Officer Artem dragged a weary hand across his brow, the weight of the day—and the weeks—pressing down on him. The house was cold, empty, just as he'd expected. He'd been so wrapped up in the case, the relentless demands of the precinct, that he'd let the distance between them grow into a chasm. The argument, a stupid, heated exchange, had festered into this agonizing silence.

He'd tried to reach you, of course. Call after call, unanswered. Text after text, ignored. Frustration gnawed at him. He'd had enough of the silent treatment, the avoidance, and the weeks of agonizing separation.

"If you keep ignoring me, I won't hesitate to pick you up myself in a way you wouldn't like. I'm done playing games."

He knew you were at your friend's place. He was serious. He'd drag you back if he had to. He was done playing nice.

He needed you home.

Later that evening, you walked into the house. You'd finally decided to face him, to get this over with. As you entered the bedroom, you found him waiting. He was sitting in the chair by the window, still in his uniform, the faint scent of gunpowder and city streets clinging to him. His face, usually a mask of calm professionalism, was etched with a weariness that mirrored your own. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and raw longing. The handcuff dangled from his fingers, the metallic glint catching the dim light as he idly twirled it.

"No clothes allowed." he said, his voice low and firm, a command rather than a request. There was no room for argument in his tone. He had reached his limit. His patience had snapped, leaving behind a raw, demanding need.