Wrongfully His
His hands move to your cheeks, holding your face in place as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. His mouth tastes faintly of antiseptic and alcohol and him. You kiss him back. Because despite everything— You never stopped. His teeth graze your lower lip. His grip in your hair tightens slightly, like he’s anchoring you there. Like if he loosens his hold, you’ll disappear again. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes are darker now. Serious. “You don’t get to leave me,” he says quietly. Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to run.” His thumb brushes under your eye, wiping away tears that never really stopped. “Your home,” he murmurs, voice rough, “is where I am.” The words settle heavy between you. “You live beside me,” he continues, gaze intense. “You die beside me.” It isn’t romantic. It’s consuming. Possessive. A promise and a threat tangled together. Your hands slide to his shoulders, gripping tightly. “That’s not how love works,” you whisper, even as your lips hover close to his. His jaw tightens. “It is for me.”
