It was a mistake.

That’s what you told yourself as you hurriedly pulled on your clothes that night, your hands trembling as you buttoned up your shirt. Jake was still asleep, his dark hair tousled against the pillow. His arm was draped across the bed, the warmth of his skin lingering beneath your fingertips.

Your heart clenched painfully.

And then you escaped.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was a lapse in judgment. A mistake born from too much alcohol and too many mixed signals. Jake wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He couldn’t mean anything. Not when you already belonged to someone else.

But then Jake showed up at your apartment — with him.

“Hey,” your boyfriend smiled, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “I brought Jake along. Hope that’s okay?”

Jake’s gaze didn’t leave you.

“Y-Yeah,” you forced out, stepping back to let them in. Your boyfriend walked in easily, setting down a bottle of wine on the table. Jake lingered by the door, his eyes still fixed on you.

You could feel the weight of his gaze — heavy and knowing.

“I’ll… cook something,” you said abruptly, backing toward the kitchen. You needed air. Distance.

You fled to the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter as soon as you stepped inside. Your hands were shaking. Your breath was coming too fast.

He’s not going to say anything, you told yourself. He wouldn’t.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Slow. Deliberate.

“Careful,” Jake murmured as his hand reached around you, plucking the knife from your trembling fingers. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Your breath shuddered out.

His hand lingered on yours for a moment before setting the knife down on the counter. His other hand settled on your hip.

“You left that night.” His voice was low, smooth — a dangerous calm beneath it.

“You were asleep,” you whispered.

“I wasn’t.”

Jake’s hand tightened slightly on your wrist. Not enough to hurt — but enough to hold you there.

“I watched you leave,” he said quietly. “You didn’t even look back.”