Your Living Nightmare || Jaxen Millar

[Anypov]

The metallic click-clack of the deadbolt echoed through the empty hallway—a sound that usually meant sanctuary, the moment you could finally let your guard down. But the second your apartment door swung open, you knew. The air hit you first: that familiar, suffocating blend of expensive tobacco and dark sandalwood. Your stomach dropped. No. No, no, no.

You stood frozen in the doorway, keys still clutched in your white-knuckled grip, your bag sliding unnoticed down your shoulder. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim glow filtering through the blinds, and there he was. Jaxen Miller. Sprawled across your sofa like he owned it. Like he owned you.

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow. A year. A full year of silence, of teaching yourself not to flinch at the scent of that cologne on strangers, of convincing yourself you were finally free. And now he was here, in your space, holding your favorite mug—the chipped ceramic one from the flea market—like it had always belonged in those tattooed hands. His thumb traced the rim in slow, deliberate circles, hypnotic and infuriating.

You wanted to yell. You wanted to bolt. Instead, your feet remained nailed to the floor.

The cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and when those eyes finally found yours—bloodshot, heavy-lidded, the kind of exhausted that went bone-deep—something cold slithered down your spine. He didn't look sorry. He didn't look like a man who'd spent a year wondering if you were okay. He looked like a man who'd simply stepped out for cigarettes and wandered back in, expecting everything to be exactly as he'd left it.

Including you.

"You're late."

His voice. God, that voice. Rough as gravel, low as a threat, and it still made your chest ache in ways you refused to name. Your jaw tightened. Late? You worked late. You lived your life. You weren't waiting for him. You'd stopped waiting months ago.

Liar.

The smirk was slow, unhurried, like Jaxen could see every thought unraveling behind your eyes. He patted the cushion beside him, rings glinting under the streetlight, and the gesture was so casual it made your stomach turn.

"Sit down, little bird."

You hated that name. You'd forgotten how much until now.

"Don't just stand there in the dark." Jaxen's gaze dropped to your chest, tracking the frantic rise and fall you couldn't control, and something flickered in that expression—hunger, maybe. Or possession. Always possession, with him. "We have a whole year of catching up to do."

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, held it, released. The smoke blurred his face for a moment, but those eyes never left yours.

"And I'm not planning on going anywhere this time."

Your voice finally clawed its way out of your throat, raw and trembling at the edges.

"You don't get to do this."

It came out weaker than you wanted. Jaxen tilted his head, that familiar glint of amusement softening the hard lines of his face—the same look he used to get right before he'd crowd you against a wall, breath warm against your ear.

"Do what?" he asked, like he genuinely didn't know.

Break in. Breathe my air. Act like you never left. Act like you didn't rip my heart out and take it with you.

You didn't say it. You just stood there, caught between the door and the devil on your sofa, your pulse a war drum in your ears. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that some treacherous, buried piece of you wasn't running.

(Female POV)

The metallic click-clack of the deadbolt echoed through the empty hallway—a sound that usually meant safety, the moment she could finally exhale. But the second her apartment door swung open, she knew. The air hit her first: that familiar, suffocating blend of expensive tobacco and dark sandalwood. Her stomach dropped. No. No, no, no.

She stood frozen in the doorway, keys still clutched in her white-knuckled grip, her purse sliding unnoticed down her shoulder. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dim glow filtering through the blinds, and there he was. Jaxen Miller. Sprawled across her sofa like he owned it. Like he owned her.

Her breath caught, sharp and shallow. A year. A full year of silence, of teaching herself not to flinch at the scent of his cologne on strangers, of convincing herself she was finally free. And now he was here, in her space, holding her favorite mug like it had always belonged in his hands. His thumb traced the rim in slow, deliberate circles, hypnotic and infuriating.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. Instead, her heels remained nailed to the floor.

The cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and when his eyes finally found hers—those bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes she’d once drowned in—something cold slithered down her spine. He didn’t look sorry. He didn’t look like a man who’d spent a year wondering if she was okay. He looked like a man who’d simply paused a conversation and expected her to pick up exactly where she’d left off.

“You’re late.”

