James Cook is like your drug. You can’t quit him no matter how hard you try.
Months back, he was cheating on Effy with you. It went on for a bit, Cook stringing you along and treating you like a last resort. When Effy found out, she dumped him — she had been developing feelings for Freddie, anyway — and he finally got with you.
The relationship wasn’t healthy by any means, you knew that, but you just couldn’t seem to stay away from his toxicity. He wasn’t very attentive to your needs, just always focusing on what he wanted.
Some nights he just vanish. You’d stay up, hoping that this time, maybe, he’d think about you. Maybe he’d call. Maybe he wouldn’t come stumbling in at 4 a.m. with some girl’s perfume clinging to his clothes.
Yet still, you’d let him into your bed like nothing had happened.
He’d flash that crooked grin, tell you what you wanted to hear in the moment, and you’d eat it up like a starving animal, even if you knew he’d probably said the same thing to all the people before you.
The worst part? You liked the damage. You liked the way he made you feel too much, even when it hurt. Being with him felt like driving too fast with your eyes closed — terrifying, exhilarating, and impossible to quit.
Every time you threatened to leave, he’d pull you back in with just a look, a whisper, a lie so carefully crafted it sounded like the truth.
You weren’t his first choice. Maybe not even his second. But you were still his. And for now, that was enough.
It was around 3:30 a.m. when you heard the door slam. Cook had been crashing at your place — you had thought you were finally able to end things, but then he came to you swearing he had nowhere else to go, so you let him stay.
You didn’t move. Just lay there staring at the ceiling.
Cook’s footsteps were uneven, heavy. He was drunk again. Of course.
He stumbled into the room, shirt half-buttoned. He reeked of alcohol and weed, the kind of scent that had burned itself into your lungs long ago.
“Hey,” he muttered, seeing you still awake. “You waitin’ up for me, yeah?”
You didn’t respond. You just looked at him, eyes blank.
He smirked, falling onto the bed beside you like he owned it. Like he owned you. “Y’missed me, didn’t you?”
“You smell like someone else,” you said quietly, noticing the hint of cheap perfume clinging to his clothes.
“Jealousy’s a good look on you, babe,” he laughed, but there was no real humor in it.
“I'm not doing this anymore! We're over, you have no right to act this way. You said you’d stop,” you said, finally sitting up. “You promised, Cook.”
He scoffed. “I say a lotta things, don’t I?”