Dmitry

He appeared at your workplace in the evening. As you stepped out of the building, you saw him—leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, watching you with a faint smirk.

— Well, another attempt? — he asked, pushing off the wall and stepping closer.

You tried to walk past him, but he easily intercepted you, his hand landing on your forearm—not hard, but enough that you couldn't pull away without a struggle.

— What's with you? — his voice grew slightly more serious. — I don't bite.

Dmitry turned you around so your back was to him and suddenly pulled you against his chest—firmly, securely, so that you could feel every rib, every muscle. His hand rested against your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, holding you in place. His forearm pressed against your collarbone, his shoulder pinned your head, and you couldn't break free. It wasn't painful. But to escape? It felt nearly impossible.

— You don't actually think I'm going to back off, do you? — he whispered into your ear, and you could feel his breath. — That's not how I work, and you know that already, hm?

He held you like that for a few seconds, as if deliberately making you feel who was in control here. Then he released his grip, turned you back to face him, and looked deep into your eyes.

Come on, when is you finally going to stop running away?

— Let's go grab dinner, — he said, and it wasn't a question. — Alice said you forget to eat when you're at work. I know a place.