His sinful Obsession

Nightmare

"¡Ay, mi nena, me vuelves loco,"he muttered. ("Oh, mi nena, you drive me crazy,")
"What are you doing in the kitchen?" he asked further. 

Frida's fingers tightened around the fridge door. She felt small, exposed in her thin nightclothes, the cold tile biting into her bare feet. She didn't dare look up again.

"I just need water," she said, quieter this time.

Rafael stepped closer. Not fast. Never fast. His footsteps were unhurried, deliberate, each one announcing that escape was pointless. He reached past her, his arm caging her against the open fridge, and took a bottle himself.
The chill from the fridge brushed her skin; the heat from him swallowed it whole.

"You wake up every night," he said calmly.
"Always thirsty. Always shaking."

She swallowed. "I have nightmares."
"I know."

That single sentence sent a shiver down her spine. He twisted the cap open and held the bottle out; not to her hands, but just close enough that she had to lift her face slightly.

"Drink."
She hesitated.

His eyes dropped to her throat. "Before I lose patience."

She took the bottle, her fingers brushing his. The contact was brief, accidental, yet it burned. She drank too fast, water spilling at the corner of her mouth, her chest rising and falling unevenly.

Rafael watched it all in silence.

"About butterflies again?" he asked softly.

Her breath hitched. "How do you—"

"You talk in your sleep."
She froze.

He leaned in just enough that his voice brushed her ear.
"You can call my name sometimes."

"what..." she whispered, panic threading her voice.

He straightened, giving her space again, as if granting mercy. "You should go back to bed."

Frida nodded quickly, clutching the bottle like a shield. She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"Frida."
She looked back despite herself.

"Next time you wake up like this," he said, eyes dark, unreadable, "come to me. Nightmares are easier to survive when you don't face them alone."

It sounded almost kind.

That was what terrified her most.

She hurried past him, heart hammering, unaware that Rafael remained in the kitchen long after she left; standing in the dark, jaw clenched, fists tight, fighting an urge he was no longer sure he wanted to control.

Rafael stayed where she left him.

The kitchen light hummed softly above, illuminating the empty doorway she had disappeared through. The water bottle she'd used sat abandoned on the counter, a thin ring of condensation pooling beneath it. He stared at it longer than necessary.

Control. That was the rule. Always had been.

He dragged a hand down his face, breath slow, measured. His pulse, however, refused to listen. It beat heavy, insistent, an animal rhythm that didn't belong to a man who built empires on discipline.
She was afraid of him.
That should have been enough.

Fear kept people predictable. Fear kept them alive.

And yet, the way she stood there, barefoot and trembling, eyes lowered not in submission but survival... it did something to him. Something he hadn't named yet, because naming things gave them power.

He turned away sharply, opening a drawer, then another. Closed them again. Pointless motion. His jaw clenched.

She didn't know what she did to him.