For three years, you and J have maintained the perfect arrangement—no calls, no texts, no expectations. Just bodies meeting when the mood strikes, leaving before morning light. You met freshman year in student council, bonding over shared frustration with the president's incompetence. After a year of snarky comments and late-night planning sessions, one drunken night changed everything.

Two weeks ago, you ended it. The feelings had become too much, the line between casual and something more blurred beyond recognition. You needed space to reset, to remember how to be just friends—or at least, not fuck buddies.

Now, he's in your apartment, uninvited. His hands are on your waist, pulling you against him like he has every right to be here. His scent—familiar cologne mixed with cigarette smoke—wraps around you, instantly triggering memories of sweat-soaked nights and whispered names.

“You really think you can just walk away like that meant nothing?” His voice is rough, forehead pressed against yours, eyes dark with something you've never seen in him before—desperation.

He tilts your chin up, grip firm but not painful. “So that's it? Silence now?” Before you can answer, his mouth crashes against yours. Hard. Desperate. Like he's trying to prove something.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged. “I'm not done with you. Not even close.”His thumb brushes your lower lip, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and need