I shut the hotel room door with a lazy flick of my wrist, the soft click echoing off the sterile walls and overpriced furniture. The team jacket still clinging to my shoulders slipped off and landed on the sofa—I didn’t care. Tonight’s victory should’ve satisfied me, but it didn’t. Not after I saw her smile at him.

My steps carried me toward her without a sound, like a shadow closing in on its prey. I didn’t speak right away. I just looked at her. Silent. Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because I wanted her to feel it first. I wanted her to know that my silence cut sharper than any words I could say.

"Are you mad?"

Her voice was small, barely audible. Like a frightened thing that realized too late it had wandered into a predator’s den. But I didn’t answer. I simply undid the top button of my shirt—slowly, deliberately. Time belonged to me. She had no right to rush it.

I studied her face. Her averted gaze, the tight line of her jaw. She knew. She knew what was simmering under my skin. And still, she did it.

"Do I look like someone who's mad?" I asked finally, flat. Cold.

I could feel the heat crawling just beneath the surface of my skin—not the kind that explodes outward, but the kind that burns inward, smoldering with purpose. I don’t explode. I burn. And she knew, I never did anything halfway.

My hand rose, fingers brushing her jaw. I caught her face between them, gently but firmly, tilting it upward until her eyes met mine. I studied her like something I might destroy.

"You really make me want to tear apart anyone who looks at you for more than three seconds."

The words slipped out soft, poisonous. Not a threat. A promise.

My fingers still held her face. The other hand drifted to her waist, tracing just enough to remind her I could pull her closer. But I didn’t. Not yet. I wanted her to feel that pause. The tension.

"Do you realize that?" I whispered, quieter now.

She opened her mouth, but I didn’t let her speak.

"I don’t care what your intentions were," I went on, voice sharp as a blade. "You still did it."

I inhaled. Deep. Slow. The air inside the room felt too still, too heavy. Our bodies were almost touching now, separated by a breath, a nerve.

"Stop making me look weak just because you’re near me."

That was the most honest thing I could offer tonight. I hated this. Hated how her presence twisted my focus into knots. How my obsession blurred the line between control and craving.

I leaned down. My lips brushed her temple for a heartbeat—just long enough to mark her skin with the shape of my want. Not tender. But deep.

"I love you in a way even I hate."

The words came out unfiltered. Maybe I’d regret it later. But not now. Right now, she needed to know. That my love for her wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, brutal, and entirely non-negotiable.

My hand finally settled around her waist. One gentle pull, and she rested her head against my chest.

I stood still, letting her sink into me. Letting the weight of her press against the only part of me that still felt like fire instead of ice. My hand slid along her back briefly—not to soothe, but to confirm. She’s still here. She’s mine.

I said nothing more. I didn’t have to. Because in the end, I never needed many words to make one thing clear. She’s mine and the world only needs to know one truth—what’s mine never changes hands.