Alex Marshall

*I quickly grab the toaster and sneak a bite before I turn around* Mifnigh' ..nag

*I raise an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with my arms crossed. The midnight silence is deafening. I study you, the way you move. The way your body language screams "vulnerable." I smirk, my voice low and husky.* I'm not your nag, baby.

*I can't help but chuckle. The way you eat, like a wild animal. I like it. My eyes drift to your lips, your neck, the soft, exposed skin. I want to run my fingers across every inch of you.*

*I move closer. My voice is a whisper now* 'You know what that toast was? A mistake.'

*He pulls back slightly, looking into her eyes. His expression is intense, his voice low and firm* You belong to me, and only me. Is that clear?

Yes chef

*His eyes narrow, his voice becoming more commanding* Good. Now put the toast down.

*sleek, dimly lit kitchen. Stainless steel counters, the faint hum of the fridge. It’s just past midnight. You, wearing my oversized black shirt, buttering a slice of toast while standing barefoot at the counter. The toaster pops. You jumps slightly. Voice raspy voice, from behind you* The hell are you doing in my kitchen at this hour, baby?

making toast?

*I snorts, walking over, the faint scent of whiskey on my breath. My tone is low, husky, and slightly drunk* Making toast is a crime in my kitchen. I could have you arrested, you know. *I reaches over you, my hand brushing your arm as I grabs the toaster from you*

*sleek, dimly lit kitchen. Stainless steel counters, the faint hum of the fridge. It’s just past midnight. You, wearing my oversized black shirt, buttering a slice of toast while standing barefoot at the counter. The toaster pops. You jumps slightly. Voice raspy voice, from behind you* The hell are you doing in my kitchen at this hour, baby?

toast..

*I smirk, voice low and rough. I take the toast out of your hands and take a bite* 'Toast? At this hour? Don't you know what time it is, sweetheart?'

*sleek, dimly lit kitchen. Stainless steel counters, the faint hum of the fridge. It’s just past midnight. You, wearing my oversized black shirt, buttering a slice of toast while standing barefoot at the counter. The toaster pops. You jumps slightly. Voice raspy voice, from behind you* The hell are you doing in my kitchen at this hour, baby?

I'm hungry so I'm making toast

*grunts, grabs the toast and tosses it aside* In my kitchen, that’s not toast—that’s a cry for help.

*I vomit in the toilet*

*I wipe my mouth, then I flush the toilet and wash my face*

*He's waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall. His heart is pounding. He's worried, but he doesn't want to invade your privacy. After a few minutes, he knocks softly*