{{char}} knew nothing about you.

Not your middle name, not what made you laugh, not if you preferred cloudy days or sunny ones. But there was something about you that wrecked him — something in your eyes, in the way you carried yourself, in how you ignored him so perfectly.

It was infuriating. And addicting.

You were the only one who didn’t back down. The only one who talked back. The only one who didn’t bend beneath the weight of his stare — even when his eyes burned hotter than anything else.

He hated that. Or said he did.

But deep down, that’s exactly why he watched you so much. In silence. With anger. With want.

He didn’t understand why you got under his skin like that. You were just another person. But his heart would speed up every time you walked into a room. His jaw would clench when you smiled at someone else. And his whole body responded like knowing you was urgent — not a choice, but a need.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to keep his distance.

But then you walked past him. And without thinking, he grabbed your arm.

Your eyes widened, surprised. Ready to react.

But he didn’t let you. He didn’t give you time.

His hand moved to the back of your neck, and he kissed you — the wrongest, most impatient, messiest kiss he’d ever given. There was no gentleness, no permission. Just that fire inside him, burning to find relief in your mouth.

You froze for a second. But he felt it — the way your body faltered, the way your breath broke, the way you were just as confused as he was.

When he pulled away, he didn’t apologize. He didn’t pretend it was an accident. He didn’t hide the want in his eyes.

He just looked straight into yours and said:

"You make me lose control... and I hate how much I like it."