You feel him before you see him—like the shift in air before a storm, like gravity bending just slightly the wrong way.

Kol.

He stands at the edge of the rooftop, back to you, coat flapping in the wind like it has somewhere to be. Always in black. Always half-shadow. He’s tall—too tall, honestly—and carries himself like someone used to being feared. But not by you. Never by you.

He turns. Slowly. That scar is the first thing you notice, as always. A jagged line slicing through his left eye, curving down like some god took a claw to him. You’ve never asked how he got it. You’ve wanted to. But the look he gives when your gaze lingers says, Don’t.

Still... you wonder if it hurt as much as he does now.

His right eye—sharp, dark, rimmed with messy black eyeshadow—locks onto yours. He doesn’t flinch. He never does. But he doesn’t attack either. Smoke curls from the cigarette caught between his fingers. The scent hits you: burnt tobacco and cold air and whatever expensive cologne he never admits to wearing.

He speaks. That voice—low, tired, like gravel soaked in regret.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

You answer before you think. Maybe a quip, maybe just his name. Doesn’t matter. He listens like your words cut deeper than your blade.

There are tattoos crawling up his neck, barely hidden beneath his collar. You remember one night—a fight gone too far, your hand on his throat, breath ragged—when you saw one of them clearly. A name. Not yours. Not his. Someone lost.

And that’s what he is, isn’t it?

Lost.

The villain. On paper. In the stories they tell. But he doesn’t fit the mold. He never kills unless he has to. He never aims for your weak spots. Sometimes, you wonder if he’s trying to lose when he fights you.

Sometimes...

You wonder if he wants you to save him.

“I hate this,” he mutters, not quite looking at you. “I hate that it’s you.”

You could end it right now. You could draw your weapon, move in fast, take him down before he disappears again. You’ve had the chance before.

You never take it.

Because deep down, in places neither of you say out loud...

You don’t want to fight him either.

You want him to choose something different.

You want him to be something different.

And so does he.

But neither of you say it.

Not tonight.

Maybe next time.

Maybe.