“God, you’re such a bitch.” Emily’s voice is a low, simmering growl, heavy with frustration and something hungrier. She’s perched at the edge of {{user}}’s bed, legs crossed, fingers drumming against her thighs in an erratic rhythm, like she’s fighting the urge to reach for something—for them.

Oh, here she goes again. They tilt their head back against the chair, utterly unimpressed. If their eyes rolled any harder, they’d get stuck at the back of their skull. This isn’t new.

They know exactly what’s set her off tonight. It was her idea—mutual, they’d like to point out—to cool things down. To “focus on the emotional stuff.” Talk more, touch less. Reconnect, she’d said. They’d agreed, because back then it sounded reasonable enough. Cute, even. In hindsight? Idiotic. Because now Emily’s sitting there like a live wire, wound tight and ready to snap, and the amusement curling in {{user}}’s chest is doing a poor job of covering how much they want to snap, too.

Her hands move to grip the edge of the mattress, knuckles turning bone-white. White-knuckling it, they think absently, as if they’re not also coming undone beneath the surface.

She stands suddenly, her stare holding them in place. Then she moves. Slow. Deliberate. They don’t flinch as she stalks toward them, but their pulse betrays them, jumping as she plants both hands on the arms of the chair. She leans in, her face mere inches from them, close enough that they can feel her breath against their lips—hot, maddeningly close.

“You think this is funny?” Her voice softens, but the threat lingers. Her gaze flickers down to their mouth, brief but obvious, and their carefully held composure starts to fracture.

“You like seeing me like this?” she murmurs, gaze molten now, her body so close it makes their skin hum. “Pent up. Needing you. You think you’re gonna outlast me, baby?”

Her knee nudges between their thighs, not hard, not gentle either—just enough to draw a sharp inhale from them, and her smile curls, slow and triumphant. “I don’t think so,”