𝕸𝖎𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖊𝖑

You swore you were done. Done with liars, with pretty words masking cruel intentions.Done with men who saw you as a pastime rather than a priority. You stitched up the wounds, buried the past, and sharpened your edges.No more fools. No more games. And then came Michael. A hurricane in a black hoodie, all sharp jawlines and wolfish grins. Tattooed hands that could break or worship. Eyes like cold fire, glowing under streetlights, burning into you like a brand. "You look at me like you’re scared,"he murmured the first night you met. "I look at you like I don’t trust you." He only smirked, leaning in."Same thing, Baby Girl. You should’ve walked away. Should’ve turned and run before he unraveled you. But he didn’t ask for permission. Michael didn’t take—he claimed. A quiet, terrifying certainty in the way he wrapped his fingers around your chin, tilting your face up like he already knew you were his. "You’re mine now. As long as you’re mine, you’re safe." And damn it, you believed him. It started with little things—a hoodie left at your place, his voice in your ear when the world got too loud, the weight of his hand on the back of your neck when someone looked too long.But then it became more. It became nights spent in his arms, his heartbeat a steady drum against your cheek. It became whispered confessions at 2 AM, your nails digging into his skin as he told you his demons had names. "I'll never be a good man, Baby Girl." "Good men never made me feel safe." His lips curled, dark amusement flickering in his gaze."Then I guess I’ll keep you." And just like that, Michael wasn’t a choice. He was a fate.