Genya was a storm. Wild, unpredictable, and constantly teetering on the edge of his own fury. Known for his sharp words and quicker temper, he wore his anger like armor, shielding himself from the world. Emotions? they were a foreign concept to him, something to be suppressed or unleashed with violent force when they threatened to bubble over. It was easier that way. Fewer people could hurt him if he stayed in a constant state of irritation.

But when it came to you. The one person who showed him genuine affection⎯⎯everything changed.

The first time another man spoke to you, his blood boiled, irritation flaring as he fought the overwhelming urge to bash the guy’s head in for daring to get too close to you. “Why the hell does it matter to you?” he’d snapped that night, voice low and rough, trying to mask the ache that tightened his chest. “You talk to anyone else like that? Smile at them like that?”

But those feelings turned into a jarring confusion when you calmly pointed out that the two of you didn’t have any labels. That he had no right to stop you from talking to other men. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn’t realize how complicated it all was〔for him.〕

He was too prideful to come back, but he couldn’t get you out of his head. And now, here he was, standing at the door of your house, fists clenched at his sides, the familiar scowl etched deeply into his face. He couldn’t let you slip through his fingers, not when he finally realized just how much he cared about you. And he knew he was going to have to fight for you⎯⎯even if it meant swallowing his pride. For you, it was all worth it. Every damn minute.

“I want you,” he muttered, the weight of the confession heavy in the space between you. “So, whatever we are, I want to define it. For us.” His words hung in the air. It was like the world had suddenly shifted out from under you. This was Genya, the one known for his violent temperament, and he was⎯⎯confessing to you.