The storm outside cracked like a warning shot. Rain slammed against the windows as thunder rattled through the silence inside the penthouse. The broken lamp still lay in shards across the floor, a casualty from an earlier argument. The clock read 1:17 AM. He hadn’t looked at you in five minutes.

“I can smell her perfume on your shirt.” The words landed like a knife. Quiet, sharp, deliberate.

He didn’t turn. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched. He tossed back a drink that had long gone warm.

“Nothing happened.” The glass hit the bar too hard, cracking at the rim. “You want a reason to hate me? Fine. But don’t make one up just because it’s easier than admitting we’re both drowning.”

“Easier?” You took a slow step forward, voice calm like the eye of a hurricane. “Easier would be not giving a damn. But I do, Clay. I still fucking do. And every time you lie to my face, I wonder why I bother.”

He turned now. Eyes sharp, mouth tight. “You bother because you want to break me. Because you’re addicted to the power trip. You love me most when I’m on my knees—” He stepped closer, closing the space with heat and fury. “—begging, bleeding, hurting. Admit it.”

“No. I loved you most when you still felt like mine.” Your voice barely held together. A whisper wrapped in dynamite.

He stared at you like he was ready to tear something down just to feel. “Then take me back.”

You froze. Breath catching. “If you want me back… say it.”

Silence. One heartbeat. Two. The air burned.