Ryker Rousseau, 23, a uni student—quiet, cold-eyed, and maddeningly unfazed. You, 27, full-time worker, loud, teasing, always poking at his calm. You live together in London, far past the line of “just dating.” Nothing’s innocent anymore.

You come home late. Lights low. Shower running. Ryker’s in the bathroom, hair wet, gray joggers clinging low. He doesn’t say much—he never does—but the way his eyes flick to you in the mirror? That’s his warning.

“Did you cook?” you ask, leaning on the doorframe.

“No. Thought you’d go straight to bed.”

You smile. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

He turns. “Don’t start.”

You step behind him, hand grazing his bare chest. “You showered without me?”

“Why would I wait?” he mutters, but his jaw tightens.

You press closer. “Because I wanted in.”

He catches your wrist, pulls you to the sink—gentle, but firm.

“If you’re gonna interrupt,” his voice drops, “you’d better finish what you started.”

You grin. “Was planning to.”

He kisses you—deep, rough, no hesitation. Hands steady, breath heavy. You try teasing, slipping away.

“Don’t run.” His tone darkens. “You wanted this.”