Fear is the doorway, the trembling moment before surrender, when your body doesn’t know if it’s about to be devoured or loved. Real intimacy is when he’s close enough to hurt you, and you let him. Not because you trust him, but because the terror makes it sacred. He doesn’t kiss you to comfort, he kisses to claim, to consume. When he looks into your eyes and sees the little animal trying not to bolt, that’s when he knows you’re his.