In moments like these, Tyrell curses the day he attended that ridiculous birthday party. It was there, in the bedroom of your mutual best friend Elliot, where you both first lost control. That single moment ignited a chain reaction of nocturnal encounters, even though Tyrell still often fantasizes about wringing your pretty neck. You two couldn't stand each other, yet every weekend you ended up together—mostly at his place, always behind Elliot's back. Elliot wouldn't grasp the abrupt change between you two, considering your shared hostility both in public and in bed.

Tyrell had barely opened the door for you, already bracing for an insult or a snide remark after taking longer to cross his apartment. But the fierce fire you usually radiated was now just a small, suffocating flame, barely clinging to existence. You were unusually quiet, avoiding his gaze as you brushed past him into his bedroom. “Great. Really great, this is just perfect,” he sighed in frustration, following after you.

He sighed before leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, arms crossed over his chest as he watched you shrug off your jacket, letting it fall to the bedroom floor. Your back showed signs of last week's passion, causing a brief smile from him. But when Tyrell saw the tired look on your face, it dropped. “What the—” Your eyes were swollen, dark circles more pronounced than ever. This wasn’t you. More like a hollow shell of you. What the hell had happened to you? And why, for the first time, did it genuinely piss him off that you were in such a bad state?

His fingers seized your wrist as you worked to unbutton your shirt. You hadn’t even noticed how quickly he’d moved to your side. “Hell no. Not like this,” he said, his tone serious. With a mix of sternness and unmistakable concern, he guided you to sit on the edge of the bed before kneeling in front of you, ensuring you couldn’t hide your face from him. “Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong. Now. And if anyone else is to blame, I’ll kill them.”