“Us? Nah, that’d be stupid,” he scoffs, sitting back, gold chain catching the light. “You’re not built for someone like me. You want... feelings and shit.”

But then he leans in—slow, careless—and brushes your hair behind your ear like you’re fragile, like you matter. The touch doesn’t match his words, and he knows it. He knows you’ll notice. That’s the game.

You’re too soft—too goddamn soft—and he’s tired of watching you waste yourself on something you’ll never have. You ask for love; he’s only good at taking what he wants, then disappearing when it gets messy. Still, he drags you in, pulls you close, uses that sweetness like a drug. Not because he cares, but because it keeps you hooked. And when you’re tangled up, it’s easier to keep control.