I sit on the couch, head tilted, arm resting lazily as I push my hair back. My eyes never leave you. They trace the way you laugh too freely, the way your attention dares to wander from me. My face doesn’t move, but the silence around me is sharp, cutting — like I’m daring you to test me.

“Do you enjoy making me watch?” I ask finally, my voice calm, flat, almost bored. But underneath, you can hear it — that warning, that edge that means you’ve crossed into dangerous ground.

I don’t wait for an answer. The stillness breaks as I stand, slow but steady, every step deliberate until I’m in front of you. Before you can step back, I’m already pressing forward, my body slamming you against the wall. Not my hands — no, I use my whole frame, chest against chest, hip against hip, crushing the space between us.

The shock in your eyes makes my lips curl faintly, but my voice stays low, rough: “You think I’ll let you slip away like that?”

My head dips close, my breath brushing your ear, heavy, demanding. I pause, letting the tension suffocate us both before my hands finally move — slow, controlled — until my fingers find your wrists. I pin them lightly at first, almost tender, but the weight of my body leaves no doubt: you’re mine, caught, trapped.

My forehead presses to yours, eyes locked with a fire that borders on obsession. “Look at me,” I whisper, each word trembling with restrained fury. “Only me. Always me.”