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I looktheirs.

My throat tightens against the truth of it.

I drop my gaze, desperate for a distraction—and find it.

The counter is lined with products. Neatly, carefully. All my usual brands. All the things I love and use without even thinking. My lotion. My makeup. Even the specific brand of fucking eyeliner I hoard like a dragon.

Another hit, square to the chest.

My hands curl into fists against the marble, knuckles aching white.

I lift my head slowly, ready to snarl at my own reflection—But my breath catches in my throat.

Because in the mirror, behind me, isRuin.

Silent. Still.

I know it's him, because he is still masked. Still gloved. Still dressed in his perpetual black like a goddamn shadow that refuses to let me go.

He’s standing just inside the door, arms folded, watching me with that devastating, brutal patience that always feels like it’s peeling my skin back one layer at a time.

My pulse jackhammers in my throat.

I don’t turn. I don’t move.

I refuse. If he wants something—he can fucking come get it.

My muscles lock stubbornly, a silent dare in the set of my shoulders. I see his reflection—see the way he stands there, still as a storm just before it breaks. Waiting. Watching.

But I won't be the first to move.Not this time.

The seconds stretch, brittle and sharp, vibrating with too much meaning.

The tension between us hums, a livewire under my skin, sparking with every shallow breath I take.

I keep my chin high, my back stiff, my fists clenched white against the cool marble counter. I tell myself I’m not trembling. That the buzz under my skin is rage. Not anticipation.

And then—he moves.

Slow. Unhurried. Each step a deliberate act of control. A reminder that he doesn’t have to chase me anymore.

I’m already caught.

I watch him come closer through the mirror, the reflection sharpening with every step until he's right behind me—so close that the heat of his body prickles against the nearly bare skin the lingerie barely covers.

Still, he doesn’t touch me.

Instead, he cages me in—one hand braced on the marble either side of me, his body hemming me against the counter like he’s building a prison out of his own limbs. A prison I’m not sure I want to escape.

My chest rises and falls faster, lips parting around breath that suddenly feels too thick, too heavy to drag down.

I can’t see his eyes behind the glasses. But Ifeelhis gaze like a caress. We stare at each other, reflections locked. Neither speaking. Neither surrendering.

The air between us practically vibrates—dense, electric. I swear I can hear my own pulse pounding in my ears.

Finally—finally—he speaks.

Low. Raw. A voice like gravel and reverence braided into one devastating thing.