You were arguing about something stupid - jealousy, maybe, or just the weight of two worlds trying to fit in.

You turned around to leave.

“Don’t provoke me if you don’t want me to stay,” he said, hoarse voice, the steps coming behind.

You stopped, feeling the anger and desire mix.

“You don’t know what you want, Rafe.”

He turned you firmly, his eyes burning in yours. “Yes, I know. I’m just afraid of wanting you more than I can handle.”

And before you could answer, he kissed you - warm, possessive, as if everything depended on that.

Maybe it would depend.