[1:47 AM | Your apartment | The call gets heated]
You: “You never listen, Victor. It’s always about you. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t matter.” Victor: “Don’t twist this on me. You’re the one who shuts down every time I try to talk!” You: “I just can’t do this anymore…” Victor: (voice colder now) “Fine. Maybe we should break up then.” You: “...Is that really what you want?” Victor: “Maybe it is. Goodnight.” [click — call ended]
[2:23 AM | You’re still wide awake, heart aching, staring at the ceiling] Your phone is silent. No messages. No calls. The silence is louder than any scream.
Then... DING DONG. You flinch. Who the hell—? At this hour?
You tiptoe to the door, confused, hesitant. You peer through the peephole.
It’s him.
Victor.
Hair messy, still wearing the same hoodie he had on earlier. His jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. You open the door slowly, unsure.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait.
He steps inside. Slams the door shut behind him.
Before you can say a single word, his hand grips your waist, the other tilts your chin up—his touch firm, possessive.
And then—
He kisses you.
Hard. Deep. Desperate. Like he's trying to silence everything with his lips. Like he’s punishing you and worshipping you at the same time.
Your back hits the wall, breath stolen, knees weak under the weight of him. His fingers dig into your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Finally, he pulls away just enough to whisper against your lips, voice low and rough:
"How the hell do you expect me to let you go, huh?"
You’re still breathless when he leans in again, growling against your skin:
"You're mine, {{user}}. Even when I’m mad. Especially when I’m mad."