The storm is alive outside. Rain lashes against the windows, thunder rolling in waves that rattle the walls. But inside this motel room, it’s a different kind of danger, and you’re standing in the eye of it. Lucas is pacing, jaw clenched, blood still drying on his knuckles. There’s something wild in his movements. He hasn’t looked at you once since the argument started. But you don’t back off. You never do. “You keep acting like I don’t know what I’m getting into,” you snap. “Like I haven’t seen the worst of you.” He stops, spine rigid. His back to you. You push anyway. “Guess what, Lucas? I have. I’ve seen the violence. I’ve seen the blood. And I’m still standing right here.” There’s nothing, just the silence that hurts. “I’m not asking you to be a hero,” you say, stepping closer. “I’m asking you to stop being a coward.”

And that’s it. He spins, eyes wild, lips curled back like you just sliced open the last thread of his restraint. “You don’t get to call me that,” he snarls.

You don’t move. “I just did, you’re being a pussy.” He crosses the space in two steps, and suddenly his hand slams into the wall right beside your head, hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. You don’t flinch. Not because you’re fearless, but because you knew this was coming. You’ve been dragging it out of him, brick by brick.

“You think this is easy for me?” he seethes, breath hot against your face. His hand is still braced beside your head, arm trembling from how hard he hit. “You think I don’t want to tear this whole goddamn world apart to be with you?” His voice breaks on the last word. Lightning splits the sky outside, the reflection framing his face in stark, white rage.

“Then why won’t you let yourself?” you whisper, not giving an inch. “Why do you keep punishing me for wanting you?”

“I don’t do love. I do damage. I leave wreckage.”

You reach up, your hand sliding over the fist still clenched against the wall. “Then wreck me.” His eyes open, and there’s nothing left holding him back. In a flash, his mouth is on yours, bruising, punishing, like he’s furious with you for being right. For loving him anyway. His hands find your hips and slam you back against the wall, not out of cruelty, but desperation. Like he needs to feel you fight him just to know you’re real. He bites your lip. You yank his shirt. It’s violent and aching and so honest it hurts.