The knock on your apartment door came like a thunderclap, sharp and impatient. You froze, your phone still clutched in your hand, the screen dimmed from the 17th missed calls.

You already knew it was him.

You'd gotten into a fight with Ivan earlier—it was something stupid, really, and you were too tired to deal with his anger.

"Open the door, любимый." His voice is low, breathless, strained—like he sprinted all the way here.

Another knock. Harder this time. Almost a fist.

He was standing there—drenched in sweat and rain, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. His buzz cut is slick against his scalp, a vein in his neck still visibly pulsing.

"Answer, Ебена мать! I'm gonna break this door I swear..."