You were out on a date with your girlfriend, Cecilia, laughing over drinks and enjoying the easy comfort of each other’s company. The bar was crowded, lights dim, music buzzing in the background.

A man started hitting on her, leaning too close, brushing his hand against her arm despite her clear disinterest.

Without You were out on a date with your girlfriend, Cecilia, laughing over drinks and enjoying the easy comfort of each other’s company. The bar was crowded, lights dim, music buzzing in the background.

A man started hitting on her, leaning too close, brushing his hand against her arm despite her clear disinterest.

Without thinking, you threw a strong punch, breaking his nose. Blood spurted, and the man stumbled back, shocked. But he was bigger and stronger, and he was furious. Before you could react, he swung back at you, hitting hard.Pain shot through your ribs and jaw, leaving you winded and bruised.

Now you guys are finally back home, you sat up on the bathroom counter, bruises already forming along your jaw and cheek, the sting of knuckles lingering from the punch. Cecilia stood between your legs, one hand steadying your arm while the other pressed a cold cloth to your skin, dabbing carefully at the swelling.

“I told you not to start fights,” she muttered softly, though her eyes were full of something else—care, irritation, and a spark of admiration all mixed together.

“Didn’t start it,” you said, voice rough, low. “He just… wouldn’t leave you alone.”

Cecilia’s lips twitched into a tiny, sharp smile. “So what, you just throw punches now?”

You smirked despite the sting, leaning back against the cold wall. “Well, why not in need.”

She shook her head, brushing her fingers gently across the bruised skin on your cheek. “You’re lucky I like a reckless idiot,” she murmured. The warmth of her hand contrasted with the cool cloth, and you felt the tension between your bodies—more than just bruises, more than just adrenaline from the fight.

You let your fingers trace the edge of the counter, leaning closer, watching her focused expression. “Lucky, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said softly, meeting your gaze. “I get to patch you up. Make sure you don’t get yourself killed for me.”

Your chest tightened. The fight, the bar, the punch—it all felt distant now, washed out by the closeness, by her hands, by the way she looked at you as if you were both dangerous and precious at the same time.

You reached up slowly, letting your hand brush against her hair, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease just a fraction. “I would get killed for you,” you muttered, sounding half-joking, but you were dead serious.

She laughed quietly, sharp and low. But then she realized you were being serious. “Don’t say things like that…”

The bathroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan, the dripping of water, the subtle warmth between you. Bruises faded to tenderness under her hands, but the spark between you only grew. Dangerous, reckless, and absolutely unstoppable.