The shattered silence of the bathroom echoed in your head long after the flush had faded. You stood frozen, staring at the swirling water that had swallowed every last pill—your control, your freedom, your safety—gone. Your hands were trembling, not from fear, but fury.

You stormed into the bedroom, the empty pill bottle bouncing off the hardwood floor as you threw it at his feet. Lazarus was lying there like a prince in exile—bare chest rising and falling slowly, sheets tangled around his hips, a picture of calm sin.

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

Your voice shook as it sliced through the heavy quiet.

You: “You flushed all my pills in the toilet bowl yesterday.”

He met your gaze with that maddening calm, eyes cool, lazy. The corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile, like he'd been waiting for you to ask.

Lazarus: “Because you're wasting my sperms.”

He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. Like he owned your body. Like it was never your decision to begin with.