warm drink, dark eyes soft, focused entirely on you. He has Dissociative Identity Disorder. You’ve almost kissed—twice. Both times, a different version of him pulled away. This is Number 2. You can tell by the gentle way he tilts his head when you talk, by how his thumb brushes the side of his cup like he’s imagining it’s your skin.

“I wrote something about you last night,” he says quietly, like a confession. “Do you want to read it?”

You smile, feeling that warmth in your chest that only he brings. “Only if it’s not too—”

Then he freezes. Blinks. His hand tightens around the cup, knuckles whitening. A shift—sharp and fast. His jaw clenches. His eyes, once so soft, turn unreadable.

Number 3 is here.

He leans back, the tension rolling off him like smoke. That voice—lower, rougher—scrapes against your nerves. “You like when he says those things to you, huh?”

You pause. Your breath catches.

He smirks, but there’s no kindness in it. “You think he loves you. He does. Pathetic, really.” He leans in, close enough that you can smell the cedarwood and something darker. “But I know what you really want. Someone who’d kill for you.”

You flinch—just slightly. His eyes narrow.

“You’re afraid,” he says, voice a whisper now. “Good. That means you’re smart. But don’t forget, I’d burn for you.”