Chapter Text
She hates how easy it is for him. The way his words slides over her like silk, wrapping her tight, not enough to choke—but enough to make her forget how to breathe properly. He has always been sweet on the surface, all gentle touches and crooked smiles. But underneath it all, there's something sharp in him, something she could never match, no matter how hard she tries to fight back.
She's losing again—if she hadn’t lost already.
He stands at the window, the dying glow of evening painting his silhouette in dark golds. He speaks without looking at her, his voice soft, almost concerned, "You're restless again."
She rolls her eyes, "I'm always restless."
The truth slips out before she could pull it back, and it sounded pathetic. His smile, reflected faintly in the glass, deepens like he'd been waiting for it. He turns, moving slow, deliberate—always deliberate.
"Why are you fighting it?" he asks.
"Fighting what?" Her voice cracks, but she forces herself to meet his gaze, defiant. Always defiant, even when she's breaking. Especially when she's breaking.
He steps closer, his hands in his pockets, his posture easy, casual. It's the same calm she hates—because she couldn’t ever touch it, "The part of you that likes being here. With me."
She scoffs, but it's weak. She feels it the moment his presence fills the space between them, his scent, his heat, the subtle command beneath every movement he makes. She wants to shove him away, to claw her way out of the dynamic they’d built between them over years of crossing lines that shouldn’t have been crossed. But she stays rooted, trapped by the inevitability of him.
"I don’t like it," she sighs, lying to him, lying to herself.
His hand brushes her wrist, light as air but heavy with meaning. He traces the veins with his thumb, watching her squirm under his gaze, his grip tightening just enough to remind her of his control.
"You say that every time," he murmurs. "But you’re still here."
She hates that he was right. Hates more how easy it is for him to say it without malice, like it's just a fact. Just the truth. His fingertips ghosts up her arm, and her breath hitches. His touch is infuriating, tender where she wants it to be rough, patient where she craves urgency.
“Just be yourself,” he whispers, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “Isn’t that what you want?”
The words makes her stomach flip. She couldn’t even tell if he was mocking her or coaxing her, and that's the worst part. She could never tell with him—whether he wanted to ruin her or keep her intact. Or if, somehow, he wants both.
She clenches her jaw, desperate to regain some kind of control, but it's already slipping. His hand slides down the curve of her back, featherlight, and she shivers against her will.
“You keep pretending you don’t want this,” he says, his voice almost sad. “But it doesn’t have to be so hard.”
She hates the way his words makes her feel stripped bare, like every bit of armor she’d built over the years is unraveling at his touch. He knows how to pull her apart, layer by layer, without even trying—and that's the cruelest part.
“You don’t have to fight, sweetheart,” he barely utters, his breath warm against her neck, "Just let me in."
Her throat tightens, but the protest she tries to summon never came. His hands are on her hips now, sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. She arches into him without thinking, and he hums low in his throat, like approval.
It's infuriating—how easily he coaxes responses out of her, how every instinct she had betrays her in his presence. He didn’t need to pin her down. He didn’t need to force anything. He just waits, patient and knowing, until she gives in.
Because she always gives in.
"You’ll hate me tomorrow," she manages to say in between breaths, hating how her voice trembled, how the truth bled out against her will.
His lips brushes the hollow of her throat, a featherlight kiss that burns, "I know."
And then his hands moves—slow and deliberate, unbuttoning her jeans, sliding them down inch by excruciating inch. He takes his time, as if savoring her surrender, dragging her deeper into his orbit. She bites her lip hard, desperate to keep the noise inside, but it's useless. He knows every sound she's trying not to make, every shiver she tries to suppress.
He kisses the corner of her mouth, soft and sweet, and it's more cruel than any harsh touch. He murmurs good girl—the words a brand against her skin.
She hates how much she wants to be good for him.
He coaxes her down onto the bed, his hands guiding her like she was something fragile. It made her furious, how gentle he is with her. How he handles her like something precious when he's the very reason she feels so broken.
And yet—she let him.
Because no matter how hard she fought, she would always end up here, beneath him, unraveling at his touch, undone by the way he whispers her name like a promise and a curse all at once.
And he'd always smile—like he knows he had her exactly where he wanted.