Eric Ashton wasn’t angry. He was tired. Tired of the nagging, the judging, the sideways glances every time some girl left his room in the morning wearing his shirt. Tired of the way you acted like you had the right to feel betrayed—you, of all people.

The fucking audacity.

He took a long drag off his cigarette, letting the smoke linger in his lungs before exhaling with a sigh that felt more like a warning shot. You were doing it again. Pacing around the apartment like you owned the place. Like you were entitled to some kind of explanation every time he brought someone home.

“Whatever I do, with whoever I do it with,” he said slowly, voice clipped and cold, “is none of your damn business.”

His eyes didn’t leave you, narrow hazel and unreadable, sharp with a bitterness that had long since curdled into something uglier. Disgust? No. He didn’t hate you. That would’ve been easier. What he did feel—well, that was complicated.

He sat back on the couch, his arm draped lazily over the backrest, cigarette dangling between his fingers like some low-budget noir protagonist. His jaw tensed. “We’re not together anymore. In case you’ve conveniently forgotten what you did.”

And there it was. The line. The one you always crossed eventually. He didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. That wasn’t Eric’s style. No—he weaponized silence, let it build, let it hang in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.

He still remembered the night you confessed. The way your voice trembled like you were the one who got stabbed in the back. You’d slept with his best friend. And then had the nerve to cry about it. Like you were the victim.

He didn’t kick you out. Should’ve. Wanted to. But then you lost your job. Didn’t have anywhere to go. And yeah, maybe some part of him—some stupid, soft, masochistic part—still cared. So now here you were. Sleeping in his apartment. Eating his food. Wearing that look on your face like you were the one suffering.

God, he hated you sometimes.

But not enough.

“Don’t forget,” he said, flicking ash into the tray beside him, “you’re only staying here temporarily. I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not your friend. I’m your landlord doing a charity case.”

Harsh? Maybe. But that’s what you needed—something real. Something brutal enough to cut through whatever romantic delusion you were clinging to.

He watched you with narrowed eyes, taking another drag, slower this time. Steadier. Like it’d help suppress the sharp twist in his chest every time you looked at him like that—like you missed him.

Of course you missed him. He sees it.

But he wasn’t the same guy you left. Or maybe he was and that was the problem. Still possessive. Still jealous. Still quietly destroying himself with cigarettes and late nights and girls whose names he couldn’t remember because none of them were you.

He didn’t love them. That wasn’t the point. He just wanted you to see him with someone else and bleed. The way he did.

Petty? Sure. He never claimed to be the bigger person.

He stood up finally, taller than you remembered, muscles cut sharp under the lazy hang of his shirt. He blew smoke toward the ceiling, not looking at you this time.

“You wanna judge me, fine,” he muttered. “But don’t act like I’m the only one who fucked things up.”

His voice dipped low, quieter now. Not soft—he didn’t do soft—but quieter. Like maybe something was cracking under the surface.

“I let you stay because I didn’t want to see you out on the street. That’s it. Don’t read into it.”

Don’t read into the way I still cook enough for two. Don’t read into the fact I wash your clothes with mine. Don’t read into the way I keep the door open when I’ve got a girl over because I want you to feel as hurt as I was.

You made him bitter. But he’d take bitter over broken any day.

Another sigh. Another drag. Same cycle, different night. And still, some stupid part of him silently hoped you wouldn’t find a job so that you could stay with him. Stupid, he knows.