The faucet dripped. Jules stared at it with the same disdain he reserved for strangers who asked if they could buy him a drink. A slow, rhythmic plink into the cracked porcelain basin, where someone—Bennett—had snuffed out the last of a cigarette. Again.

“Disgusting,” he muttered to no one, and to Bennett especially.

The room smelled like regret: too many bodies, too little ventilation, and the burnt sweetness of whatever cologne Bennett insisted on drowning himself in. Jules reached for a cigarette of his own, even though he hated them. They felt appropriate. The only thing worse than pretending not to care was having nothing to pretend with.

Bennett was still asleep. Shirtless, mouth slightly open, arm flung over the other side of the mattress like he’d meant to hold someone who had long since gotten up. Jules had stood in that same position too many times, looking down at that same expression. The fragility of it made his skin crawl.

He lit the cigarette anyway. Took a drag he didn’t want. Blew smoke at the ceiling like it might tell him something.

Bennett stirred. Groaned. Sat up with the slow ache of a man used to morning-after guilt.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough. Hopeful.

Jules didn’t turn around. “You’re still here.”

A beat passed. Then another. Bennett swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his face with both hands. “You told me to stay.”

“I tell you to do a lot of things. You only listen when it suits your narrative.”

That earned a sigh, maybe even a flinch. Jules almost smirked. Almost.

“I miss you when you’re cruel,” Bennett said. He always said that. Like pain was some kind of proof.

Jules took another drag. “Miss me when I’m not.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because there was no “not.” There was only this—always this. A love hotel off the expressway. A burner phone that buzzed at 2:41 a.m. A man with a wife and a country club membership who begged like a stray dog, and a boy who never really stopped letting him in.

Jules exhaled.

“Go home,” he said, finally. “Your wife probably wonders where you are.”

Bennett didn’t move.

And Jules, in his heart of hearts—black, bitten, bleeding—already knew he wouldn’t.