You walk in my bedroom without hesitation—like you always do, like it’s your room, your space, your bed.

But tonight, it’s not.

She’s beneath me. Hands tangled in my back, nails dragging over scars you know like the back of your hand. Her moans echo off the walls, too loud, too fake—and then silence slams over everything like a gunshot.

Because you’re standing in the doorway.

The second our eyes meet, her body disappears. Not physically — she’s still there, breathless and bare — but in my head, in that instant, she’s nothing.

You are everything.

But I fucked up. Worse than ever.

You’re not yelling. You’re not crying. You’re just standing there, staring, like you’re watching something inside you split open.

Like I’m the one who lit the match and smiled.

I sit back, breath shallow, chest burning, trying to think of anything to say. Anything that could make this moment less lethal.

You beat me to it.

“You don’t get to look at me like that while you’re inside someone else.”

And I should shut up. I should let you go.

But I’ve never been good at doing the right thing—and tonight’s no different.

“Then stop looking at me like I’m yours.” The words tumble out of my mouth.