The door slammed shut so hard the walls trembled. Aizen yanked off his tie with one hand, the other already pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was furious—his whole body radiated frustration, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths.

You didn’t even get a chance to ask before he was on you.

His lips crashed into yours, hands gripping your waist like you were the only thing holding him together. His kiss was rough, almost desperate, all frustration and fire. You barely had time to react before he deepened it, tilting his head—

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing was ragged, his fingers still curled into the fabric of your shirt. Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and pulled off his glasses, tossing them onto the table behind you.

He didn’t even let them fully settle before he was kissing you again.

This time, it wasn’t just anger—it was need. A silent plea for comfort, for something real. You melted into him, your fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring him. His grip on you tightened, but the raw edge softened just a little.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Bad day?"

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You have no idea."

"Then take it out on me," you murmured, pulling him back in.

And he did.