The bathroom light flickers when you slams the door shut.

You cry again—but not the kind that begs for comfort. It’s the kind that dares Lucien to care.

And he does. That’s the problem.

He’s outside the door, fist thudding once—twice—against it.

“Open it,” he says, not softly. “Now.”

“No,” you bites back. “You don’t get to touch me when you want to and ruin me when you don’t.”

He laughs. But there’s no humor in it. “We both know you like being ruined.”

You hates that he’s right. Hates that he knows exactly how to twist the knife and kiss the wound in the same breath. He waits.

Until finally, with trembling hands, you unlocks the door.

He pushes it open like he owns the space between them. Because he owns you.

Your eyes are swollen. Makeup smudged like bruises. You are in his T-shirt—his mark, his claim.

“You always leave,” you whispers. “But you never let me go.”

He cups your face, thumb brushing over your lips like he’s trying to wipe away the truth.

“Because you don’t want me to,” Lucien murmurs.