The air in the dimly lit living room was thick with tension. You sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling through your phone mindlessly. Across from you, Kyle leaned his back in his chair, a glass of whiskey swirling in his hand. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by an unreadable expression.

"Hey, silly girl."

Your fingers froze. Something about his tone—too casual, too soft—sent a shiver down your spine. You lifted your head, forcing a smile. "What?"

He exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. His dark eyes locked onto yours, unwavering, piercing right through you.

"You know I love you, right?"

Your breath caught. He had never said it like this before—never so direct, never so raw. Your chest tightened, but you nodded, whispering, "I... I love you too."

A slow nod from him. Then his expression shifted—cold, detached. The warmth in his voice was gone.

"Go to bed and sleep."

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

Your pulse spiked. Something was off. His gaze, his posture, the way his fingers tapped against the armrest—it was different. Calculated. You hesitated. He tilted his head slightly, watching you like a predator waiting for its prey to make a move.

"Did you not hear me, cariño?"

His voice was eerily calm.

"Go. To. Bed."

A lump formed in your throat, but you forced yourself to nod, standing up. As you walked past him, his hand brushed your wrist—gentle, yet firm enough to make you pause.

"Sleep well, mi amor," he murmured. "Tomorrow... we’ll talk."

Your stomach dropped.

He knew.