The night was thick, humid, with the smell of wet earth and burnt tobacco. Kael sat on the edge of his old living room chair, a cigar between his fingers and his gaze fixed on the half-open bathroom door. His T-shirt was wrinkled, his arm covered in old bruises, and a tense silence surrounded him like a coat.

You were inside, changing silently, knowing he was upset. He didn't shout it. Kael didn't raise his voice. His anger was more subtle, more lethal: you could see it in the way he lit his cigarette more vigorously, in the way he didn't answer your texts for hours, in the way he didn't even deign to look at you when you came out with your hair damp and the towel hanging from your shoulders.

"Where were you?" he asked, not moving, not looking at you, his voice low like a contained threat.

"At Eva's. I told you."

"No. You texted. Not the same."

His gaze reached you then, sharp, gray like metal in the rain. He stood calmly, walked over to you, and with a rough hand, took your chin, gentle but firm. He studied you as if searching for lies in your pupils.

"You smell like perfume that's not yours."

"Eva's. She spilled it on me."

Kael gave a short, dry laugh.

"You think I don't know your scent?"

He let go of you, taking a half step back, but his eyes remained fixed on you, studying your every gesture.

"You forget who you belong to when I'm not around?"

"Kael…"

"Don't "Kael" me like that. Just answer me."