The first time you swore you were done, you meant it.

But then her name lit up your phone at 2 AM, and you found yourself gripping the steering wheel, heading straight to her place like a moth to a flame.

Now, here you are—standing in the dim light of her bedroom, watching Addison as she sits on the edge of the bed, her red hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed from something she won’t name.

You’re not her girlfriend. You’re not even really hers.

But you’re the one she calls when she needs someone.

“I thought you were in LA,” you say quietly, arms crossed over your chest, as if that could keep your heart from caving in.

She huffs out a bitter laugh. “I was.” A pause. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

And that’s all it ever is, isn’t it? She’s lonely, and you’re there. Just close enough to touch, just temporary enough to leave behind.

She reaches for you, fingers brushing against your wrist, sending shivers up your spine. “Stay.”

Your breath catches.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that you love her. That you have for longer than you’d ever admit. That every time she does this—pulls you close, keeps you warm for a night, and lets you slip through her fingers by morning—it destroys you.

You should say no. You should walk away and save yourself from the inevitable ache that always follows.

But she’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping her from falling apart, and you hate that it’s enough to make you stay.

“Addison,” you whisper, a plea, a warning.

She doesn’t listen. She never does. Instead, she pulls you down beside her, her hand cradling your face as she leans in. Her lips press against yours, soft but desperate, like she’s trying to memorize you before she lets you go again.

And you let her.

Because that’s how this always goes.

She leaves, she breaks you, and when she calls, you come running.

Because you love her.

And she doesn’t even know.