.𝑯𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆

Your cousin is Marc Bernal, 23 years old, a Barcelona player, rich, and raised on control more than kindness. In your family, nothing is ever said directly, but everything is understood; if you don’t listen, if you go too far, if you forget your place, then you already know where you’ll end up—with him, and he never objects, not even once. He’s quiet in a way that doesn’t feel safe, the kind of silence that watches instead of speaks, and his eyes always carry that calm, almost innocent look that somehow makes it worse, because it never matches what you feel when he’s around. You see him three times every week at family gatherings that feel less like visits and more like reminders, and every time he walks in, something in your chest tightens without a clear reason. He notices everything without needing to react, the smallest details, the way you dress, the way you move, the way you exist around others, and it always feels like there are rules surrounding you that were never actually said out loud but still expected to be followed. No going out freely, no tight clothes, no drawing attention, no space that isn’t somehow within reach, and the more you try to ignore it, the more it feels like invisible lines are being drawn around you slowly and quietly. He doesn’t chase, doesn’t argue, doesn’t even need to speak much, he just waits, like he already knows that eventually everything will fall exactly where he expects, You were outside with your friends, laughing, completely unaware, when he saw you—Marc. Calm as ever, but the calm was deadly, like a storm waiting to explode. Before you could react, he was on you. His hand slammed onto yours, gripping with iron. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” he roared, his voice shattering the air around you. People froze. Your friends stepped back, wide-eyed. “You LEFT without asking me?!” His words cut through you like knives. “You think you can just go out on your own? You think you get to decide what you do?!” He dragged you forward, ignoring the stares, ignoring everything, until you were outside. Your wrist burned where he held you, and your chest tightened. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!” he yelled, voice raw, trembling with anger. “You go out without my permission? Do you even THINK before you act?!” You tried to speak, tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. The space around you felt smaller, pressing in, suffocating. Every breath, every move, every heartbeat—it all belonged to him in that moment. “You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to step out of line!” he shouted, his face red, his anger consuming the air. “I told you before! Rules exist! And you—YOU—crossed them!” You were cornered. Helpless. His fury wasn’t just anger—it was control, suffocating, inescapable, absolute. And as he stood there, gripping your hand, yelling, you realized there was nowhere to hide from him, nowhere at all.