Gerard

You were in the living room, phone in hand, a quiet laugh slipping out as you typed back a message. It was instinctive—harmless, even—but the sound cut through the room like a blade.

Gerard stiffened in his armchair.

He was twenty-two years older than you, a man of habits and silences, and the newspaper in his hands had been his shield against the world. Against you. Slowly, he lowered it, his eyes fixing on you with sharp attention. He didn’t miss the smile on your lips. He didn’t miss the way your thumbs moved too quickly, too eagerly.

The tapping annoyed him. The smile bothered him more.

His mind went somewhere dark, familiar.

With a low grunt, he snapped the newspaper shut and dropped it onto the side table. The impact was deliberate—loud enough to command the room. You jumped. He noticed. He liked that you noticed.

“Put the phone down,” he said, his voice calm but edged with warning.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, gaze never leaving your face.

“Now,” he added.

When you hesitated, even for a second, his jaw tightened.

“Who,” he asked slowly, “are you talking to, woman?”