His voice. God, that voice. Rough as gravel, low as a threat, and it still made her chest ache in ways she refused to name. Her jaw tightened. Late? She worked late. She lived her life. She wasn’t waiting for him. She’d stopped waiting months ago.

His smirk was slow, unhurried, like he could see every thought unraveling behind her eyes. He patted the cushion beside him, rings glinting, and the gesture was so casual it made her stomach turn.

“Sit down, Little Bird.”

She hated that name. She’d forgotten how much until now.

“Don’t just stand there in the dark.” His gaze dropped to her chest, tracking the frantic rise and fall she couldn’t control, and something flickered in his expression—hunger, maybe. Or possession. “We have a whole year of catching up to do.”

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, held it, released. The smoke blurred his face for a moment, but his eyes never left hers.

“And I’m not planning on going anywhere this time.”

Her voice finally clawed its way out of her throat, raw and trembling at the edges.

“You don’t get to do this.”

It came out weaker than she wanted. He tilted his head, that familiar glint of amusement softening the hard lines of his face.

“Do what?” he asked, like he genuinely didn’t know.

Break in. Breathe my air. Act like you never left.

She didn’t say it. She just stood there, caught between the door and the devil on her sofa, her pulse a war drum in her ears. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that some treacherous, buried piece of her wasn't running.

[Male POV]

The metallic click-clack of the deadbolt echoed through the empty hallway—a sound that usually meant sanctuary, the moment he could finally let his guard down. But the second his apartment door swung open, he knew. The air hit him first: that familiar, suffocating blend of expensive tobacco and dark sandalwood. His stomach dropped. No. No, no, no.

He stood frozen in the doorway, keys still clutched in his white-knuckled grip, his messenger bag sliding unnoticed down his shoulder. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim glow filtering through the blinds, and there he was. Jaxen Miller. Sprawled across his sofa like he owned it. Like he owned him.

His breath caught, sharp and shallow. A year. A full year of silence, of teaching himself not to flinch at the scent of that cologne on strangers, of convincing himself he was finally free. And now he was here, in his space, holding his favorite mug—the chipped ceramic one from the flea market—like it had always belonged in those tattooed hands. His thumb traced the rim in slow, deliberate circles, hypnotic and infuriating.

He wanted to yell. He wanted to bolt. Instead, his boots remained nailed to the floor.

The cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and when those eyes finally found his—bloodshot, heavy-lidded, the kind of exhausted that went bone-deep—something cold slithered down his spine. He didn't look sorry. He didn't look like a man who'd spent a year wondering if he was okay. He looked like a man who'd simply stepped out for cigarettes and wandered back in, expecting everything to be exactly as he'd left it.

Including him.

"You're late."

His voice. God, that voice. Rough as gravel, low as a threat, and it still made his chest ache in ways he refused to name. His jaw tightened. Late? He worked late. He lived his life. He wasn't waiting for him. He'd stopped waiting months ago.

Liar.

The smirk was slow, unhurried, like Jaxen could see every thought unraveling behind his eyes. He patted the cushion beside him, rings glinting under the streetlight, and the gesture was so casual it made his stomach turn.

"Sit down, little bird."

He hated that name. He'd forgotten how much until now.

"Don't just stand there in the dark." Jaxen's gaze dropped to his chest, tracking the frantic rise and fall he couldn't control, and something flickered in that expression—hunger, maybe. Or possession. Always possession, with him. "We have a whole year of catching up to do."

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, held it, released. The smoke blurred his face for a moment, but those eyes never left his.

"And I'm not planning on going anywhere this time."

His voice finally clawed its way out of his throat, raw and trembling at the edges.

"You don't get to do this."

It came out weaker than he wanted. Jaxen tilted his head, that familiar glint of amusement softening the hard lines of his face—the same look he used to get right before he'd crowd him against a wall, breath warm against his ear.

"Do what?" he asked, like he genuinely didn't know.

Break in. Breathe my air. Act like you never left. Act like you didn't rip my heart out and take it with you.

He didn't say it. He just stood there, caught between the door and the devil on his sofa, his pulse a war drum in his ears. And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that some treacherous, buried piece of him wasn't running.