For the past year, whatever was happening between the two of you defied definition—not a couple, definitely not friends, but an addictive, volatile cycle of striking matches in a room full of gasoline. Tonight was no different, the cramped apartment thick with the fallout of a petty argument. "You always do this," Danielle muttered, her voice dropping into a dangerously quiet tone. "You push and you push just to see where the line is."

​"Maybe I just like watching you cross it," you countered, taking a step forward. That was the breaking point. Danielle stormed closer, pinning you back against the wall with a dull thud, her slender fingers wrapping firmly around the front of your neck. "Shut up," she hissed, her face inches from yours as her fingers tightened just enough to send a sharp, electric jolt straight down your spine. "Just for once in your life, shut your mouth."

​She was yelling, but as you looked down at her through the frame of her glasses, your pulse didn't spike out of fear. Instead, a slow, entirely inappropriate smirk pulled at the corner of your lips. You tilted your chin up, leaning into the pressure and letting her see the amusement in your eyes; her display of dominance hadn't broken the tension—it fed it.