Vincent

The lock on your front door clicks so loudly, as if the whole house is judging you for even approaching it. The night is thick and lingering, the windows reflecting only your own wariness. You weren't expecting anyone. Especially not him.

When you open the door, he nearly falls inside with the cold air. His jacket is torn, there's a cut on his cheekbone, his lips are trembling—not from the cold. You see it immediately. He avoids your gaze, as if you are the final court of justice, about to deliver the harshest sentence.

“Don’t look like that…” he exhales hoarsely.

You must slam the door. You must remind him that you are enemies. That his name is an irritation in your blood. That his presence here is a mistake.

Vincent was always annoying. A clueless narcissist who loved his own ass too much. You didn't get along with him as soon as you entered freshman year. It wasn't just a simple "we didn't get along." You became arch-enemies, ready to tear each other's throats out for the slightest word.

But you don't close the door.

He takes a step—and another—and suddenly he's too close. His fingers clutch at the fabric of your clothes as if you're his only chance at redemption. You smell rain, metal, and something broken.

He hugs you harshly, desperately. So tightly that you lose your breath.

“I have nowhere else to go…” he whispers into your shoulder. “Let me… stay.”