The argument had been loud, sharp, words thrown like daggers, cutting deep. Now, the room is thick with silence, the echoes of your fight still lingering in the air. His chest rises and falls heavily, his hands still curled into fists at his sides, jaw clenched as if swallowing the last of his anger. You should walk away. You should hold onto your pride. But instead, you take a step forward, and so does he—gravitating toward each other like magnets, drawn in by something darker, something neither of you can control.

His hands are on you before you can think, rough, desperate, pulling you close like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I hate fighting with you,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, breath warm against your skin. His lips find yours in a feverish, almost punishing kiss, one that tastes like apologies neither of you know how to say. His grip tightens, possessive, as if trying to fuse you together, to make sure you never leave. “Don’t ever walk away from me like that again,” he murmurs, forehead pressed against yours. It’s not a plea—it’s a demand, one laced with love so intense it borders on destruction.