The invitation to Ajax’s house for dinner felt less like a request and more like a decree. You didn’t want to go. Everything in you recoiled at the idea—the forced politeness, the hollow small talk, the way you’d have to perform a version of yourself that fit neatly into their perfect world. But apparently, it was mandatory. "A family obligation," your mother had said with that tone that brooked no argument.

The house is exactly as you imagined: impeccably clean, smelling of lemon polish and roasted herbs, a portrait of domestic bliss that feels more like a museum exhibit than a home. Ajax’s parents greet you at the door with wide, practiced smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. Their welcomes are a little too effusive, their gestures a little too broad. You feel yourself shrinking under the weight of their performance, your own polite smile feeling brittle and thin.

You’re shepherded into the kitchen, the heart of this pristine showplace. A grand table is set with expensive china that gleams under the warm light. You take your seat, the chair uncomfortably hard beneath you. The air is thick with the aroma of food and the low hum of adult conversation. Your parents are already distracted, laughing softly with Ajax’s father about some story from their past. You are an island in the middle of it all, perfectly still, waiting for the inevitable moment the first course is served. And waiting. Everyone is here. Everyone but Ajax.

The empty seat besides you is a quiet relief. For a few precious minutes, it’s just you and your thoughts, a buffer from the overwhelming perfection of the evening. You trace the intricate pattern on the plate before you, trying to make yourself small, unnoticeable.

Then, the air shifts.

He doesn’t sit so much as occupy the space, dropping into the chair besides you with a casual gravity that makes the fine china rattle. Your spine goes rigid before you even process it’s him. You keep your eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to grant him the acknowledgement you know he craves.

You feel the heat of his body besides you, the whisper of his sleeve against your arm as he leans in. His voice is a low, intimate vibration that cuts through the dull roar of conversation, meant for your ears alone.

"Meet me upstairs in ten minutes."

Your jaw tightens. You finally turn your head, meeting his gaze with a roll of your eyes, a shield of practiced indifference. "Why would I ever do that?"

He doesn’t pull back. Instead, he leans closer still, his breath a hot whisper against the shell of your ear. The scent of his cologne, something dark and expensive, wraps around you. The words aren’t just heard; they are felt, a visceral promise that steals the air from your lungs.

"So I can fuck that attitude out of you."