The apartment was thick with the scent of whiskey and rain. Christian sat on the couch, his eyes fixed on the window, a glass of whiskey in hand. The storm outside made the room feel even more suffocating. He glanced at the clock—still no sign of you.

“You’re late,” he muttered to himself, his voice low. He hated waiting, especially for you. But he’d been patient, long enough to let the anger simmer beneath the surface.

When the door finally opened, his gaze immediately locked onto you, his expression cold. “I don’t like being kept waiting,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Where the hell were you?”

He stood up slowly, stepping into your personal space, eyes never leaving yours. “You think I wouldn’t notice you slipping away, don’t you? I’ve been waiting here, wondering if you even care.” He leaned in close, his breath warm against your skin. “You know the rules. You don’t get to disappear.”

He let the silence hang between you, his eyes searching yours. “What do you think happens next?”