A/N: can u tell I’ve been watching Bridgerton. I love an angry confession
The first thing you notice is how loud he is.
Not just in voice (though that alone could shake windows) but in his presence. There's an intensity he carries with him.
And right now, all of that intensity is pointed directly at you.
“You have been avoiding me.”
It isn’t a question. Of course it isn’t.
You don’t look up from your book. “I’ve been busy.”
You can feel the way his glare sharpens, like a blade being dragged slowly across stone. The air feels heavy. Charged and crackling.
“Busy,” he repeats, voice dropping into something more dangerous than his usual shouting. “That is a poor excuse.”
You turn a page, deliberately calm. “It’s not an excuse. It’s just what’s been happening.”
A beat of silence follows your response.
Your book is ripped out of your hands, snapped shut with enough force to make you flinch despite yourself. You finally look up, irritation flashing, only to be met with something that stops the fury of words rising in your throat.
Not the loud, blustering anger everyone else sees, the kind you’ve gotten used to. Not the kind that comes with lectures, dramatic declarations, and commands no one takes very seriously.
“You think I would not notice?” he demands. “You think I am so oblivious that I would fail to see you slipping away like a coward?”
Your brows knit, and a scoff escapes your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Do not play dumb!” he snaps, stepping closer. “You avoid me in the halls. You leave when I arrive. You barely speak when I address you, that is if you acknowledge me at all.”
Each accusation lands harder than the last. Settling somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.
“And now,” he continues, voice tightening, “you sit here pretending nothing is wrong.”
“I’m not pretending,” you fire back, finally standing. “I just don’t see why it matters so much to you!”
For a split second, something flickers across his face. Shock, maybe? Or something even more fragile.
“It matters,” he says, low and sharp, “because your behavior is unacceptable.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shoot back, anger rising to meet his, “I didn’t realize I needed your approval for how I spend my time.”
“You do not,” he bites out immediately. “But when your actions are so blatantly disrespectful-”
“Disrespectful?” you laugh, short and disbelieving. “Sebek, I haven’t done anything to you!”
“That is precisely the problem!”
His voice echoes off the walls, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room trembles with it.
“You have done nothing,” he repeats, stepping even closer. “Nothing but pull away without explanation. Nothing but treat me as though I am… insignificant.”
That wasn’t what you expected.
“You do,” he cuts in. “And I will not tolerate it.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do!” you snap, even as your chest tightens. “You don’t own me!”
“I am well aware of that!” he snarls. “Do not twist my words!”
“Then what do you want from me?” you demand. “Because all you’ve done is yell and accuse me of things I didn’t even realize I was doing!”
“Then perhaps,” he says, voice dropping again, “you should have been paying more attention.”
The tension between you is suffocating now.
He’s too close. Too loud. Too much.
“Why?” you ask, frustration cracking through. “Why does it bother you so much? Why do you care if I’m not around you all the time?”
And suddenly, something shifts.
“…Because it is improper,” he says stiffly.
“That’s the reason?” you press, disbelief creeping in. “Because it’s ‘improper’?”
You shake your head, stepping back. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It is!” you argue. “You’re acting like I betrayed you or something, when all I did was what? Spend time somewhere else?”
“From what?” he demands. “From me?”
His expression twists, a pitiful, raw look slipping through the rigid pride he clings to so fiercely.
“No, you don’t,” you say quickly, but it’s too late.
“You find my presence so unbearable,” he continues, voice quieter now. He’s shaking with something far more volatile than anger, “that you must actively distance yourself.”
“That’s not what I said-” you spit out quickly
“You did not need to say it!” he snaps. “Your actions were more than sufficient!”
Frustration surges again. “You’re twisting everything!”
“And you are refusing to explain yourself!” he fires back. “Do you expect me to simply accept that?!”
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!” you shout.
“That,” he says slowly, “is where you are wrong.”
Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a normal argument anymore.
It feels like something else.
“You assumed,” he continues, each word deliberate, “that your absence would go unnoticed. That I would not care whether you stood beside me or vanished entirely.”
His fists clench at his sides. His chest rising and falling at a deep and constant pace.
“You assumed,” he repeats, voice tightening, “that you meant nothing.”
“But you thought it,” he cuts in, sharp as a blade. “Or you would not have acted this way so carelessly.”
