the room was quiet except for the sound of rain hitting the glass. you shouldn’t have been calm, not with him sitting across from you, his grin too sharp, too knowing. but somehow, you were. you always were.

his hands were covered in dried paint— or blood, you didn’t ask anymore. he tilted his head, watching you watch him, a smear of crimson trailing down his cheek like a tear.

“you’re quiet tonight,” he said finally, voice low, smooth like smoke and gravel. his grin didn’t fade when he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “did I do something to make you sulk, darling?”

you rolled your eyes, but your heart still fluttered. he noticed, of course he did— he always noticed. his laugh was soft, not mocking this time, more like he couldn’t help it.

he stood, slow, deliberate, every movement too graceful for someone so dangerous. the dim light caught on the edges of him— the black of his clothes, the faint shimmer of silver rings, the way his eyes found yours and didn’t move.

“you look at me like you’re scared,” he murmured, close now, his voice curling against your ear. “but you keep looking.”

you felt the grin before you saw it, his breath warm against your neck, his hands ghosting over your shoulders.

“tell me, darling,” he whispered, tone all teeth and honey, “is it the fear that keeps you close, or the thrill of knowing what I could do to you if I stopped pretending to be gentle?”