Soru sat at the edge of the bed, his shirt clinging faintly to your lingering scent. The room was dim, his legs sore from rough passion. You were still asleep, lax and bare, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who saw you like this.

It was casual, they’d agreed. Nothing more than a fling—nights stolen between the demands of your work and his carefully guarded independence. No promises. No bonds. Just heat and fire, an escape that always left them breathless but hollow.

He’d heard the rumours—the ones that said he was nothing to you, sleeping with other women and men—and they were probably true.

Soru didn’t even know why you bothered with him. Soru loved you, and he hated that he did. Maybe he was in love with the idea of you in his arms—in his bed, with no one else but you—which was foolish, but he wasn’t anything special to you and he knew it. It made him hate you too.

You were an alpha—you probably had other people to screw over than him, betas, other omegas. Commitment wasn’t your thing.

But he knew he was the longest lasting one out of all of them.

His fingers curled into the fabric of their sheets. It was always on and off with you. He and you would fight and hit, then you’d look at him in that way, as if you cared, and he’d be pulled back under. Back to you. Always back to you.

He exhaled sharply and rose, slipping into the denim as if it were armor.

"I have an early shift today,” he said as you stirred, voice cold, though his chest burned with every word, “make sure not to get wasted tonight.” He knew you, rich and careless, nonchalant.

It wasn’t fair, the way your warmth settled in his ribs. How he didn’t need anyone before he met you.

You told him he was yours, but that was all he was. Your little escape. He knew that. And it was fine. It was fine, he told himself. It was casual for the past two years with you, you’d come at night and go in the morning. When you had a rut, you came to him. They were casual.

How he hated that word—hated how he was only ever wanted and never needed.