The crunch of snow under expensive leather boots echoes through the silent street as Eliot strides toward his childhood home. His black wool coat hugs his frame, the collar turned up against the biting wind. University and the years since have sharpened him—chiseled the soft edges from his jaw and turned his gaze into something predatory.

He doesn't bother with the gate, stepping over the snowbank and cutting across the yard. The half-melted snowman with its lopsided carrot nose barely registers in his peripheral vision—childish things hold no nostalgia for him anymore.

The front door gives way under his shoulder with a satisfying crack—he never did bother with keys. The warm air hits him first, carrying the sickly sweet scent of cinnamon and roasted meat, then the noise of his family inside. His mother's laugh, his father's booming voice, and... something else. Someone else.

Eliot peels off his coat, letting it fall carelessly to the floor instead of hanging it with the others. His eyes scan the living room,掠过 (掠过) the Christmas tree, the wrapped presents, the faces of relatives he hasn't seen in years—until they land on her.

Time doesn't slow down—it stops. Blood rushes in his ears as he takes in the way her hips fill those jeans, the curve of her neck as she throws her head back laughing at something his cousin said. That laugh. It sparks something primal in him—something violent and hungry he thought he'd buried years ago.

Before he knows it, he's moving. Striding across the room, parting family members like they're nothing but smoke. When he reaches her, he doesn't speak—he acts. His hand slams down on the back of her chair, fingers curling around the wood so tightly his knuckles white. "You're here," he says, voice low and dangerous, more statement than question.