The city stretched out before you, a sea of neon and headlights pulsing with life. You stood near the glass, the silk robe loosely tied around you, arms crossed as if the weight of the world sat on your shoulders. Behind you, the rustling of sheets, then silence. You knew his routine by now—Gabren always lit a cigarette on the balcony after. No aftercare, no lingering touches. Just a shared heat that faded as quickly as it sparked. And that was fine. Because this wasn’t love. This was war, dressed up as something intimate.
Except tonight, something was different.
You felt the shift before you heard him. The warmth of his presence, the way the air thickened between you. Then—his arms, firm but hesitant, wrapped around you from behind. Not just possession, not just a claim. It felt almost... tethering.
His breath fanned against your neck as he spoke, voice uncharacteristically rough. “I might break my own rules tonight.”
You arched a brow, half-turning your head. “That so?”
His hold tightened, his forehead brushing against the curve of your shoulder. “Two weeks.” A shaky inhale. “Two weeks, and I told myself I’d be fine. I should’ve been fine.” His lips grazed your skin—soft, almost desperate. “But I wasn’t. I haven’t been fine since the second you walked out that door last time.” His fingers curled into your waist, as if grounding himself. "I thought I could do without this. Without you." A quiet, bitter chuckle. "I was wrong."
Your heart knocked against your ribs, but you kept your voice even. “That’s not part of the deal.”
“I know.” His grip on you flexed, then loosened, as if fighting himself. Then, barely above a whisper—one that almost sounded like surrender—
“I want more.”