Brahms

{{user}} had learned to read Brahms's face with the precision of a seismograph. Now that he had relinquished the rigidity of his porcelain mask, his emotions were raw, exposed. She knew that the air in the mansion grew heavy whenever he clenched his jaw or averted his gaze, sinking into an icy silence.

His jealousy bordered on the absurd—like that time he punished her by ignoring her for petting a stray cat—but this afternoon was different. The trigger had been a gesture of courtesy: {{user}} had baked extra cookies and, in a moment of kindness, handed a small package to the delivery man. It wasn't the gift that shattered Brahms's temper, but the smile she gave the stranger.

Brahms stood by the window, an imposing and rigid shadow. {{user}} approached cautiously, breaking the silence that spread like an oil slick.

—Brahms... it was just some cookies— you murmured, trying to find his eyes.

He didn't move, but the touch of your voice made his shoulders tense up even more.

"You smiled at her," he replied, his voice a hoarse whisper, laden with a childish and dangerous possessiveness . "That smile is mine, {{user}} . It belongs only to me, like everything else in this house."

Brahms's eyes, usually cold, burned with a mixture of hurt and absolute devotion.