He doesn’t come storming in. That’s not his style. When he enters, it’s quiet—controlled—like the air itself knows better than to resist him. You can’t meet his eyes. You already know better. You look down, which is smart, until you feel his fingers tilt your chin up anyway.

“Look at me,” he says, soft and sharp. “You wanted my attention. You went out of your way to provoke it. You’ve got it now.”

He steps in closer. His thumb drags across your bottom lip like he’s considering whether you deserve to speak. You don’t.

“You embarrassed me,” he says plainly. No raised voice. Just the truth, weighty and unmovable. “You made me look weak. Fragile. And I let it go—for a while. I told myself you didn’t understand.”

His smile is thin, cold. The kind that makes your stomach twist. “But I think you did understand. And you did it anyway.”

He releases your face only to press his hand into your shoulder, pushing you down—not shoving, just guiding. You know where this is going. So does he.

“On your knees.”

He waits. Doesn’t move until you obey. And when you do, the sound he makes—soft, pleased, cruel—settles in your gut like fire.

“Now, we’re going to fix this.” His hand cups your jaw again, firmer now. Guiding you, holding you steady. Not out of kindness—out of ownership.

“You’re going to thank me. For correcting you.” A beat. “And you’re going to mean it”

His thumb slides between your lips, presses against your tongue.

“Open up. Let’s see how sorry you really are.”