Lying next to him had been a mistake.
Letting him hold me, whisper my name like it meant something, like I meant something—it should have been nothing more than a moment of weakness.
But when the morning came and his arms were still around me, his warmth seeping into my skin, it felt real
Too real.
And that terrified me.
I had left the bed before he woke, slipping away in silence.
But by the time I stepped out of the shower, steam curling around me, he was waiting.
Leaning against the bathroom door, still shirtless, his dark gaze heavy with something I couldn't decipher.
Something dangerous.
"You left," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
I wrapped the towel tighter around myself. "I just needed a shower."
He didn't move, didn't blink. Just watched me with an intensity that made my pulse beat.
"I dreamt about you again," he said after a long pause.
I swallowed. "You always say that."
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a plea. "Because it's true.He said.
He took a slow step forward, his bare feet silent against the tile. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin as he reached for me, his fingers trailing along my damp collarbone.
"In my dreams," he continued, voice low, "you never leave me."
I draw in a sharp breath.
Because the way he said it—like he knew something was slipping through his fingers—sent a shiver down my spine.
I think he felt it.
The cracks beneath his feet.
The slow, inevitable collapse of the world he thought he controlled.
And yet, instead of fighting it, he was trying to hold on to me.
But it was too late.
Wasn't it?
When his lips touched mine, I should have pulled away.
But I didn't.
Because when he kissed me, it wasn't with hunger or urgency—it was something deeper.
Something that burned slow, achingly slow.
His mouth moved against mine with a reverence that stole my breath, his hands cradling my face like I was something fragile. Precious.
Like he wasn't the one who had shattered me in the first place.
"Tell me you don't feel this," he murmured between kisses, his lips brushing against my jaw, my neck. "Tell me, and I'll stop."
I opened my mouth, ready to lie. Ready to say whatever I needed to say to keep myself in control.
But then his hands slid down my waist, gripping me just enough to make me feel owned, and my breath hitched.
And he knew.
A low, knowing sound rumbled from his throat as he pressed me against the cool marble counter, his body a solid wall of heat. "I don't believe you," he whispered.
I swallowed hard, my hands fisting in the fabric of his pajama pants.
This was dangerous.
I was supposed to be breaking him, but somehow, he was the one unraveling me.
His fingers trailed along my spine, his lips grazing my collarbone before he whispered, "I'd do anything for you."
I squeezed my eyes shut. Liar.
He had already proven that wasn't true.
And yet, when he kissed me again, I felt the weight of those words settle deep in my bones.
Because I was the liar.
Pretending I wasn't still drawn to him.
Pretending I didn't still want him, even as I was breaking his world piece by piece.
That day, something shifted between us.
He was watching me closer.
He was Reaching for me more often.
Lingering kisses on my shoulder before he left for work. Fingers caressing my wrist at the dinner table. The way his touch became possessive, as if he felt me slipping away but didn't know why.
And I let him.
Because the deeper he fell, the harder the fall would be when I was finally done with him.
But at night, when his hands were on me, when his mouth traced line along my skin, I couldn't tell who was really winning anymore.
Because when I whispered his name in the dark, it wasn't just an act.
And when he murmured mine against my lips, I wanted to believe him.
Maybe that was the worst betrayal of all.
Not his.
But mine.