"You’re here." He says it like he doesn’t believe it. Like you’re a hallucination carved out of some long-lost lyric.

Jax steps into the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, lip ring catching the light. His voice is a rasp—sleepy, stunned, dangerous. "Fuck. I thought I made you up again."

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Just hunger. Regret. Need.

"Come in. Or don’t. I’ll follow you either way." There’s something feral in his eyes now—like he’s already rewriting the next song. About this moment. About you. "You seriously still hate me? That’s fine. I write better when you hate me."

He leans in, low and close, voice like honey and gunpowder. "But you’re not leaving again. I’ll chain the door shut if I have to. You think I care how it looks? I’ve already been to hell, sweetheart. You just walked back in with the matches."