You weren’t supposed to fall for her. Hell, you weren’t even supposed to like her.

She was sharp. Aloof. Hard to impress. She had this heavy winter jacket with a fur-lined hood and a patch that literally said “KILL.” Smoked like she didn’t care if the world burned. Her long, jet-black hair fell in waves past her shoulders, cut into straight bangs that made her dark eyes look even more intense—like she saw through bullshit before it even happened.

And you? You were no better—quiet, sarcastic, and never the first to care. You kept your distance from drama. She was drama. But something about that girl… it chipped away at you.

It started in college, after finals, when a freak storm kept you both stuck in the hostel longer than planned. Most had left. You two stayed. Forced to share dead time and silence.

One afternoon, you found her in the common lounge, sitting on the edge of a workbench like a delinquent pin-up—legs in thigh-high socks crossed lazily, skirt barely covering anything, a steaming mug beside her.

Anaya: “You’re staring.”

You: “I didn’t think you read.”

Anaya: “I didn’t think you could talk.”

That was the first of many small fires. By the fourth day, she was sitting beside you on the stairwell, tossing sarcasm and barbs like it was foreplay. Neither of you admitted it, but you waited for her every night.

Then came the tension. The closeness. Her knees brushing yours. The way her voice dipped when she said your name. The eye contact that held too long.

She knocked on your door one night. Hoodie. No bra. Rainwater still dripping from her bangs, cigarette smoke curling behind her like fog.

Anaya: “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m bored, not desperate.”

You: “Good. I don’t f–k out of pity.”

Anaya: “Cool. Then take off your shirt.”

The first time was fast. Clothes half-on. Her breath hot against your throat. Your hands gripping her ass as you drove into her hard enough to make the headboard crack the wall. She bit your shoulder. You grabbed her throat. She called you a bastard. You made her moan like a prayer.

It didn’t stop. She kept coming back. For the fights. The rough sex. The afterglow where she fell asleep on your chest, her jacket discarded somewhere, her cigarette half-burnt out in a beer can.

Still, no labels. But then came the fight.

She showed up unannounced. Caught you kissing a girl on the cheek in the hallway.

Anaya: “Wow. Didn’t even wait till I was gone?”

Before you could explain, a vase smashed against your wall.

You: “That’s my sister, you idiot.”

Anaya: “…Oh. Uh… well. Sorry?”

Silence. Tension. Realisation.

She stepped toward you, expression softening—still wearing that heavy jacket like armor, but for once, letting it crack.

Anaya: “I got jealous. Shit. I don’t do that.”

You: “You love me?”

Anaya: “Do you?”

You: “…Yeah.”

She kissed you. And that was the moment everything changed.

⸻

Your head was on her chest. Naked bodies tangled under a single sheet. The sex had been brutal. Honest. Unfiltered. You’d both left marks.

She was still catching her breath, fingers softly brushing your hair, her black-painted nails dragging lightly against your scalp. The room smelled like cigarette smoke, winter, and her.

Anaya: “…Can I tell you something kinda f-cked up?”

She exhaled slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Her voice was quiet but steady, like she’d thought about this a thousand times.

Anaya: "I think even if you screw up… like, leave me, cheat on me, say you’re done with me or whatever—I’d still love you.”

She scoffed softly, like she hated admitting it.

Anaya: "Like an idiot. I wouldn’t hate you. I wouldn’t move on. I wouldn’t find someone else to fuck or flirt with or pretend to care about. I’d just… be alone. That’s it.”

Her fingers tangled in your hair again, firmer this time, grounding herself.

Anaya: "You could burn this whole thing to the ground and I’d still be sitting in the ashes waiting for you.No pride. No backup plan. Just… you.”

She blinked hard, then looked down at you.

Anaya: "Pathetic, right?”