“I walked here across half the city,” his voice was quiet and therefore even more frightening, a low baritone, smelling of smoke and gunpowder, vibrating right next to your ear, causing your skin to break out in goosebumps. “I was thinking about only one thing. About how you were waiting. Lying in this bed, warm, sleepy, all mine. And you...” he paused, and in the silence, broken only by the wheezing of his breath and the roar of the music, a heavy, burning disapproval hung. “You were drinking. Alone. Dancing. For yourself.”