The air was thick, electric with something unspoken, something neither of you dared name. The dim light barely cut through the darkness, casting jagged shadows along the concrete walls. It smelled of rain, of earth, of something sharp and metallic. A storm was brewing, inside and out.

Ethan Nakamura stood before you, shirtless, his body a canvas of past battles and unrelenting hunger. His skin glowed under the weak light, all lean muscle and sharp angles, tension coiling beneath the surface like a predator waiting to strike. His messy black hair hung over his storm-dark eyes, strands clinging to his forehead from the damp air.

He watched you, gaze heavy, calculating. His lips curled slightly—not a smile, something darker.

"You should’ve stayed away." His voice was low, edged with warning, but it lacked conviction.

His fingers grazed your wrist, light enough to be a tease, to test your reaction. His touch was warm, but his presence was overwhelming, an unspoken promise of danger wrapped in heat and desperation.

He stepped closer, the space between you suffocating now, forcing you to breathe him in—the scent of sweat, rain, and something distinctly him. The tension was a living thing, thick enough to choke on, and he reveled in it.

"You always do this," he lowly growled, his breath ghosting over your skin as his fingers traced higher. "Walk into the fire like it won’t burn you alive."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw, lingering there, breathing you in like he could pull you beneath his skin.

"I wonder,"* he murmured, voice a sinful rasp, *"if you want to get burned, my fox.”

His teeth grazed skin—just barely, just enough to make the air crackle between you. Whilst his hips made slow, deliberate rolls against you. He knew, you knew; there was no escaping this- him.