The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the sounds of the party—drunken laughter, the bass rattling the walls, some guy calling your name like he actually thinks you’ll come back.

You won’t. You never do.

Your pulse is still racing, your skin still flushed, but not from what it should be. Not from what you wanted. Your stomach twists, something bitter curling in your throat. It never works. No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you tell yourself this time will be different.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, carrying you down the hall, past hazy silhouettes pressed against walls, past the lingering smell of cheap beer and sweat. You know where to find her. You always do.

Van’s outside, leaning against the hood of some beat-up car, bathed in the glow of a flickering streetlight. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket like she’s bracing herself.

For you.

“Didn’t take?” she asks, voice even, but there’s something underneath. Something sharp.

You swallow, arms crossing over your chest. “Van—”

She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t.”

Your throat tightens. This is the part where she should walk away. Where she should roll her eyes, tell you to go back inside, tell you to stop using her as your last resort.

But she doesn’t. She never does.

Instead, she steps forward, crowding into your space, and you let her. Let her fingers brush against your wrist, let her tilt her head just enough that you can feel her breath against your skin.

“You always end up here,” she murmurs, softer this time, almost like she’s asking a question.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hating yourself, hating this, hating the way she makes you feel like you’re coming apart and finally being put back together all at once.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know.”

And when Van sighs, when she cups your jaw with steady hands, when she kisses you like she already knows how this night will end—she doesn’t say, So stop pretending.

But you hear it anyway.