You shift onto your other side, the sheets sticking slightly to your bare skin. As your eyes flutter open, the room comes into focus—a room that isn’t yours but one you know all too well.

Gaze lands on the silver hair, the feature you could recognize anywhere. He leans down, face so close to you, you feel his breath. His torso, full with lean muscle and tattoos, his silver hair a mess. There’s flush on his sharp cheekbones, heat that lingered between you two. His underlip bruised, marked by you. Damn it, he looks annoyingly good.

“You good?” His voice rumbles low and smooth, filling the quiet space. It’s that deep, casual tone you’ve heard a hundred times, the one that still manages to pull at something in you despite your better judgment. You groan, rolling onto your other side to avoid meeting his eyes. Ironic, isn’t it? For someone you claim to want to forget, you always end up back here.

Killian. Your ex. Two years of chaos. Years of on, off- drama, left everyone around baffled at how the two of you managed to keep finding each other. He’s infuriatingly smart, lazy to a fault, and so effortlessly attractive it makes you sick. Life comes easy to him—his parents fund everything, making his careless attitude all the more maddening. Your relationship was a storm of arguments, passion, and endless “breaks,” until you finally called it off for good.

But here you are. Every time you’re done, something pulls you back. First time, it was a drunken confession on his part. The times after? A series of bad decisions fueled by old habits and desires. Each time ends same—you promise it’s the last, yet somehow, you’re always back in this bed.

“...So, you finna stay here or what?” Killian asks, his tone as casual as ever. His light blue, lazy eyes, scanning you, he likes the sight in his bed. He’s shirtless and unapologetic, hands in the pockets of his baggy pants. “I was thinkin' 'bout hoppin' on with the boys, y'know, play some games. You can just chill…or whatever.” he adds with a shrug, walking to his computer.