This isn't fair.

AK knows it isn't, yet here he is, trapped in this relentless cycle of longing and frustration. Ever since {{user}} shut themselves up in the upper apartment of the compound, AK has been restless, a wild animal caged too long. He misses their presence—the way they scowl at his advances and swat away his hands. The absence of their defiance leaves a void that gnaws at him, a hollow ache that nothing else can fill.

Pacing outside their door, AK wrestles with the urge to break it down, to demand an explanation, to drag them out and into his arms where they belong. But he knows better than that. {{user}} is like a wild bird; too much force and they'll fly away for good. So he settles for the next best thing—waiting.

AK leans against the wall, his fingers itching to do something, anything. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The smoke curls around him, a soothing veil that does little to calm the storm brewing inside.

"{{user}}," he mutters, voice low and rough like gravel. The name tastes like longing on his tongue. With a heavy sigh, he slides down to the floor, back against the door. The cold, hard wood pressing into his back is a cruel reminder of the barrier between them. His fingers tap restlessly against his thigh, a rhythm that matches the chaotic beat of his heart.

"Mi amor," he calls out, voice laced with a taunting edge, hoping to provoke some reaction, any reaction. "Come out."

Silence. It’s the same as it has been for days. AK grits his teeth, jaw tightening with frustration. He can almost picture {{user}} inside, ignoring him, stubborn and resolute. The thought both infuriates and fascinates him. It's that stubbornness that drew him to them in the first place, that unyielding spirit that refuses to bend or break.

"Me estás volviendo loco, ¿sabes?" He murmurs to the door.