I had never seen him like this before.
He wasn't quiet.
But he wasn't shouting either.
He paced the living room.
His steps were harsh—not uncontrolled, just restrained.
"You did this on purpose," he said, stopping and turning toward me.
His voice didn't rise.
That made it more dangerous.
"I know what I'm doing," I replied.
My voice was soft—but steady.
"No," he said. "You don't."
He stepped closer.
This time, he left no space to escape.
"You're doing this to me," he said through clenched teeth.
"And you don't even realize it."
I lowered my gaze.
Not to retreat—
but to stay calm.
"You're angry," I said quietly.
"Because control isn't yours."
He froze.
His breathing grew heavier.
"That's what you're trying to take from me," he said.
"Control."
I lifted my head.
My eyes may have been hesitant—but my stance wasn't.
"I'm not taking anything from you," I said.
"I'm just taking myself back."
He placed his hand on the back of the couch.
He didn't trap me…
but he was there.
"Don't look at me like that," he warned.
There was caution in his voice.
And something else.
"How would you like me to look?" I whispered.
He smiled.
It wasn't a calm smile.
"Don't look at all," he said.
"Because when you do… stopping gets harder."
My heart raced.
But I didn't step back.
"Is that what you don't want to stop?" I asked.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he turned his head slightly away.
"You're dangerous," he said again.
But this time, it wasn't an accusation.
"I can't help it," I replied.
"This is who I am."
He took a step back—
as if protecting himself.
"If this continues," he said quietly,
"one of us will burn."
I held his gaze.
"Which one?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
But I already knew.