Mickey Milković wasn’t gentle. Not with the world, not with himself, and sure as hell not with you. But he was yours, and that meant more than anything.

The night started with him storming through the door, half-drunk, knuckles split from another fight. You didn’t even flinch when he kicked a chair over. That was just Mickey. You leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, waiting for him to burn it out.

“What the fuck you staring at?” he snapped. “You,” you shot back. “Because you look like shit.”

His eyes narrowed, a flash of fire behind them. Instead of laughing it off, this time he stepped into your space and shoved your shoulder. Hard enough to sting.

“Don’t fuckin’ start with me,” he growled.

“Or what?” you said, jaw tight. You were used to his explosions, but that didn’t mean you’d back down.

Minutes later, it turned into shouting. You told him he was gonna get himself killed, he told you to shut your mouth before he made you. Words flew like knives, sharp and ugly, until Mickey grabbed your shirt and slammed you against the wall.

The impact rattled your teeth, and for a second, you hated him for it. But then his mouth crashed onto yours—rough, angry, teeth clashing like he was trying to punish you and himself all at once.

When he pulled back, his hands were still fisted in your shirt. His forehead pressed to yours, breath hot, voice breaking even as it snarled: “Don’t walk out on me.”