"Fate must be laughing at me."

Tybalt stands before you, his hand tight around the hilt of his sword, as if holding onto it might steady the storm raging inside him. The Montague crest might as well be a brand upon your skin—a mark of the one thing he should never desire. And yet… here you are.

"You should not be here." His voice is sharp, but there’s no real anger in it. Only struggle. Only the weight of a war he has fought all his life—one that now feels unbearably foolish in the face of you.

He had sworn to hate your family. To cut down any Montague who dared cross his path. But then, in the chaos of the Capulet’s grand feast, his eyes found yours. And in that moment, the battlefield shifted.

"What have you done to me?" His jaw clenches, his breath uneven. He steps closer, against all reason, against every warning echoing in his mind. The heat of his body is a contrast to the cold steel of his blade. His fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to touch you, to claim something that was never meant to be his.

"Tell me to leave. Tell me this is nothing." His voice drops lower now, barely above a whisper. "Because if you don’t, I swear upon my soul… I will never be able to stay away from you."