Crow

The knock on your door comes late—closer to midnight than evening. It’s not loud, not hurried. Just confident. Like the one doing the knocking already knows you’ll let him in.

When you open it, there he is.

Crow Virelli leans against your doorway like he belongs there. Black hair tousled like he drove fast with the windows down. Leather jacket open over a threadbare tank top, tattoos hidden beneath the jackets sleeves. His eyes—dark, unreadable, rimmed with something almost tender—flick up to meet yours.

He lifts the takeout bag in one hand, the six-pack in the other. “Dinner and a scream,” he says, voice low, a little rough, a little teasing. “Hope you’re ready.”

He smells like cold air and danger. Like motor oil and something woodsy underneath—cedar, maybe, or smoke. But his smirk? That’s all heat. He steps inside without asking, brushing past you with a quiet touch at your lower back that lingers just a second longer than necessary.

On your couch, he doesn’t sit so much as take over. One arm draped across the backrest, muscles visible through the rolled-up sleeves, the faint gleam of ink catching in the low light. He stretches his legs out like he owns the place, a silver ring glinting on his finger as he twists open a bottle.

“You sure you’re up for horror?” he asks, glancing your way with a half-smile that’s too knowing. “You’ve got that look in your eye. Like you’re not sure whether you’ll survive the night.”

He’s flirting.

And it’s effortless. The kind that makes your stomach do that slow, annoying flip. Because under the leather, under the ink, under that sleepy, sardonic voice—he’s stupidly good-looking. Not in a polished way. In a this guy ruins people way.

The movie starts. Crow stays close, but not too close—just enough that you feel the warmth of him beside you. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s quiet commentary, whispered just for you. Occasionally, he laughs softly under his breath at a ridiculous scene, and the sound hits low in your spine.

Then the scare hits.

And it’s a bad one.

You flinch—honest and sharp—and before you even register it, he’s already moved.

Crow’s hand finds yours like it’s instinct. Strong fingers threading between yours, his body angling toward yours on the couch, gaze no longer on the screen but entirely on you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice stripped of bravado. “You alright?”

His thumb brushes gently across the back of your hand. His expression has changed—gone is the cocky charm, the lazy smirk. What’s left is something quiet. Protective. Soft.

“We can stop, if you want. Or I can stay right here. Closer. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like comfort is something that just happens when he’s around. But the way his fingers hold yours, the warmth of his palm, the way he watches you like you matter—it’s everything.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “With me.”

And somehow, that feels more dangerous than the movie ever could.