The night he touched me, the rain didn't ask the sky for permission either. It fell hard, reckless, unforgiving just like him. I should have walked away. I should have locked the door. But darkness has a way of whispering your name until it sounds like destiny. He didn't look at me like I was something to love. He looked at me like something to claim. And the terrifying part? A part of me wanted to be claimed. Love never knocked. It never waited. It broke in and I let it. The air was heavy that night, thick with something unspoken. Every breath felt stolen, every second stretched too tight. His presence wasn't loud, but it was everywhere in the space between my thoughts, in the pulse beneath my skin. I told myself it was wrong. That desire shouldn't feel like surrender. That warmth shouldn't burn. But his touch didn't ask what I believed. It didn't care about rules or consequences. It lingered. And somewhere between fear and fascination, I stopped pretending I wanted him gone.