He never tells you where he’s been.

That’s the first thing you learn loving Tommy: answers are optional, explanations are rare, and silence is his favorite weapon. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, listening to the city hum outside the window when the door finally opens. Cigarette smoke hits first. Then him.

Leather jacket. Gold chain. That same unreadable look like he’s already decided how this conversation ends.

“You still up?” he asks, like it’s not damn near morning.

Tommy drops his keys on the table, doesn’t look at you when he says it. He never does when he knows he’s wrong. There’s lipstick on his collar—faint, but it’s there. He knows you saw it. He just doesn’t care enough to hide it.

That’s the thing about Tommy: He wants you devoted, not informed.

He’ll pull you close later. Kiss your forehead like nothing happened. Tell you you’re his girl, that nobody else matters. And for a moment—just a moment—you’ll believe him. Because when Tommy wants to be sweet, he’s dangerous about it. Makes you feel chosen. Special. Untouchable.

Until the next lie. The next disappearance. The next woman he swears “ain’t even like that.”

“You trippin’,” he mutters, finally looking at you now. Eyes sharp. Defensive. Almost daring you to push.

But underneath the attitude, there’s something else—restlessness. Fear. The quiet truth that if he ever stopped moving, stopped cheating, stopped proving himself… he’d have to face who he really is.

And he does not want to do that.

So instead, he waits. Watching you. Waiting to see if you’ll stay.

Tommy exhales, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “What? Why you lookin’ at me like that?”