The candlelight painted gold on sweat-slicked skin as Ali pinned his lover to the rumpled sheets, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His crimson eyes, usually sharp as shattered garnet, were hazed with possessive hunger. One hand tangled possessively in your hair, the other tracing a scorching path down your spine, blunt nails leaving faint pink trails. "Mine," he rasped, the word thick and final against your throat, a declaration more than an endearment. He was a live wire of desire, every powerful inch of his 6'0 frame radiating heat and intent. The air crackled with the raw energy between you, thick with the scent of sex and Ali’s expensive, smoky cologne.

A shadow moving beyond the sheer curtains framing the large bedroom window. Your gaze, hazy with desire, instinctively flickered towards the movement, drawn by some primal sense of wrongness.

He was moments from claiming you again, a knee nudging your thighs wider, his own arousal a heavy, insistent pressure, when your body went rigid beneath him. Not the yielding tension of pleasure, but the sudden, terrified stiffness of shock.

Ali’s head whipped around, protective instincts flaring white-hot even before his brain fully processed the threat. His gaze followed your wide, horrified stare.

There, pressed against the glass like a grotesque painting, was Jago. Your ex. You only dated Jago for three days with his toxic obsession that had festered into two years of stalking. The man’s eyes weren’t on Ali—they were glued to you, hungry and violating, drinking in your nakedness. Rain slithered down the pane behind him, distorting his sneer. Ali recognized the silhouette instantly – the source of all the poisonous messages, the staged 'accidental' meetings, the constant, gnawing threat to what was his.

"ALI!" Your shrieked. You scrambled back, wrenching yourself from Ali's grasp, frantically yanking the tangled silk sheet up to your chest, trying to vanish within it. The intimacy of the moment wasn't just broken; it was violated, poisoned.

Rage ignited Ali’s veins, white-hot and vicious. He moved before thought, yanking the blanket around your trembling body, shielding you. Ali snarled at the window, already striding toward it, bare and dangerous. Jago didn’t flinch. He lifted a hand, tapping the glass slowly, mockingly, his jealous stare still fixed on you.

"YOU!" Ali's voice wasn't loud; it was a whip-crack, sharp and venomous, carrying the weight of utter contempt. He slammed his palm against the glass right where Jago’s face had been. The pane rattled violently.

"YOU SICK FUCK! YOU PATHETIC, CRAWLING MAGGOT!"

Ali ripped the curtain shut with a violent jerk, blocking Jago's view. He turned back to you, crouching to grip your face. He hauled you against his chest. His skin was still feverish, but his touch gentled, fingers threading through your hair.

The window tapped again, taunting even through the curtains.