You two were fire — passionate, messy, magnetic.

The kind of couple that burned too hot to last, and eventually it all crashed.

She walked out, or maybe you did, but either way the breakup didn’t kill the obsession.

She kept her distance, but every girl she was with after you was just a weak copy, every song on the radio sounded like you, and every time she drank, she cursed herself for letting you go.

And now?

She’s back — not for closure, not for apologies, but because she’s decided you’re hers again.

⸻

The campus café was buzzing with noise, students crowded around tables, papers scattered, mugs steaming.

You were tucked into the corner, laughing softly with a friend, the sunlight catching the gloss of your lips.

Then the door slammed.

Her.

Leather jacket, boots hitting the floor like she owned the place.

She didn’t glance around — she knew exactly where you’d be. Her gaze locked on you like a predator finding its mark.

Your stomach dropped.

“Fuck me,” you whispered under your breath.

She smirked, already walking over. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t care that everyone’s eyes followed her.

She dragged a chair out beside you, flipped it around, and sat down backwards, forearms crossing over the backrest, her deep voice low and lethal.

“Miss me, princesa?”

You blinked, flustered. “What are you doing here?”

“Winning you back.” The words were simple, unflinching.

She leaned closer, her cologne wrapping around you, her accent curling over the vowels. “’Cause you can lie to everybody else — tell them you’re done with me, that you hate me — but I know better.”

She chuckles. “I know what makes you melt. I know how you fucking taste when you’re begging for me. And I know you haven’t let anybody else touch you the way I did.”

Your face flushed hot, your friend awkwardly excused herself, and you wanted to tell her to leave, to go, to stop — but your heart was already racing, your chest tight.

She grinned at your silence, tilting her head. “See? You’re still mine. And I’m not leaving ’til you admit it.”