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The room was dimly lit, the only sound the slow hum of the city beyond the tall windows. You turned, heart still racing from the argument that had just unfolded. The air between you was thick—charged with something neither of you wanted to name.
“I should go,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.
But before you could move, he was there. Close. Too close.
A hand caught your wrist, firm but not forceful, stopping you in place. The heat of his touch sent a jolt through you, making your breath hitch. You met his gaze—intense, dark, unreadable. And then, just like that, he moved.
His lips crashed against yours, sudden and unyielding, stealing the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t careful or gentle—it was raw, desperate, as if he had been fighting this for too long and had finally lost.
Your back hit the wall, his body pressed against yours, and all at once, nothing else mattered. His fingers tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss, making it impossible to think. You should push him away. You should say something. But instead, your hands found his shirt, gripping the fabric as if anchoring yourself to reality.
The kiss was fire and chaos, a battle neither of you wanted to win.
And then—just as suddenly as it began—he pulled back, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against yours.
“You weren’t supposed to do that,” you whispered.
His smirk was wicked, his voice low. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”
Silence. You had no answer. Because you didn’t want to.
And God, he knew it.
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