He laughed at you. Again.

In these moments, you want to erase that smirk from his face. Want to wipe it off so completely that he forgets how to make it. You want to ravish him with your own teeth. Want to tear him apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but dust between your fingers. Sometimes you think about how easy it would be: to put just a little pressure on his neck. Watch him writhe. Watch him squirm. Watch that perfect face twist into something hideous.

He'd still be beautiful, probably. Even then. That's the worst part.

Your name now falls from his lips like a joke only he understands. A mere mockery. He draws it out, twists it, makes it sound foolish even to your own ears.

This was just a facade. A lie designed to hurt you more. He wasn't cruel by nature. You knew this, remembered it from before — but he had learned cruelty. Practiced it until it sounded natural. And you hated yourself for still wanting to kiss it all away. For wanting to reach through the jagged edges and find whoever was left underneath.

"I know what you're thinking when we're this close," his voice dropped to a whisper. His thumb found the back of your neck and traced a long, slow path up to your hairline. His touch was warm. His eyes were not, "You're just the same naive—"