You can hear him before you see him — the quiet creak of your apartment door, the muffled sound of boots on wood, the faint smell of rain trailing in behind him.

Dick always comes in without knocking. You never gave him a key, but he doesn’t need one. He knows exactly how to slip in, how to slip out.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, lights off, the glow of the city bleeding through the window. Your phone buzzes somewhere on the floor, a few unanswered messages blinking up at you like little warnings you don’t want to read.

Tonight was supposed to be different. You promised yourself that. You told yourself you wouldn’t let him back in. You said it so many times you almost believed it.

But then he shows up, rain-slick hair falling into his eyes, shirt half-unbuttoned and sticking to his skin, looking at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth.

You don’t move. You just watch him.

He leans against the doorway, tilts his head slightly, that soft, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Rough night?” he asks, voice low and careful, like he’s testing the depth of the water before stepping in.

You snort, bitter and tired. “Don’t act like you care.”

The words hang there, sharp and unfinished.

His eyes flicker, the smile faltering for just a second. Then he pushes off the frame and crosses to you, his steps measured, cautious. He stops just out of reach, hands flexing like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

“This is just… fun,” he says, echoing words you both agreed on months ago. “We said no strings. Remember?”

You laugh. It sounds wrong in the quiet room, too hollow. “Yeah. No strings.”

Your voice cracks on it, and you hate that he notices. You hate even more that he looks at you like he wants to fix it, like he could ever fix this.

“Tell me to leave,” he says, but it’s a whisper. A plea.

You could. You could tell him to get out, to go find someone else’s bed to slip into, someone who won’t lie awake afterward counting the spaces between heartbeats.

But instead, your fingers hook into his belt loops and yank him forward.

He stumbles into you, hands coming up to cup your face like you’re something fragile he might break if he’s not careful. Your lips crash together, sloppy and desperate, tasting of rain and cheap vodka from whatever bar he stumbled out of tonight.

You kiss him like you’re trying to swallow every lie between you. Like if you take enough of him into you, the ache might stop.

His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your breath hitch. When he pulls back, he’s panting, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

“You make this so hard,” he breathes.

You laugh again, shaky, your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. “Good. It’s supposed to be hard.”

This is what you are to each other: a place to hide when it all gets too heavy. A distraction. A body. A bed. No late-night confessions. No good mornings. Just heat and bruised lips and the promise that neither of you will stay.

But every time he leaves, he takes something with him. Every time you let him in, you lose a little more of yourself.

You should say it. You should tell him to stop. To never come back.

But instead, you pull him down to kiss you again, fingers trembling against his jaw. Because if you speak — if you say the truth — you both know it would end.

And you’re not ready for that kind of loneliness.