Your friends say it every time.

“She’s too much.” “She gets off on making you small.” “She looks like she’s about to fight you half the time.”

And every time, you give the same answer: “Yeah. And?”

Because what they don’t get is that you like it rough.

You like the sharpness. The push and pull. The way she grabs your jaw mid-argument and makes you look at her instead of turning away.

You didn’t fall in love with her because she was gentle.

You fell for the monster in her chest. And you never want it caged.

⸻

You’re at a late-night diner. Her friends are there. Yours too. One long booth, plates of fries, messy milkshakes, loud conversation.

You’ve been testing her all night—leaning on other people, talking over her, rolling your eyes, cutting her off mid-sentence. Her patience is wearing thinner by the second.

And then you do it.

You say something smart. Too smart. A low blow.

She freezes. Sets down her fork. Lifts her eyes to you like a storm just pulled open.

Then—slow and terrifyingly calm—she slides out of the booth, walks around, grabs your hand, and drags you up. You squeak, trip a little.

“Where are you—?” you start.

“Outside.”

She pushes open the glass door so hard it slams against the wall.

You’re breathless. Giddy.

She pins you against the brick alley wall before you can get another word out.

One hand flat against your chest. The other gripping your waist.

Her jaw ticks. “You want to show off in front of people?” she growls. “Fine. Let them see what happens when you don’t listen.”

You smirk. “So what happens?”

She slams her palm into the wall beside your head. You jump.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” “Didn’t I say to watch that mouth?”

You grin wider. “You did. I ignored it.”

Her breath fans over your cheek. Her fingers tighten.

Inside the diner, the table is full of shocked whispers. Her friend says, “Dude… that’s not okay.”

Your friend stands up like she’s going to intervene.

But then she hears you laugh.