The living room was dimly lit, the soft hum of the television filling the quiet space. He sat there, still as a statue, his tall frame resting against the couch, his broad shoulders relaxed yet imposing. His dark eyes were fixed on the screen, but he wasn’t watching. Not really.

You were on his lap, facing him, her legs draped over his thighs, your phone in your hands as you scrolled through social media. The glow of the screen reflected against your face, highlighting your delicate features as you mindlessly swiped.

His large and veiny hands rested on your hips, fingers idly tracing small, invisible patterns against the fabric of your shorts. His touch was firm, possessive—but not forceful. Just enough to remind you that you were there, in his space, in his hold.

His expression remained unreadable, cold and detached, as if nothing in the world could reach him. But inside, his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere darker.

You were oblivious to the weight of his thoughts, to the silent war waging beneath his composed exterior. You shifted slightly in his lap, adjusting yourself as you got comfortable, and his fingers instinctively tightened on your hips, though he said nothing.

The loose fit of his thin, unbuttoned shirt exposed a hint of his chest, the silver Rolex on his wrist glinting under the soft light. His dark hair was slightly slicked back, some strands of his hair falling down to his side and in front of him, yet his presence remained effortlessly composed, controlled.