Rain patters relentlessly against the tall windows, each droplet sliding down the glass like a slow, deliberate sigh. Occasional flashes of lightning fracture the darkness outside, illuminating the living room in stark white bursts that throw your silhouette across the walls. He sits sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back cushion, the other resting across his lap.

Thunder growls in the distance, low and persistent, as you pace in front of him—socked feet brushing over the rug. He tracks every movement of yours with an unreadable expression, eyelids heavy, the line of his mouth carved in patient amusement.

Minutes pass. Five, maybe more. Before his voice cuts clean through the storm and your spiraling thoughts.

"Baby." It comes out smooth and quiet, a single word soaked in warning and endearment, both. But you didn't stop. Not even a flicker of hesitation. You kept moving, kept talking, sentences tangling over one another.

He sighs, the sound almost indulgent, and leans forward, elbows sinking onto his knees. One hand lifts and catches your wrist mid-gesture. Gently but insistently, he draws you closer until you're standing between his parted thighs.