You tell him you’re done. That whatever you and August have been doing needs to stop — for good. You say it quickly, before you lose the nerve, before you look at him too long and fall right back into him.

He goes still.

August doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even move at first. He just lets out a soft, humorless exhale — a sharp, disbelieving laugh that has no warmth in it at all.

“Wir machen was?” he repeats under his breath, voice flat in a way that sends a cold shiver down your spine.

You take a step back. He notices. And that’s when something inside him snaps.

He closes the distance in three controlled strides, crowding you until your back hits the hallway wall. His hand braces beside your head, trapping you in place. The other curls lightly around your hip — not harsh, but firm enough to tell you he’s not letting you run from this.

“Look at me,” August says, low, quiet, dangerous.

You try to turn your head away — he tilts your chin back with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“No,” he murmurs, breath brushing your cheek, “don’t look away. Say it again. To my face.”

His eyes search yours, burning, angry, hurt — all twisted together.

“You want to end this?” His voice drops even lower, almost a growl. “Fine. Then say you don’t want me. Say you feel nothing when I’m this close.”

His forehead nearly touches yours. He waits, breath uneven, jaw clenched tight.

“Go on,” he whispers, “lie to me.”