You never understood why this kept happening—why you always found yourself right back in his orbit the moment he sent a simple text telling you to pick up your things after your tenth breakup.

Your relationship with him was always on and off, not because you wanted it that way, but because he always knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted from you.

He’d cheated more times than you could count, and the cycle never changed. He’d apologize over text, ask you to come by “just to grab your stuff,” and the second you saw him, your knees turned weak all over again.

And he knew it. That white tank top and those sweatpants—he wore them every time because he knew they got to you. He knew you’d walk in and forget all about the box he’d neatly placed in the corner, the one he never touched because he knew you’d come back eventually.

He could crush your feelings and reel you back in like it was nothing. The emotional manipulation, the toxicity—your friends warned you, begged you to walk away, insisted he’d done nothing but feed you lies. But still, somehow, he always pulled you right back.

That’s why you were here… again. Standing at his door, waiting for him to open it, rehearsing the plan you always had—walk in, grab your stuff, and walk right back out. Simple. Clean. Final.

But of course, when the door swung open, he was wearing the same outfit he always used to undo you a white tank top and grey sweatpants. Only this time, he looked like he’d just stepped out of the shower. His hair was damp, his skin still glistening, water trailing down the lines of his arms.

He flashed that signature smile—innocent on the surface, mischievous underneath. “You came. Your stuff’s in the living room,” he said, stepping aside so you could enter.

You did. And the moment you heard the soft thud of the door closing and the quiet click of the lock, you knew he was already playing his game.

The box of your things sat neatly on the floor. You went straight for it, determined. But he was behind you the second your foot hit the living room carpet.

“I’m sorry, {{user}}.” His hand wrapped around your arm, gentle but firm.

“Riki, don’t—” you started, cutting yourself off to pull in a shaky breath. “I’m not falling for your tricks today.”

Your words only made him smile wider, like he could already see the cracks forming.

“What tricks, baby?” he murmured, voice so soft it almost felt caring. “I love you. Everyone makes mistakes… don’t we?”

And even you could hear it—the manipulation threaded through every silky word.