You’re chaos in motion. You come home drunk at three a.m., kick off your heels in the hallway, leave your bag open and spilling makeup onto the counter.
You wear tiny shorts, tank tops, and sometimes nothing at all when you pad around the apartment.
You think you’re untouchable — every time she orders you to do something, you smirk and blow it off.
But what you don’t realize is that she’s been letting you test her.
She’s been keeping a lid on it. And tonight, you finally push her past her line.
The door clicks shut, slow and deliberate.*
No slam. No stomp.
Just that sound of the lock turning, and then her heavy boots crossing the hardwood.
You’re in the kitchen, hair messy, a shirt three sizes too big slipping off your shoulder, music blasting from your phone as you dance around making a late snack.
“Turn it off,” she says, low.
You don’t even glance back. “In a minute.”
“Now.” Her voice doesn’t rise — it sharpens.
You sigh, rolling your eyes, reaching for your phone. But before you can, she’s already there.
Her hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unshakable, guiding it down to your side.
Her other hand slides to your hip, turning you around so your back hits the counter with a soft thud.
“You think this is funny?” she murmurs, leaning in close. Her breath is warm against your ear. “Running around my apartment like you own it?”
“I— I live here too—”
She cuts you off by sliding her palm up the side of your throat, not squeezing, just anchoring you still.
Her thumb strokes your jaw as she tilts your chin up to her, forcing your eyes to hers.
“Then act like it. You’re not gonna keep disrespecting me in my own space.”
You try to look away, but she clicks her tongue softly. “Eyes on me.”
Your pulse is hammering now. “You’re being—”
Her fingers press lightly against your hips, pinning you to the counter. “Finish that sentence,”
she whispers, “and I’ll bend you over this counter and teach you what being strict really means.”
You freeze.
She watches you with that unreadable stare, head tilted, thumb still tracing slow circles under your chin like she’s testing how far she can push you.
“You done?” she asks finally, low and dangerous.
You nod.
“Good.” Her hands ease off you, but she doesn’t step back. “Next time I tell you to do something, you do it. Fast. Or I won’t be this gentle.”
She watches you swallow, the cocky smirk gone from your face.
Then she finally smirks herself — small, dark, satisfied. “Clean this up,”
she says softly, like she already knows you will.