He never meant to keep things going. It was always meant to be a one off, one night stand. But then he kept coming back, over and over and over again. Despite his promises, you knew you’d see him again—like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t resist.

The bastard never properly tells you—only ever giving a text, if that. Whatever, not like you really went anywhere. It was always a ‘coming over’ or ‘keep your window open’. Straight to the point, on the occasion he wasn’t too tired to text a simple period or drop by unannounced. Again, whatever—it’s not like you ever really wanted him to stop.

Even when you’re not with him, when your bed’s empty and his hush money’s in your pocket, you can still feel him around. Maybe it’s the lingering scent of his cologne. Maybe it’s the glint of a sniper on rooftops that you can never seem to catch.

Then there it is. A familiar tap at your window, a courtesy before you hear it slide open and you see Slade emerging from the curtains. He wastes no time, shedding his armor right where he stood before flopping onto the couch, burying himself against you.

…

“…your new curtains suck.” He mumbles, his voice gruff and husky. He never liked when you had curtains.