She thinks she’s leaving. Thinks she’s slipping through my fingers like smoke.

I watch from the bed as she throws shit into her bag—phone charger, ballet flats, that jumper she swore she hated but wears every night. She’s moving like she’s on borrowed time, like if she stops for even a second, she’ll lose her nerve.

“Where you going?” My voice is lazy, bored, but there’s an edge to it.

She doesn’t look at me. “Away.” There’s the root, ain’t it? She thinks she’s better than me.

She doesn’t say it, not outright, but it’s there. In the way she talks, the way she carries herself, the way she fucking looks at me, like she’s measuring how much filth she can stand before she turns away.

I should let her.

Let her walk, let her run, let her escape to her tidy little future where lads like me don’t exist.

But I don’t.

I hum, stretching out, arms behind my head. “That so?”

Her hands shake when she zips the bag. Just a little. Just enough for me to notice.

“You don’t get to do this,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t get to pretend like you care now.”

I laugh. Low, quiet. “Sweetheart, I never pretended.”

That makes her snap. “Then why are you like this?” she hisses, finally looking at me. “Why do you make it so fucking impossible to—” She stops, swallows hard. “To leave.”

I sit up, slow and deliberate. “Because you don’t want to.”

Her breath catches. She hates me for it—for being right, for knowing her better than she wants me to.

I stand, closing the distance in two steps. She shudders when my fingers skim her wrist, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You want freedom?” I murmur, tilting her chin up. “Fine. But it won’t be from me.”

Her lashes flutter, lips parting, and I press my mouth to the corner of hers—soft, possessive, a promise wrapped in a warning.

“You’re mine, ballerina,” I breathe against her skin. “Try to fly, and I’ll break your fucking wings.”

She might dream of flying, but I’ll clip her wings.

And we’ll burn in hell together.