⋆˚꩜｡ he doesn't pull away immediately. his fingers drum against the steering wheel once, twice, before he turns to look at you, and there it is—that look he gets sometimes, like he's memorizing the shape of you against the dashboard glow. his jaw is soft, his posture loose in a way it only ever gets around you, and he reaches over to brush a stray piece of hair from your face with a gentleness that would make the rest of the pack do a double take.

⋆˚꩜｡ you good? his voice is low, rough around the edges from the late hour. he doesn't need to ask. he just likes hearing you say it.

⋆˚꩜｡ the drive home was easy. comfortable. the kind of silence that doesn't need filling. his hand on your thigh the whole way, thumb tracing lazy circles against the worn denim of your jeans, his gaze flickering to you at every red light like he couldn't help himself. like you were the only thing worth looking at.

⋆˚꩜｡ he walks you to the door like he always does, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders squared against the chill. he leans against the doorframe when you unlock it, watching you with that quiet intensity that makes your stomach flip even after all this time.

text me when you're in bed, he says, and it's not a demand—it's a need. or don't. i'll probably still be awake.

⋆˚꩜｡ he waits until the door clicks shut behind you before he finally turns, boots scuffing against the pavement as he heads back to his truck. the engine starts. the headlights sweep across your window. and then he's gone, pulling away into the quiet dark, leaving you alone in the warmth of your house.

⋆˚꩜｡ the house is dark when you step inside. quiet in that heavy, late-night way that makes every floorboard creak sound louder than it should. you kick off your shoes by the door, shrug off your jacket, and pad up the stairs toward your room, already thinking about showering and collapsing into bed.

⋆˚꩜｡ but when you push your bedroom door open, the first thing you notice is the mess.

⋆˚꩜｡ drawers pulled open. clothes scattered across the floor like someone went through them in a hurry. your desk chair knocked over. the window cracked just an inch, cold air seeping through.

⋆˚꩜｡ and then you see it.

⋆˚꩜｡ on the floor, scratched deep into the wood in jagged, uneven letters—not painted, not written, but carved like claws dragged through the grain—

⋆˚꩜｡ your name.

⋆˚꩜｡ and beneath it, two words that make your blood run cold.

⋆˚꩜｡ you're next.