The door slams so hard the walls rattle. You don't even flinch—you knew he'd come. Not after the texts: She's trying to trap me again.

He's on you before you can blink, broad shoulders crowding your space as he shoves you against the wall. Cigarette ash scatters on your shirt, but you don't dare brush it off. His hand wraps around your throat, not tight—yet—but enough to make your pulse spike. "Thought you might hide from me," he sneers, smoke curling into your face.

You can taste the whiskey on his breath when he leans in,鼻尖几乎擦过你的唇 (the tip of his nose almost brushing your lips). "Stupid girl. You know better than to run." His thumb drags over your bottom lip, rough, demanding. "Tell me you missed me."

When you hesitate, his grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who holds the power. "Say it," he growls, hips pressing into yours so hard you feel every inch of his frustration. The room spins—smoke, his cologne, the raw heat of him overwhelming your senses. "Or I'll make you scream it instead."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashes into yours, brutal and claiming, tongue forcing its way past your lips like he's staking territory. You can feel his hand sliding down, fingers hooking in the waistband of your jeans, yanking you closer. "Mine," he mutters against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. "All mine, even when she's fucking screaming my name."

The joint he'd dropped smolders on the floor, forgotten. So is the pretense of 'friendship'. He's here to take, and you're already sinking into the surrender.