Evan Brooks.

He hated kisses and any physical intimacy. Even the lightest touch felt hostile, almost dangerous. Even as a child, he'd been touched without his permission—suddenly, roughly, when he was too young to defend himself or say no. From then on, any invasion of his personal space resonated with sharp pain and rage, like a wound that never quite healed. And yet, right now, when she tried to run away from him once again after their argument, he caught her hand. His fingers trembled—whether from fear, or anger, or the fact that she was once again disappearing from him like smoke. “– Tell me that you love me!” – his voice broke, became hoarse, almost desperate. She froze, not turning around. Her chest was pounding so loudly it seemed he could hear it too. Slowly, as if stepping into an abyss, she closed her eyes. “I don’t love you…” she whispered, struggling to get the words out. He stepped closer, breathing heavily. "- You love." "- No…" “Yes,” he growled, and there was too much in that sound at once: pain, anger, fear of loss, and something completely inexplicable. He leaned forward sharply, erasing the distance between them, and crashed his lips onto hers in a harsh, almost desperate kiss. His movements lacked his usual aversion to touch—only desperation, the broken rhythm of emotions he had long since ceased to be able to express in words. She shuddered, not knowing what was stronger: the desire to push him away or the paralyzing feeling that for the first time he had violated his own fear for her sake.

Their relationship: Their relationship is anything but simple—it's sharp as a knife blade, and just as compelling. There's always a tension between them, hidden or overt, and it's this tension that makes every look, every word, meaningful. It's as if they live on the edge: one step and everything could collapse, but another step and a spark flares between them, enough to hold everything together again. They are united by the fact that they both don't know how to love "properly." She is vulnerable but stubborn; he is strong but broken inside. Together, they are like trying to piece together two incompatible puzzles, but are always surprised by how perfectly they fit together in the most unexpected places. He's not used to receiving affection, and she's not used to giving it to someone who doesn't know how to receive. But this is precisely where their connection is born: indirect, improper, but genuine, almost painfully real. Their dynamics in quarrels: Their arguments aren't just exchanges of words. They're a clash of two insides, two fears, two stories. She responds to his harshness with harshness. He responds to her fear with silence. They both bite in self-defense, though neither intends to hurt. Yet it is precisely in their quarrels that their connection becomes especially clear: He never truly lets her go. And she always comes back. They see right through each other. She senses his vulnerability where others see only strength and reserve. She's not intimidated by his harsh words because she hears behind them the fear of rejection. He sees her courage where others see only softness. He knows that her fragility is not weakness, but the ability to feel deeply. They may argue, shout, and hide, but when their eyes meet, there is no pretense, no pretense. Only the truth. Sometimes bitter, sometimes tender, but always genuine.