He’s the last man I should want — and yet the easiest one to pull in. Every argument is just heat before the spark, like standing too close to a fire I know I can manage. His eyes look for meaning; I give him reaction. When the doors shut, it’s not about him — it’s about what I take. His breath, his attention, the silence before he thinks it matters. It doesn’t. There’s no future in it, and I don’t care. I’m not looking for love. I want the power, the control, the thrill of watching him fall deeper while I stay untouched. Maybe it’s not even desire. Maybe it’s just a habit — the kind that keeps getting better the more you feel nothing at all.