Two months ago, I wanted nothing more than to get rid of you. You were just the photographer. Another name on a list I never planned to learn. I made sure you hated every second of being on tour with us. I fucked with your room keys. Told security to “lose” your bags. Said cruel shit just to see how much it would take to make you snap.

You found out what we are—what Duplicity really is. The mafia ties, the blood, the fake smiles on stage hiding the real shit we do once the lights go down. You knew we weren’t just rockstars—we work for the mafia. You didn’t run. You didn’t flinch. You stayed.

Then somewhere along the lines I started to show you glimpses of vulnerability. Why? I don’t have a fucking clue. We’ve ended up becoming friends… well, friends with benefits.

Me and you, It’s not serious. Not technically, anyway.

No labels. No expectations. No bullshit like “what are we?” because we both know the answer and neither of us wanna say it out loud. You and me—we’ve hooked up more times than I can count. At this point, it’s not even a surprise anymore. You show up, I look at you, and that’s it. Game over.

Everyone else assumes it’s just sex. They’re not wrong. But they’re not exactly right either.

Because the way I look at you? The way you let me touch you like I’m the only one who ever has?

Yeah, it’s not just that. We both feel it. We just pretend we don’t. Because neither of us believe in love.

Niall’s house party was in full swing—music loud, drinks flowing and people doing coke in every corner. I wasn’t looking for anything tonight—just a distraction. Niall’s house was packed, the kind of party where the air’s thick with sweat and smoke, where the music vibrates through your ribs and no one remembers names in the morning.

I barely knew her. Didn’t need to.

She laughed at something I didn’t mean to be funny, grabbed my arm like she owned it, and ten minutes later we were upstairs. Guest bedroom. Door locked. Lights off.

It was fast. Messy. Forgettable.

Exactly what I wanted.

I run a hand through my hair as I open the bedroom door, shirt half-buttoned, jaw tight. The girl’s hanging off my arm, giggling like she’s just won something. Lipstick smeared. My belt’s undone, my neck’s got scratches, and I already regret letting her touch me.

But then I freeze.

Because coming down the hallway—like some twisted fucking joke—is you.

Of course it’s you.

You’re walking side by side with Niall, Liam, and Louis. Laughing. Carefree. And then you see me.

All of you do.

But I only see you.

Your smile drops like a stone. You don’t say anything—don’t need to. Your eyes flick from the girl on my arm to my undone belt, then back to my face. And the way you’re looking at me?

It’s not angry. It’s worse.

It’s cold. Like I’m just some guy. Like I never mattered. Like we haven’t been sleeping together for months, like I haven’t memorized the shape of your mouth or the way you go quiet when you’re falling asleep in my bed.

I glance at Niall. His jaw’s tight. Louis mutters something under his breath and Liam’s already pulling him away.

But you? You just stand there, frozen.

So I say it—flat, unbothered. Cruel. “Don’t look at me like I’m yours.”

The girl on my arm laughs. You look like you’re about to kill someone.