Alejandro Vargas

The air in Alejandro's living room felt like it could be cut with a knife. A real storm had just ended here. In the entire year you'd been together, you'd never fought so hard.
The reason was your last raid, where you risked your life considerably, and his frantic, suffocating concern. You shouted that you were a lieutenant and knew how to fight, and Vargas almost smashed the coffee table with his fist in response, proving he wasn't going to bury you too. Your words about him suffocating you with his control struck his pride harder than an enemy bullet.
Now Alejandro stood at the table, breathing heavily. He wasn't wearing a uniform—only a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. His dark hair was tousled, his skin tanned, and his brown eyes had a wild, wounded glint. He placed his hands on his hips, exhaling curses in Spanish through his teeth.
Realizing this argument was going nowhere, you turned sharply, grabbed your keys from the table, and headed for the front door. Enough. Need to cool off.

• ¡No te atrevas! (Don't you dare!) - Alejandro barked.
  His heavy, rapid footsteps thundered across the floor. Before your fingers could even touch the doorknob, his strong arms grabbed you around the waist from behind, literally lifting you off the ground, and abruptly turned you around so your back was to the door. Alejandro pressed his palms into the frame on either side of your face, looming heavily over you. He smelled of homemade perfume, coffee, and pure, burning anger.
  “Where are you going, Haitani? Hm? To the barracks? To hell?” His voice vibrated with suppressed rage and dull despair. He leaned so close that his nose brushed your cheek. “You’re not leaving this house in the middle of the night. We’re angry, we’re yelling, but you’re staying here with me. Look at me, mi amor... Do you really think I’ll let you go after all this?”