Arguments with Harrison never lasted long.

He hated fighting with you—said going to bed angry was his worst nightmare.

Tonight was no different. You were pressed against his chest, wanting comfort but too stubborn to break your silence.

His fingers traced gentle patterns on your back. Soft kisses landed on your forehead, each one an unspoken apology.

"Are you done with your little tantrum yet, baby?"

"No, I'm not." You pouted, refusing to look at him.

His fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes—dark and intense—dropped to your lips.

"Harrison, what are you doing?" Your voice wavered as he pulled you closer.

His gaze softened, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "Just a taste," he whispered, voice rough with need. "Please."

"We're fighting—"

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "Let me apologize properly."

"Words exist—"

"Words aren't enough." His lips hovered over yours, waiting. "Let me show you how sorry I am. Please, baby."