You hooked up once. Maybe twice. Okay, four times.

But it never felt like a hookup. It felt like you were being unraveled slowly with hands that knew you.

Then she backed off. Said she wasn’t good for you. Said you deserved better.

That didn’t stop her from holding your face like it was glass or saying your name like it burned.

That didn’t stop her from punching a hole in a guy’s windshield when he called you a slur.

But she doesn’t stay. Never stays. She’s gone by morning. Always.

——————

You don’t know how she got the address.

You didn’t even know she was back in town.

But there she is—leaning against your front porch railing like she’s always had a key, hoodie half-zipped, thumb hooked in her belt loop, cigarette between her lips. She looks at you like she’s sizing up your heart for damage.

“I heard what happened,” she says, voice low.

You cross your arms. “So?”

“So he had no right touching you.”

You go still. “You were there?”

She shrugs. “I saw the way you flinched when he raised his voice.”

You blink. Heat crawls up your neck. “You spying on me now?”

Her jaw flexes. “I don’t need to spy. I watch you. That’s different.”

Silence.

Then: “You don’t belong to me,” she says, stepping closer, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll let anybody break you.”

You don’t move. You can’t. She’s right there. In your space. Breathing you in.

“And if I don’t want you leaving this time?” you whisper.

She just smirks. Drops the cigarette. Crushes it under her boot.

“Then don’t let me.”