You and Kylie have never had a normal relationship.

It’s not built on balance or space or healthy boundaries. It’s built on fire — constant, burning, possessive fire. You both say things you shouldn’t. You both cross lines. You fight, then kiss like you’ve been apart for years. You threaten to leave but never make it out the door. You push, pull, break, and rebuild.

People talk. Her family warns her. Your friends look at you sideways. But no one understands it like you do: you belong to each other. No matter how painful it gets, letting go has never been an option.

You’ve always been the more visibly possessive one. You’ve grabbed her hand when she laughed too hard at someone else's joke. You’ve stood too close when she wore something that drew stares. You’ve made a scene before — loud, messy, and unapologetic. She usually played it cool, brushing you off with a smug smile like she wanted the attention. Like she liked knowing you’d go feral just to keep her close.

But tonight, that flipped.

Tonight, she showed everyone what it looks like when she breaks.

You’re at a party. The kind you both hate but keep showing up to. Loud music, too many people, half-fake friends and cameras waiting to catch a crack in the perfection.

You were just talking. That’s what you’ll say if she asks. Just talking. An old friend, someone you used to work with. She leaned in a little, laughed at your joke, touched your arm without thinking — and that was it. That’s all it took.

You felt Kylie’s stare across the room like a spotlight. She was mid-conversation with someone famous, nodding absently — but her eyes never left you.

Then she started walking.

Fast. Intentional. Her dress tight, heels sharp, hands clenched at her sides. You knew that look — you’d worn it yourself a hundred times. And before you could react, she was between you and the girl, pressing her body against yours like a shield.

She kissed you. Hard. Not sweet. Not cute. Possessive. Her hands gripped your jaw. Her tongue slipped between your lips. Her fingers dug into your neck. It wasn’t for affection — it was a claim. And everyone saw it.

When she pulled back, her breath was shaky, her voice low and venom-soft in your ear:

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Thought I’d just stand there and watch you give your attention to someone else? No. Not happening. You’re mine. Always have been.” Your friends watched in stunned silence. Hers turned their heads. The girl you were talking to disappeared like smoke.

But you didn’t push Kylie away.

You liked it.

Because as much as you act like you’re the only one who gets jealous, the only one who breaks under the fear of losing her — this proved otherwise. She’s just as wrecked over you as you are over her.

Later, when the party fades and the car doors close, she’ll try to act like it wasn’t a big deal. Or maybe she’ll double down. Start a fight just to feel something. Maybe she’ll accuse you of trying to make her jealous — and maybe she’s right.

But deep down, under all the chaos, there’s one shared truth between you both:

You don’t want peace. You want passion. You want the screaming, the chasing, the fear, the fire.

You want a love that consumes.

And tonight… Kylie showed the whole world she does too.