You open your mouth, then close it again.
Because how do you respond to that?
He takes your silence as confirmation.
A bitter sound escapes him. Not quite a laugh.
“Do you have any idea,” he interrupts, stepping forward again, “how infuriating it is to be treated as though I am irrelevant by someone who-”
The words die in his throat.
“…By someone who what?” you ask, softer now.
His gaze shifts, like he’s fighting something. Like he’s trying to shove it back down where it belongs.
“Finish that sentence,” you press.
“Why?” you demand. “You’ve been yelling at me this entire time, but now suddenly you don’t want to talk?”
“Because it is not necessary,” he snaps.
“It is!” he insists. “This conversation has already gone too far-”
“No, it hasn’t gone far enough,” you counter, stepping closer despite the way your pulse pounds. “You’re upset. Really upset. And it’s not just because I wasn’t hanging around you as much.”
“Then look at me and say it doesn’t matter if I stay away,” you challenge.
“Say it doesn’t bother you,” you continue, voice quieter but steadier, “and I’ll drop it.”
His hands curl into fists.
And for a long moment, it looks like he might actually do it.
Like he might force the words out through sheer stubbornness alone.
“I cannot say that,” he repeats, voice strained and hoarse.
All at once, everything feels very, very still.
And this time he answers.
The words come out sharper than anything he’s said before. It’s raw and unfiltered and reckless, entirely un-Sebek.
“It does bother me!” he continues, voice rising again, but not in the same controlled way as before. “It is insufferable! Your absence is distracting, your silence is aggravating, and your refusal to even acknowledge me is-”
He stops, breath hitching.
You feel your breathing stutter.
“Why?” you ask again, barely above a whisper.
And this time he doesn’t dodge it.
“I do not know!” he snaps, frustration spilling over. “Do you think I enjoy this?! Being affected by something so trivial?!”
“It’s not trivial,” you say quietly.
“It should be!” he argues. “There is no logical reason for your presence to matter to me to this extent!”
“But it does,” you point out.
“Yes!” he shouts. “And that is precisely the problem!”
He runs a hand through his hair, agitation written into every movement.
“I cannot focus when you are near,” he admits, voice tight. “And when you are gone, it is… worse.”
“I find myself searching for you,” he continues, almost like the words are being dragged out against his will. “Noticing your absence. Wondering where you are. Who you are with.”
There’s something dangerously close to jealousy in that last part.
“And when you avoid me,” he adds, quieter now, “it is… infuriating.”
“Because?” you ask, even though you think you already know.
And for once, there’s no pride shielding him. No arrogance. No carefully maintained composure.
“…Because I care,” he says.
The words land between you like a crack of thunder.
“And I do not care lightly,” he continues, voice lower now, rougher. “I do not form attachments without reason. I do not concern myself with people who are unworthy of my attention.”
Your breath feels unsteady.
“But you-” he stops, jaw tightening again.
“…So when you pull away,” he says, quieter now, “it is not something I can simply ignore.”
“I didn’t realize,” you admit softly.
You almost laugh, but it catches somewhere in your throat.
“I wasn’t avoiding you because I didn’t care,” you say after a moment. “I just… thought maybe I was bothering you.”
“…Bothering me?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” you shrug, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “You’re always so intense. I figured maybe you just tolerated me.”
For a second, he looks genuinely stunned.
“Tolerated you?” he echoes, like the concept itself is offensive.
“That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard,” he says flatly.
“I do not ‘tolerate’ you,” he continues, stepping closer again. Slower this time. “If that were the case, your absence would have been a relief.”
“It wasn’t?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“No,” he says immediately. “It was not.”
There’s no hesitation this time, his pride not getting in the way.
And somehow, that feels more overwhelming than all his yelling put together.
“…So,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “what now?”
“…Now,” he says, voice steady again but softer than before, “you will stop avoiding me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds less like a request and more like an order.”
“It is both,” he replies without missing a beat.
“…Fine,” you say. “But you have to stop yelling at me every five seconds.”
“You literally shouted my name across the courtyard yesterday.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
“And yet,” he says, gaze fixed on you, “you are still here.”
“…Yeah,” you admit softly.
“…Try not to disappear again.”
It’s not an order this time.
He studies you for a second.
Then nods, just slightly, a small smile peeking through.
But he doesn’t step back.
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