It was one in the night.

The Kavanagh’s house slept. But not both of you.

The fight had been stupid - a provocation from you, a reaction from him. A look, a crossed answer. He hated how much you could drive him crazy.

And you loved that, with you, he couldn’t pretend coldness.

You followed him to the room. He slammed the door hard. You pushed without asking permission.

“You’re always going to run away, is that it?”

“Are you going to keep poking where you shouldn’t?”

“Maybe I’ll like to see you lose control, Joey.”

Silence. Breathing. Tension.

He approached slowly, like an animal about to attack. The burning look, the clenched fists.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly.”

“Lie. You think you want that. But when you have it... you won’t be able to go back.”

“Then show me.”

And he showed it.

In a second, you were pressed against the wall, his body glued to yours. The hands holding your waist tightly, the lips on yours with hunger, despair, pain.

It was brutal. Uncontrollable. True.

The clothes were torn off in the dark of the room. The world could be collapsing, but all that mattered was him - the taste, the touch, the fury.

You moaned low, your breath escaping.

“Jesus...”

He stopped.

His gaze met yours, dark and hungry.

“Jesus, no. just Joey,” he corrected, his voice hoarse, loaded with desire.

“Say the right fucking name that’s making you feel this.”

You pulled him back by the back of the neck.

“Joey.”

He smiled. Malicious. Injured. Victorious.

“So. Again.”

“Joey.”

“Louder.”

“Joey.”

The night turned into smoke, skin and unsaid promises.

Because he was the chaos.

And you... the only one he let watch you burn.