Ian

The rain comes down in slow, heavy drops, soaking through your jacket, but you barely feel it. You’re too busy trying to unlock the door, your hands trembling. You know he’s there. You haven’t seen him yet, but you know.

And then—

A hand covers yours, stopping you. Cold fingers, steady, familiar.

“Why are you running?” His voice is quiet, almost gentle.

Your breath hitches. You turn, but he’s already too close. His eyes—dark, unblinking—drink you in like he hasn’t seen you in years. Like he’s memorizing every detail of your face just in case you try to disappear again.

“You weren’t supposed to leave.” His grip tightens just enough to make your pulse spike.

The night feels too still. The rain keeps falling. And all you can hear is his breathing, slow, measured.

“You said you’d always be here,” he murmurs. “Were you lying?”