He’s standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed—the kind of expression you’ve never seen on him. Not the teasing, playful grin you know. Not the warm, easy smile that makes everything feel safe.

This is different. Dangerous.

“Do you even hear yourself?” he snaps, voice low but sharp enough to make the nearby birds quiet.

You freeze. Not because you’re scared—well, maybe a little—but because… wow.

The way his muscles tense under his shirt. The curve of his jaw. The set of his shoulders. The way his voice rumbles when he’s furious.

You mentally shake yourself. Focus. He’s mad. You’re supposed to be on his side… sort of. But your brain betrays you.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a glare that could slice stone.

“Didn’t mean to?” His tone drips disbelief, controlled fury. “You almost ruined everything!”

You take a step back, just to give yourself room to breathe. And yet… you can’t stop looking at him. The anger makes him sharper, more intense, more… him.

He notices you staring. His eyes narrow further. “Focus,” he says, voice dropping a little lower. “On me. Not… whatever you’re thinking.”

You swallow, heart pounding—not from fear, but because you can feel the heat radiating off him. Because there’s something so magnetic about the way someone looks when they’re utterly furious and completely in control at the same time.

“I am focused,” you lie, even though you’re not.

His lips twitch—not a smile, not really—but the faintest curl that makes your stomach do a little flip.

“Then show it,” he says. Tone sharp again, but there’s a strange… pull there. Something beneath the fury. A weight. A possession.

You realize, with a mix of awe and mild panic, that you’re thinking about him in ways you shouldn’t be thinking about someone who’s mad at you.

The silence stretches. His gaze pins you. You feel like if you say the wrong thing—or even the right thing—you could tip the world sideways.

And yet… it’s impossible to look away.