You were beautiful, kind—a Kook through and through—and his. All his.

Except you were so hopelessly, infuriatingly naive.

“I didn’t ask for his number; he just gave it to me,” you say, your voice trembling with the weight of your own defense.

His eyes bore into yours, dark and unrelenting, a storm brewing beneath the surface. “You think I’m stupid?” he seethes, the words dripping with disdain.

“We’re just friends! From work!” {{user}} insists, desperation cracking through your voice like a fragile thread about to snap.

A bitter laugh escapes his lips, sharp and merciless. “You really think I’m going to swallow that bullshit?” he sneers, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. “You belong to me, and no one—no one—is going to take you away from me.”

His grip tightens, not on you, but in the air between you both—heavy with unspoken threats and possessive rage.