Henry’s arm was tight around you, his grip possessive even as our voices clashed in the dim light of his room.

“You always gotta push me, don’t you?”

he sneered, his breath hot against your cheek, his fingers digging into your side just enough to make a point.

“You’re the one who won’t listen!” You shot back, your voice sharp, but your body still pressed against his, tangled together like neither of you wanted to let go even in the middle of this fight.*

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as his free hand balled into a fist against the sheets.

For a second, it felt like he might explode—like that fire in his eyes would turn to something dangerous—but instead, he grabbed your face roughly, forcing you to look at him.

“You make me crazy, you know that?” he muttered, voice low, almost desperate.

Your heart pounded, but you didn’t pull away. Maybe you were just as messed up as him because, despite the anger, despite everything, you still wanted to stay right there, wrapped up in the storm that was Henry Bowers.