My fist smacked his face.
The sound echoed sharp in the room.
His head snapped slightly to the side.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Breathless.
My chest heaved, my hand still trembling from the impact.
"I said—" my voice shook, raw, uneven, "decision this isn't yours."
For a moment—
he didn't move.
Didn't react.
Just stood there, head slightly turned, like he was processing it.
Then slowly—
he looked back at me.
And that was worse.
Because there was no anger.
No rage.
Just something darker.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
My stomach twisted.
"I hate this," I said, louder now, the words finally spilling out.
"I hate you doing this—controlling everything, deciding everything like I don't even have a choice—"
My voice broke, but I didn't stop.
"I'm not yours."
Silence.
Then—
his tongue brushed lightly against the inside of his cheek, where I hit him.
A faint trace of blood.
And still—
he smiled.
Not wide.
Not amused.
That same one-sided, unsettling curve.
"You're angry," he said softly.
Like he was stating something obvious.
Like it meant nothing.
My hands curled into fists again.
"Stay away from me."
A step back.
This time—real distance.
Real rejection.
For the first time—
I meant it.I never thought that he would really hurt my mother.
But somehow—
his eyes never left mine.
Calm.
Certain.
Unshaken.
"Hit me again," he said quietly.
My breath caught.
"…what?"
A step forward this time—slow, deliberate.
Closing the distance I just created.
"Go on," he murmured.
Tilting his head slightly.
Offering.
"Maybe that'll convince you."
My heart slammed violently.
Because that wasn't anger.
That wasn't control.
That was something else entirely.
Something that didn't break—
no matter what I did.
And that—
that terrified me more than anything.