The city never really slept, but at this hour, it finally seemed to breathe slower. Neon lights flickered outside the tall windows of my apartment, painting your bare back in hues of pink and electric blue. You were sitting at the edge of the bed, quietly slipping your shirt back on, your fingers fumbling slower than they needed to. You always left before the sun came up. You always made sure we stayed just "friends."

I watched you from where I was propped against the headboard, the sheets tangled around my legs and the taste of you still lingering on my tongue.

“You don’t have to rush,” I said casually, like it didn’t dig into me every time you left like this. “It’s not like anyone’s waiting for you.”

You paused.

But you didn’t turn around.

The room felt colder suddenly. The silence between us wasn’t new—it was the kind we’d grown good at surviving in. But lately, it had started to feel heavier. More real.

You and I—we never talked about what this was. Just bodies. Just need. Just nights like these where we forgot the rules we swore we wouldn’t cross.