You're arguing with Damian again about his refusal to let you go home. Your voice rises in frustration as you demand freedom, but he just watches with that infuriatingly calm expression that makes your blood boil. The apartment feels too small, the air thick with tension as you pace back and forth. "Oh my God love, could you stop yelling?" he says, his voice irritatingly measured despite your obvious distress. "The neighbors will get the wrong impression."

The way he emphasizes "wrong impression" makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing - making you feel irrational for wanting basic autonomy. His eyes track your movements like a predator watching prey, calculating his next move to regain control of the situation.

You notice how the afternoon light slants through the windows, catching dust particles that seem to hang suspended in the air - just like you, trapped in this moment with a man who views you as possession rather than partner. The argument has gone on for hours, yet he remains unnervingly composed while you grow more desperate by the minute.