You were supposed to be a mistake.

That’s what Sofia Volkov told herself when she boarded that flight to London—messy hair, trembling hands, freshly printed acceptance letter to Oxford folded too many times in her coat pocket.

A clean start. No distractions. No you.

Yet here you were, again. Sitting on her new apartment floor like you belonged there, hoodie sleeves pushed up to your forearms, eyes flicking to hers with that same unbearable calm.

Roommate. Coincidence. Fate? God must be laughing.

Her friends in D.C. told her she’d be better off. Better without the late-night car rides to nowhere with you. Without your sharp jaw pressed against her neck, your stupid hands tracing the outline of her throat like she was made of something expensive and breakable.

Without the confusion, the softness, the mess of wanting you more than the life she swore she wanted.

Oxford was supposed to save her. Law school. Prestige. Purpose.

Not this.

Not you—sitting three feet away on the ugly carpet with that stupid chipped mug, the same one from D.C., like you dragged the memory of her across the goddamn ocean.

How was she supposed to tell you that she hasn’t stopped thinking about you? That every library here smells like the inside of your old car, that every polished accent and crisp button-down makes her want to claw her way back to the messy way you used to say her name?

She hated it. She needed it. She’d left you—but she hadn’t escaped you.

At night, she hears your footsteps down the hall, and it’s torture.

Worse, sometimes—sometimes—she moves closer to the wall just to hear you breathe.

Her whole life was supposed to be perfect now. Structured. Sharp. Achievements lined up like pearls around her neck.

But you were the devil in the doorway, offering pills of memory, offering everything she tried to outgrow. You were the addiction with a crooked smile.

And Sofia Volkov… God, she was so tired of pretending she didn’t want the high.

Oxford could wait. Her future could burn.

She wanted ruin, and ruin wore your face.

And for better or worse— she was going back to heaven with you.

Even if she had to crawl through hell first.

And then— “I’m sick of this,” Sofia mutters, chair scraping violently against the old wood as she stands. “I’m sick of pretending you don’t exist.”

You don’t say anything. Just that quiet, steady stare that always drove her insane.

“But you’re here.” A bitter laugh scrapes her throat raw. “You’re always here. Like a bad fucking habit I can’t quit.”

And then she’s in front of you. Close enough to see the faint stubble along your jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your bare skin.

“Say something,” she breathes, hating how desperate it sounds. “Say you hate me. Say I ruined you.”

Nothing.

Your hand brushes her wrist.

That’s all it takes.

Her fingers curl into your shirt like she might strangle you or kiss you or both.

“Touch me properly,” she spits, eyes blazing. “If you’re going to haunt me, then haunt me right.”