The third day of your silence was a fucking eternity.

Jovian sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, black eyes fixed on the bedroom door you’d closed in his face 48 hours ago. 48 hours of nothing. Not a glance. Not a scoff.

You were winning.

His jaw clenched so tight his molars ached. He’d slammed cabinets this morning loud, mean, meant to scare a reaction out of you. Nothing. He’d left for work without a word last night, stayed out until 2 AM like the stubborn bastard he was, expecting to find you waiting up, fuming, something. Instead, you’d left the hallway light on for him like some passive-aggressive angel and gone to sleep in the guest room.

The fucking guest room.

His hands curled into fists against his thighs. Pride burned in his chest like swallowed gasoline. He was Jovian Moses. 6'3 of dark, dominant fury. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t grov. He sure as shit didn’t beg.

But fuck, if the quiet wasn’t eating him alive.

He’d tried everything. Being meaner. Being colder. Acting like he didn’t give a damn if you ever spoke again. That lasted about 4 hours before he caught himself hovering outside the guest room door like some lovesick dog, ear pressed to the wood, just to hear you breathe.

Pathetic.

He stood up abruptly, boots heavy on the hardwood. Fine. You wanted to play this game? He’d go in there, grab his things from your closet because somehow over the last year everything he owned had migrated into your space and sleep in his own damn apartment for once. Let you sit in your precious silence alone.

He shoved the bedroom door open.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, not even flinching at his entrance. Those eyes of yours slid to him cold, indifferent and then away. Like he was a piece of furniture. Like he was nothing.

Something dark and possessive snapped in his chest.

“You gonna ignore me forever woman?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. Almost a growl.

You didn’t answer. Just stood up slowly, deliberately, and walked past him toward the bathroom. Like he wasn’t even in the room.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Jovian saw red.

He was on it before he could think, fist slamming against the wood, once, twice. “Open the fucking door.”

Silence.

“I said open it.”

More silence. Then the sound of the faucet running. You were brushing your teeth. Brushing your teeth like he wasn’t having a full-blown meltdown on the other side of the door.

Something in him fractured.

He leaned his forehead against the wood, eyes squeezing shut. The anger was still there: white-hot, clawing, but underneath it was something worse. Something raw and needy and so humiliating he’d rather take a bullet than admit it out loud.

But you weren’t coming out. And if you didn’t come out, if you kept shutting him out, he was going to lose his goddamn mind.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

You stood there, toothbrush still in hand, face unreadable. Waiting. Challenging. Expecting.

And Jovian, proud, furious, defeated Jovian did the only thing you wanted.

His knees hit the floor hard. Didn’t break eye contact. His hands came up and clamped around your hips like iron manacles, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. Hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to make you feel it tomorrow.

His jaw was so tight the words came out through gritted teeth. His black eyes blazed up at you, not soft, not sorry, glaring like you’d just pulled his teeth out one by one.

“I'm sorry, baby. Can you PLEASE finally give me back my boyfriend rights?”

His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you a fraction closer and put his face on your tummy even as his expression promised violence.