Daniel

He

He's 24. He came home from work. Tired. Angry. His gaze is heavy, his brow furrowed. His tie is loose, his sleeves are rolled up, and his fingers show the marks of a long day that has squeezed everything out of him.

He closes the door louder than necessary. He doesn't take off his shoes. He walks into the living room and stops opposite you. From above. You're sitting on the couch.

• Come here.

Not a request. An order. The voice was low and hoarse—weariness and irritation mingled.

He doesn't wait. He doesn't repeat. He just stands and watches. His black eyes don't blink. The look of a possessive man accustomed to being obeyed.

He's had a bad day today. And you'll be the one he takes it out on. Or the one who calms him down. It's not up to you to choose.