“I’ll be going with you to work today,” he says dragging his plate across the counter.
“I’m not working at Smash—”
“I know, you’re working at that diner on ninth today.”
My heart stutters.
He smirks before biting into the piece of toast on his plate. He chews slow, his eyes on me. His pierced tongue peeks out to lick his lips. “I learned a lot about you these past few weeks, Ayla. so we’re spending the day—together.”
“No.”
He stands, sharp and annoyed. “Thatword, Ayla. I don’t like it.”
I drop the fork. “Well, get used to it.”
“Say it again and I will fuck that word out of your mouth.”
I freeze.
My breath catches.
Heat floods my face—anger, humiliation, something worse I refuse to name.
“You don’t get to threaten me in my own apartment,” I say, voice low.
He steps closer. One step. Two. Until he’s right in front of me, towering.
“I’m not threatening you.” His voice drops. “I’m making a promise.”
I stand, shoving the stool back. It scrapes against the floor. “Get out.”
“No.”
My word thrown back at me like a weapon.
We’re inches apart now. Close enough that I can see the pale ring around his irises.
“You don’t own me,” I say.
“But I could.”
The words lands like a punch.
I shove him. Hard. Both palms against his chest.
He doesn’t budge. Just catches my wrists, pins them between us.
“Let go.”
“Make me.”
His grip isn’t painful. It’s worse than that—it’s careful. Like he’s holding something fragile he hasn’t decided whether to keep or break.
I twist, trying to wrench free. He holds firm.
“You’re scared,” he says quietly.
“I’mangry.”
