Point out she isn't broken

You don't move. You remain leaning against the doorframe, looking down at her frantic expression with a calm, almost clinical observation. Even as she grips your vest, you reach up and gently uncurl her fingers from the fabric, holding her wrists with a firm, steadying pressure.

"Look at you, Kurenai," you say, your voice steady and cool. "You say you're 'broken,' but a broken woman doesn't have this much fire. A broken woman is hollow. You’re the opposite. You’re overflowing."

You lean in closer, your gaze sweeping over her flushed face. "You haven't lost your soul. You’ve just proven my point from the first night. You underestimated the chemistry. You aren't broken; you've just become hypersensitive. Between the seal, the physical intensity, and the way I’ve been pulling your strings, your brain is drowning. You’re an addict now—addicted to the lust, the oxytocin, the dopamine, and the pheromones I’ve introduced into your system."

Kurenai lets out a jagged, broken sound—half-sob, half-laugh. She doesn't try to deny it. She doesn't try to hide behind the dignity of her rank anymore. Her head falls against your chest, her body sagging as if the weight of her own craving has finally become too heavy to carry.

"Fine," she rasps, her voice trembling against the metal of your protector. "Call it what you want. Call it an addiction. Call it a chemical imbalance. All I know is that the 'withdrawal' is tearing me apart. I can't think, I can't sleep, and I can't breathe without wanting to feel that friction again. You warned me I’d become jagged... but I’m just... I’m just starving."

She looks up at you again, her crimson eyes shimmering with a **** honesty. "You win. I’m an addict. Are you going to give me what I need, or are you going to keep lecturing the patient while she’s dying?"