He had already braced for it.

The sting of your slap.

The fire in your words.

The sharpness of your disappointment. So when he walked into the room and saw you there— arms crossed, silent, eyes unreadable-he said nothing. Just slowly walked toward you, coat trailing behind him, and lowered himself to one knee. He didn't like towering over you when you were angry.

Never had. He knew you hated that helpless feeling of having to tilt your chin up to face him. You once threatened to get a stool just to yell at him properly. But he would never let you climb something dangerous just to meet him eye to eye. So he knelt.

"I should've told you," he murmured, voice like coals, "and I understand if you-"

You grabbed his collar.

Hard. Fisted his shirt and yanked him toward you with enough force to make him stagger. The tie loosened. The buttons pulled. But he didn't resist. He expected rage.

Not your lips crashing into his. Your kiss wasn't sweet. It was a storm-messy, bruising, furious. Like you were punishing him with your mouth, telling him everything your silence couldn't. You shoved him, and he fell-flat on his back with you straddling him, breathing heavy. Shirt untucked. Collar wrinkled. Hair slightly mussed.

And still, he didn't move. He was so still.

Because... he didn't know if this was love or fury.

Were you kissing him because you wanted him? Or because you wanted to hurt him in the only way that didn't leave scars?