She stands at the edge of my hotel room, back against the wall, arms crossed like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her lipstick’s smudged, eyes glassy. We’re two storms in a glass bottle, ready to shatter. Again.

“I shouldn’t be here.” She says.

I nod. “You say that every time.”

But she doesn’t leave. She never does.

I want to hate her. I try. Every time she walks out and doesn’t answer for days, every time she kisses me like I’m oxygen, only to vanish before sunrise - I swear I’m done. And then she calls. Or I do. Doesn’t matter. One word, and it’s like we forget how much we’ve ruined each other.

I step closer. “Why are you really here?”

She shrugs, but her voice cracks when she says, “I missed you.”

It’s a lie. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t know anymore.

We kiss like punishment - teeth, tongue, too much heat. Her nails leave half-moons on my back. My hands shake when I touch her, like my body knows what my mind keeps denying: I still want her. Even when I shouldn’t.

Especially when I shouldn’t.

Later, tangled in sheets, sweat clinging to our skin, she looks at me like she’s about to say something real. Something final. But she doesn’t. She never does.

We pretend this is just one night. Like we didn’t promise that last time would be the last. Like we don’t both know we’ll do it all over again. It’s been a year of this. Of burning the house down just to feel the warmth.

I trace the curve of her shoulder. “We’re not good for each other.”

She turns her head. “No. But we’re good at each other.”

And that’s the problem. We’re addicted to the fire. To the chaos. To the almost.

We’re a slow-motion car crash that neither of us can look away from.

And tomorrow? She’ll be gone. Again.

But tonight, she’s here.

And that’s enough to make me stay in the flames.