You met her through a mutual friend. She was older. Too serious. Cold as hell. You cracked a few jokes, she didn’t even blink.

But that night she backed you against the wall and whispered, “You need someone who’ll shut that mouth for you, don’t you?”

You’ve been getting tossed around ever since.

You love it. The manhandling. The threats under her breath. The public fights that turn into private bruises—none from harm, all from heat.

Your friends say she’s rough. Mean. Dangerous.

But they don’t see the way she tugs the blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep in the car. Or how she won’t raise her voice, ever, even when she’s pissed.

She doesn’t yell. She acts.

⸻

It’s her friend’s birthday party. Backyard, bonfire, beers, music low.

You’re being a menace. Stealing fries off her plate. Mocking the way she tells stories. Flirting with one of her friends just to watch her jaw tick.

“Can you not?” she mutters under her breath.

You smirk. “What’re you gonna do, wrestle me in the dirt?”

She doesn’t say anything. Just lights a cigarette.

Two minutes later, you’re trying to walk past her toward the cooler—too smug.

She sticks her boot out.

You trip. Full stumble into the grass.

A gasp from behind. Someone’s drink spills.

“What the hell?!” one of your friends snaps.

But you’re already laughing.

She just leans down with a low voice, deadpan: “Oops.”

You glare up at her. “You’re a dick.”

She shrugs. “You like it.”

And before anyone else can say a thing, she reaches down, grabs you by the arm, and hauls you up—fast, rough, possessive.

Not enough to hurt. Just enough to own you.

The second you’re close, her hand’s around the back of your neck.

Low enough so only you hear: “Keep actin’ up, baby. I’ll throw you over the fire pit next.”