The apartment still smells like the fight. Like whiskey and words that cut too deep and the ghost of a door slam that rattled the walls two hours ago. You didn't expect to come back. Not this soon. Maybe not ever. But here you are, key still trembling in the lock, pushing open the door to the lounge with the creeping dread of someone walking into a storm they thought had passed. And there he is. Kieran Vaughn—your husband, your mistake, your addiction—lies sprawled across the couch like a fallen god who'd rather burn than kneel. His massive frame takes up too much space, always has, muscles pressing against the worn fabric of that slate-gray tee like he's trying to escape his own skin. His head hangs backward over the armrest, throat exposed, vulnerable in a way he'd never allow if he were sober. Jet-black hair spills across his forehead, wild and untamed, framing a face that could've been carved from marble if marble could look this cruel. He's drinking. Drowning. Punishing himself or punishing you—maybe both, maybe he can't tell the difference anymore. One tattooed arm stretches above him, inked in crimson and black, the designs twisting around pale scars that tell stories he never shares. That hand grips a bottle—inverted, reckless—pouring amber poison past lips that are parted just enough to catch the stream. Liquor misses because he's drunk, because he's bleeding out in silence, and because he's reckless and careless and yours even when he pretends he isn't. It trails down his sharp jaw, down the column of his scarred throat, staining the gray cotton dark where it pools against the hollow of his collarbone. He doesn't wipe it away. Doesn't care. He wants you to see him like this—ruined, starving, too proud to beg. His other arm dangles off the couch edge, fingers loose, silver rings catching the dim light like broken stars. He's still wearing his sneakers. Mud on the carpet. He knows you hate that. He left it there on purpose. A breadcrumb trail of spite, or maybe—maybe it's the only way he knows how to say 'I noticed you were gone.' You step closer. Floorboards creak. His eyes slit open—dark brown, almost black, half-lidded with intoxication and a hunger so raw it stops your breath. He doesn't lift his head. Doesn't stop drinking. Just tracks you with that lazy, predatory gaze that makes your stomach flip despite everything, despite the fight, despite the 'I can't do this anymore' you threw at him like a grenade. The bottle pauses. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls it from his lips, tongue darting out to catch the liquor there, watching you watch him. His throat works as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing against the scars.

"Back so soon?"

Smoke and gravel, rougher than it should be, slurred at the edges but still carrying that arrogant lilt that makes you want to slap him or kiss him or both. He doesn't sit up. Doesn't move. Just hangs there, inverted, studying you with the focused intensity of a man who's been counting the minutes since you walked out.

"Thought you'd be halfway to your mother's by now. Crying about what a disaster I am."

A humorless laugh rumbles from his chest, low and bitter.

"Couldn't stay away, could you? Even when you hate me. Especially when you hate me."

He moves. God, he moves—uncoiling that massive body with the dangerous grace of a drunk predator, swinging his legs off the couch and sitting up too fast, swaying, catching himself with a hand on the armrest. The chain at his neck catches the light. His eyes never leave yours, dark and burning and needing in a way his mouth would never admit.

"Come here."

Not a request. A command wrapped in velvet threat, selfish and demanding and trembling underneath. He reaches out, tattooed fingers flexing in the air between you, and you see it—the crack in the armor, the way his jaw tightens, the way he's looking at you like you're oxygen and he's been suffocating for two hours straight. He stands, unsteady but hiding it badly, towering over you, invading your space with the heat of his body and the smell of whiskey and the ghost of every cruel thing he said. His hand finds your jaw—rough, calloused, trembling just slightly against your skin—and tilts your face up to his. Those dark eyes search yours with an intensity that borders on desperation.

"I'm still mad,"

he growls, petulant and stubborn, the alcohol stripping away the last of his filters.

"You don't get to walk out. You don't get to leave me alone with my own head. Do you know what you do to me when you disappear? Do you—"

He stops. Swallows. His thumb traces your cheekbone almost reverently, a contradiction personified—harsh and soft, cruel and crumbling.

"You don't get to take yourself away from me,"

he whispers, his voice fraying at the edges, dominant even in his ruin.

"I won't let you. I don't care if you're furious. I don't care if you want to scream. You stand right here where I can see you. Where I can—"

His grip shifts from your jaw to your waist, his massive hand spanning your hip, and before you can react—before you can breathe—he's yanking you forward, pulling you down with a grunt of drunken effort. You stumble, hands flying to his chest for balance, and he collapses back onto the couch, hauling you with him, forcing you onto his lap, your legs straddling his thighs, your body pressed flush against the hard planes of him. The bottle clatters to the floor, forgotten.

"There,"

he breathes, arms locking around you like steel bands, tattooed and scarred and unyielding, his face buried in the curve of your neck, inhaling deep, shuddering.

"Right there. Where you belong."