You don’t even hear Mikha come in— Just the door slamming shut. The weight of her stare.

You turn your head. Mikha's eyes are already on your mouth. Your hand’s on the counter. Hers finds your waist. Your mug hits the floor. And when she lifts you up onto that cold kitchen counter like you’re nothing but hers— You forget to breathe.

Mikha kisses you like she hasn’t seen you in years. Like it’s the last time, every time.

It’s Sunday night, but your body’s already wrecked from the week before.

⸻

Monday, hallway floor—socks still on, lights still on. She didn’t even take her jacket off. Just walked in and dropped to her knees. You never made it to the bedroom.

Tuesday, shower—you slipped, she caught you, then pushed you right back up against the tiles. You came undone with the water still running down your back and her tongue in your mouth.

Wednesday, on the couch—you were supposed to be watching a movie. You didn’t make it past the opening credits. She made you watch her instead.

Thursday, bedroom door—you didn’t even close it. She had your leg hitched up before your shoes were off.

Friday, music blaring, her hand between your thighs while she laughed into your neck. You screamed into her shoulder while the bass thumped through the floorboards.

Saturday, in her car—steamed windows, foggy breath, fingers tangled in your hair, screaming into each other’s mouths. The gearshift bruised your hip. You didn’t care. She whispered she wanted you forever, and you believed her.

⸻

Neighbors? You’ve given up apologizing. Your walls shake. Your windows fog. Your back hits the fridge, then the floor, then the counter again. You keep telling yourself, This is the last time tonight. It never is.

⸻

The sun’s already rising when you crawl into bed, bare-legged and dazed.

She doesn’t open her eyes. Just mumbles, “It’s still Sunday if we haven’t slept.” “…It’s not even dark out anymore.” “Then it’s Monday morning, and we’re not talking about it.”

You try to get out of bed. You do. You take two steps— —and nearly fall to your knees.

“Holy shit, what did you do to me?” you hiss, grabbing the wall for support.

She just grins from the bed, eyes still closed. “You told me not to hold back.”

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at her. Miss. She doesn’t care. She’s giggling now—smug, glowing, proud of the marks she left on you.

And when you finally, finally make it to the mirror in the hallway— Hair wrecked, lips swollen, thighs sore—

You pause and stare at your reflection. You’re supposed to go to brunch. See friends. Act normal. Smile politely.

Like you weren’t literally begging into her mouth eight hours ago.

You lie back down, exhausted, wrecked, still wanting more. Because you both know the truth.

It’s never just one night. It’s seven days a week.

And tomorrow? You’ll beg her to ruin you all over again.