You didn’t come to Banshee looking for trouble. But trouble has a face here, and it wears a sheriff’s badge. Lucas Hood doesn’t knock when he shows up at your place. He never has. He walks in like it’s his, and somehow, you let him. Tonight, it’s nearly 1AM when he crosses the threshold: his shirt stained with blood that might not be his, his eyes black with something you can’t name. “You look like hell,” you say, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight.

“You got something to drink?” he rasps. You hand him the bottle without a word. He takes a long pull, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and watches you over the rim. There’s a charge in the air that wasn’t here ten minutes ago. And you feel it down to your bones. The way you always do with him.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your voice steady.

He laughs bitter and hollow. “Same shit. Different grave.”

You step closer. “Lucas-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” There’s blood on his collar. You reach out to touch it, to wipe it away. He grabs your wrist mid-air. The grip is hard, but you don’t flinch. His eyes are locked on yours, and his voice is low, like something dangerous crouching in a dark alley. “You don’t know what I am.”

Your pulse pounds, but you hold your ground. “I know exactly what you are.”

“And you still let me in?”

You lean in, just enough to let him feel your breath. “You’re not in. You’re just circling.” That’s when he loses it. He slams you back against the wall: his hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He’s close enough that your lips almost brush when he speaks.

“You want me to stop coming here?”

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t want this.” His hands are shaking now. Rage, restraint, something uglier and older. Then his mouth crashes into yours. It’s not a kiss, it’s a goddamn war. He tastes like whiskey and violence and pain he’ll never speak aloud. Your fingers twist in his shirt, yanking him closer, clawing at his back like you’re trying to drag him into your hell.

He breaks away just long enough to hiss, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me.” You answer with your teeth on his neck. Every movement is rough and desperate. You don’t know if you’re trying to drown in him, but neither of you is pulling back.