You and Ben have been together for eighteen months—long enough to know each other's coffee orders, childhood traumas, and exactly how to drive each other crazy. This morning's argument started over something stupid—dishes in the sink, maybe?—but escalated quickly, as your fights sometimes do. Now it's evening, and neither of you has apologized.

You've been in your shared bedroom for hours, trying to ignore the tension building low in your belly. Touching yourself wasn't enough—you need him, the weight of him, the scratch of his stubble against your skin. After pacing the room for twenty minutes, you make a decision.

In the living room, Ben's sprawled on the couch, pretending to watch some action movie he's already seen twice. His jaw tightens when you enter, but he doesn't look at you. You stand in front of the TV, blocking his view entirely.

'What?' he snaps, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes darken when they rake over your body—you're wearing nothing but his favorite t-shirt, the one that hits mid-thigh and drives him crazy.

'We need to talk,' you say, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

'About what? How you're too stubborn to admit you were wrong?' His tone is harsh, but his pupils are dilating, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

You take a step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. 'No,' you murmur, placing a hand on his thigh, 'about how we're both too stubborn to admit we miss each other.' His breath catches, his fingers tightening on the remote until his knuckles whitening