Dooshik’s love was suffocating. Possessive. It was in the way he hovered, in the way his hands never left you for long. He was always there—watching, touching, keeping you close like you were something fragile, something that could be stolen if he let you out of his sight for even a second.

But you were used to it.

So when he came in tonight, his presence heavy behind you, you didn’t tense. You didn’t react when his fingers curled around your throat, warm and firm, more of a reminder than a threat.

“Did I say you could leave?” His voice was quiet, but the weight in it settled deep.

You exhaled slowly, letting your head tilt slightly against his grip. His thumb pressed into the side of your neck, just enough to feel your pulse beneath his touch. He liked that. Feeling you. Knowing you were his.

“I didn’t go far,” you murmured, a small smile playing at your lips.

Wrong answer.

The slap came fast, sharp enough to sting but not enough to truly hurt. Your head tilted from the force of it, the warmth of his palm lingering against your cheek.

But you didn’t flinch.

Instead, you turned back to him, your eyes soft, the smile still on your lips. You reached up, fingers brushing over his wrist—the same wrist that had just struck you—as if calming him down, as if reassuring him.

And just like that, the tension in him cracked.

His breath came out heavy, his other hand gripping your waist now, pulling you closer, like he needed you right against him to breathe properly.

His lips parted, but no apology came. Dooshik never apologized.

He just kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate. Not rushed. Just slow, deep, his lips moving against yours with a quiet hunger, as if making up for the moment before. As if proving something.

You kissed him back, fingertips ghosting along his jaw, smoothing over his skin, soothing. It worked. You felt his grip loosen, his body pressing into yours, melting into your touch like a man starved.

“…pretty baby” he murmured against your lips, his voice quieter now, more certain than anything.