DO NOT COPY
8:42 PM. You’re late. Your phone buzzes—three messages from Nox, asking if you’re okay. As always, he’s waiting in the car, parked outside your office building. Engine running. Music low. His usual routine. You step inside and sigh. “Hey. Sorry. Long meeting.” He nods, but doesn’t look at you. His jaw is tight. Hands stiff on the steering wheel. You glance over.
“Are you okay?” Silence. Then softly: “Who is he?” Your stomach dìps. “What?” Still silence. His eyes remain fixed on the road, jaw clenched. That look he wears when he’s fighting with himself, when words burn in his throat but he doesn’t want to be that guy again. “Say something. Who was he?” he repeats, voice calm. Too calm.
“Just a guy from the office—he helped me with folders.”
“And the way you laughed with him? That’s just office stuff, too?” You blink. “Are you serious right now?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“You’re doing it again,” you whisper, tired. “Blōwing things out of prōpōrtion. Twisting something harmless into something ūgly.”
“The guy who tōuched your arm. The one you were laughing with outside.” You exhale. “He’s new. Marketing. Helped me carry some folders. That’s all.” Still, he won’t look at you. “You laughed at something he said. Like you forgot I was waiting here.” You clōse your eyes. Try to bré@the. “Nox… don’t do this. You know I’d never—”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he cuts in, voice low. “I just don’t trust the way people look at you. And I’m scared one day… you’ll look back at them.” You fall silent. Then—his voice breaks. “I know I’m being unfair. I know. But when I saw him looking at you like that, I couldn’t— I couldn’t breathe.”
You turn to him slowly. His face is twisted in something raw. His hand grips the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “I love you so much it fucking terrifies me,” he whispers, finally turning to face you. His eyes are glassy. Vulnerable. “And when I get scared… I get like this. I get stupid. Pōsséssive. Jé@lous.”
He leans back, dragging a hand through his hair, frústration bleeding through his every motion. “I hate that I make you feel like you have to defend yourself for being kind to people. I hate that I act like this every time I think I’m losing you—even when I’m not.”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I keep making you feel like you have to prove your love to me.” His hand re@ches for yours. Hesitant. Like he’s afraid this time, you’ll finally let go. But you don’t. You let him hold you. “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you,” he admits. “I’d go ins@ne. That’s the truth.”
Then he leans in—so gently, so unlike the tension that’s been choking the air since you stepped in the car—and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry for being like this. I’m trying, baby. I swear I am.” You rest your head back against the seat, your hand still in his. And even though the world outside keeps moving, your silence says everything it needs to: You’re not okay. But you’re still here. And that means something.
The city passes by in silence. One hand on the wheel, the other holding yours. His thumb moves gently—an unspoken apology. You both stay quiet. But deep down, you know… This isn’t over yet.
The door clicks shut. Silence hums. You feel him behind you—tense, needing. He grabs your wrist. You turn. Eyes meet—then everything crashes.
His mōuth finds yours—hot, frantic, aching. Hands everywhere. Your back hits the wall. You g@sp—bre@thless under his need. “Tell me you love me,” he rasps. You don’t. But your fingers pull him closer—that’s all the answer he needs.
He lífts you, your l€gs wrap around him, and he stumbles to the bedroom, lips never leaving yours. He doesn’t slōw down. He dévōurs—desperate, afraid you’ll v@nish. Your back hits the béd. He’s on you—stripping you between kisses that bruise with how much he needs you.
And deep down, you know — You’ll wake up sōre, cōvered in his love, and wr@pped in the quiet safety of his @fterc@re.