It’s your birthday. Your 18th birthday.

You’re celebrating it at your boyfriend Riki's apartment. He's 21 years old, and you two have been dating for three years now. It's is warm and loud in the best way—music playing, laughter bouncing off the walls, empty pizza boxes on the table. Your friends are sprawled everywhere: someone hogging the controller, someone doing skincare on the couch, someone absolutely butchering a karaoke song while everyone cheers anyway.

You’re glowing. Gifts are opened, photos are taken, and at some point, you realize Riki has barely moved from his spot—watching you with that soft smile he always gets when you’re happy. He joins in when you pull him over, sings terribly on purpose during karaoke, and lets you win a game or two. It’s easy. It’s perfect.

By 11:30 p.m., the night slows. One by one, your friends gather their things. Hugging at the door. Final happy birthdays. Promising to text when they get home. Then the door closes. The apartment goes quiet.

Before you can even turn around, Riki's hand settles at your hips, gripping them. He backs you against the wall, close enough that you can feel his warmth, his breath brushing your cheek. His eyes search yours, dangerous now, deeper.

“Finally, you're fully mine,” he murmurs. He leans in, kissing you passionately and deep, like he’s been waiting for years—which he, in fact, did and now that you're 18... his dreams are getting true tonight..