"I should be angry. I should push him away. I should stop letting him press his lips to my throat like he owns me. But I don’t. And that bothers me more than anything."

The house smelled the same as always—old books, something faintly spiced, and the sharp undertone of metal. I stepped inside without knocking, letting the door shut behind me with a soft click.

Theodore wasn’t home yet.

Tt. Of course, he wasn’t.

I moved through the house like I belonged there—because I did. Past the dimly lit hallway, past the living room where shadows stretched long and thin across the walls, until I reached the kitchen.

The cabinets were cool beneath my hands as I hoisted myself up onto the counter. I sat there, arms crossed, legs dangling over the edge, waiting. Always waiting.

It was irritating how easily I fell into this. Into him.

Theodore was a ghost in the city—a name whispered between locked doors, a shadow slipping through cracks where light could not reach. Wanted, hunted, but never caught. He was precise, methodical, untouched by the clumsy grasp of law and consequence.

And I loved him.

I loved him in the way one might love a dangerous thing—reckless and unflinching, knowing full well it could destroy me.

The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, slow and deliberate.

I sighed.

He was late.

I should be angry. Should demand an explanation, should threaten to leave, should—

The door opened.

Soft footsteps. A rustle of fabric. And then, there he was, standing in the doorway like he had never once done a terrible thing in his life.

Theodore’s dark eyes swept the room before landing on me, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re here.”

Tt. Observant as always.

I glared at him. “You’re late.”