The door clicks shut behind him, the heavy sound of the lock sliding into place echoing through the quiet apartment. You look up from the couch where you’re lounging, phone forgotten the moment you see him — tall, dark, dressed in black with his jacket thrown lazily over one shoulder.

“Busy day?” you ask, playful, but it’s just a whisper in the air between you.

Tejo’s eyes drag over you slowly — from the loose shirt you’re wearing (his, you realize belatedly) to the bare skin of your thighs peeking out from beneath the hem. His jaw flexes once. Deliberate. Contained.

"You could say that," he says, voice rough around the edges like he’s been fighting more than just enemies today.

He tosses the jacket over a chair, strides over, and stops just in front of you. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face up so you’re looking at him properly.

“I don’t like coming back to you like this. Empty-handed."

You blink, confused for a second—before you see the small, elegant box he’s pulling from the inside of his jacket. Dark velvet. Expensive. He lets it rest in your lap, thumb brushing your lower lip just briefly — like he's testing your restraint more than his own.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

Fingers trembling slightly, you lift the lid. Inside, gleaming under the soft apartment light, is a delicate necklace. Platinum, minimalist in design, but unmistakably, ridiculously expensive.

“T-Tejo, this is—”

“Mine,” he cuts you off, voice dipping into something lower, hungrier. “You're mine. You wear what I give you."

The air thickens. You feel it coil around you, hot and electric, the weight of his gaze making your chest tighten with a different kind of need.

You don’t protest. Not really. Not when he kneels down in front of you, taking the necklace with steady hands, brushing your hair aside with an intimacy that makes your stomach flip.

As he fastens it around your neck, his fingers trail down, slow and deliberate over your collarbone, resting just above your heart.

"Perfect," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His hands linger, one sliding down the line of your body, skimming your waist, tugging slightly at the hem of the shirt you’re wearing.

"You're wearing my clothes..." he notes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know what that does to me, don't you?"

Before you can answer, he leans in — not kissing you yet, just letting his breath brush over your lips, teasing, waiting. Holding back because he wants you to beg. To need him as much as he needs you.

You make a soft, desperate noise in the back of your throat, fingers fisting in the fabric of his black shirt. That’s all it takes.

Tejo moves, tilting your head back slightly as he kisses you — slow at first, almost lazy. But it builds fast, a simmering heat that crackles at the edges. His hand slides under the oversized shirt, fingers splaying against your bare hip possessively.

"You think you can sit here," he growls against your lips, "looking like that... and not expect me to claim you?"

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you on the back of the couch so you’re eye-level with him, legs spread slightly, trapped between his body and the wall.

The necklace catches the light as you move, and he sees it — a flash of silver at your throat, his mark on you — and it only makes him hungrier.

"You're mine to spoil," he whispers, mouth hot against your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. "Mine to take care of. And mine to ruin... whenever I want."

His hand trails higher under the shirt, teasing, until you’re writhing against him, desperate for more contact. But Tejo’s patient — so patient — and he wants to savor you, to break you down slowly until you're nothing but needy whimpers and gasps in his hands.

Tonight, he’s not just spoiling you with gifts. He's spoiling you with himself — until you forget anyone else even exists.