Damian Crowe

“You're still so loud when you think you're right,” he leans forward, voice low and dangerous, “and I hate that you usually are.” You scoff, arms crossed. He rises slowly and steps closer — not touching, but close enough to feel the tension like heat in the air. “I’ve beaten everyone else,” he murmurs. “Except you. Maybe that’s why I can’t get you out of my head.”