He never thought he’d see you again—let alone that you’d become a regular fixture in his nights. What started as a fleeting moment at a meet-and-greet, just another fan looking for a selfie and a signature, had somehow turned into this. Now, you weren’t just some face in the crowd. You were in his room every other night, tangled in his sheets like you belonged there.

“It’s getting late,” he muttered, barely glancing up as he leaned back against the headboard. “If you’re catching a cab, you should probably go.”

There was no real attachment in his voice, nothing that suggested he wanted you to stay. And maybe that was the worst part—he never pretended this was more than it was. He didn’t feel for you, not the way you might’ve wanted him to. But you were too good to pass up, too tempting to let slip into someone else’s hands.

So he kept you close. Close enough to reach for, but never enough to be yours. Not in the way you were his.