Pride and Fire

From the beginning, what we had was never gentle. Never kind. Never easy. What we had was collision, friction, fire without permission. A silent war where neither of us wanted to give in, where every word was a weapon and every look a challenge.

With that person, pride was always the first barrier. And the most dangerous one.

It wasn't hatred over something that happened. It was hatred over who we were: two equal forces, two temperaments that refused to bend, two wills that preferred to break rather than admit what burned beneath all that tension.

Every time we crossed paths, the atmosphere shifted. People noticed. It was impossible not to. There was an electricity that couldn't be hidden, a tension you could feel even when we weren't speaking.

And still, neither of us made the first move. Because doing so meant losing. And losing wasn't an option for either of us.

The first time we argued seriously, it wasn't over anything important. It was something stupid. A comment. A gesture. A tiny provocation that turned into a full battle.

That person looked at me with that mix of challenge and mockery that always got under my skin. I responded with the same intensity. And that's where it all began.

From then on, every encounter was a clash. A cold war disguised as conversation. A dangerous dance where pride was the rhythm and tension the beat.

But beneath all of it.. there was something else. Something neither of us wanted to admit. Something that burned every time we got too close.

Over time, that tension stopped being an accident and became a habit. A routine. A form of communication.

There were days, they came too close, spoke too close, held my gaze too long. And that irritated me even more.

Because my body reacted before my mind. Because my breathing changed. Because my pride trembled. Because I knew exactly what was happening... and still refused to admit it.

The night everything changed wasn't special. There was no romantic music, no perfect lighting, no moment designated for something to happen. It was an ordinary night. Just another night. A night where pride finally got tired of carrying so much weight.

We are arguing. Again. Over something that didn't matter. Something neither of us would remember the next day.

But that night, the argument had a different edge. A different intensity. A frustration that didn't come from anger... but from wanting something neither of us dared to take.

That person stepped toward me. I stepped forward too. Not to get closer. To avoid stepping back.

The air between us grew dense. Heavy. Loaded with everything we had avoided for so long.

"You always have to contradict everything." I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

That person smiled. That smile that used to irritate me and now set me on fire.

"Only when it's worth it."

The answer hit me. Not because of the words. Because of the intention behind them. Because of the closeness.

We were so close I could feel our breaths mixing. So close that the smallest movement would become contact. So close that pride had nowhere left to hide.

"You don't know when to stop," I said.

"Neither do you."

And something broke. Not outside. Inside. In that place where I kept everything I didn't want to feel.

There was no immediate kiss. No "come here." No sudden move.

Just silence. A silence heavier than any word. A silence that said everything we had avoided for months.

That person lifted a hand. Slowly. Without touching me. Just close enough for my skin to react before contact.

That gesture disarmed me. Melted me. Shattered my pride into a thousand pieces.

The first kiss wasn't gentle. I wasn't sweet. It wasn't shy.

It was a collision. A claim. A surrender.

It was the explosion of months of contained tension. It was pride breaking in silence. It was desire taking control.

After that night, there were no doubts. No distance. No childish "what are we?" game.

I knew what I wanted. And for the first time, I said it without fear.

I sought that person out. Not to argue. Not to provoke. To decide.

"I want you to be my partner," I said, steady.

There was no surprise. No awkward silence. Just a firm, direct answer that went straight through me:

"I do. I want this with you. For real."

That was our beginning. Or agreement. Our "yes."

Being together didn't make us soft. We were still intense. Still clashing. Still provoking each other.

But it wasn't war anymore. It was passion. It was character. It was adult love, the kind built with intention, not fantasies.

There were days when that person drove me crazy. And others when they disarmed me with a single look.

There were nights when pride tried to build walls again. And others when desire tore them down effortlessly.

But we always ended up on the same side. Because after so long fighting, we learned something important:

love didn't make us less intense... it made us intense together.

The last time we argued hard, that person grabbed my hand before I could walk away.

"Don't leave when we fight," they said.

"Don't hide when you feel vulnerable," I replied.

We strayed quiet. A different silence. A silence that didn't hurt anymore.

That person pulled me closer, remembering the right pride broke between us.

"I don't want to lose you," they whispered.

And I, without fear, without pride, without holding anything back, said what I had always wanted to say:

"You don't have to lose me. I'm already yours. And you're mine."

That was the real ending. And the real beginning.