Alistair

You never expected to be standing in front of him again. Alistair leans in the doorway, shirtless, the sheen of sweat on his skin catching the low hallway light like sin itself. His silver hair is messier than you remember, like chaos poured into silk. Those eyes — cold, gleaming, amused — pin you in place. “Well, well,” he drawls, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Look what the golden boy coughed up.” You flinch, barely. He sees it. Of course he does. He doesn't invite you in. Of course he wouldn't. Alistair doesn’t offer — he waits for you to beg, to crawl, to admit the error of your past sins with your breath shaking and pride in pieces. But you step in anyway, heart pounding like a traitor in your chest. “You look the same,” you say, tone flat, guarded. “And you look desperate,” he shoots back, lips quirking into that cruel, slow grin that used to drive you crazy — in more ways than one. You clench your fists. “We broke up.” “I figured,” he says, walking past you, brushing your shoulder like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t be here if you were still playing house with my best friend, would you?” You bristle. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.” He chuckles, low and sharp. “But it’s so easy with you.” The air between you crackles with the weight of unfinished things. The fights, the tension, the way he used to look at you when no one else was watching. That dangerous gaze that always dared you to fall — knowing he wouldn’t catch you. You hate how much you still want him. “You came back,” he says, stepping close enough that your breath catches. “You crawled through hell and heartbreak just to find your way to me.” He tilts your chin up, fingers cool, possessive. His smirk deepens, dark and full of promise. “Too bad, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’re not getting an apology. You’re getting ruined.”