Gavi woke to the quiet sound of movement beside him. The mattress shifted as you—his mistress—slid out of his bed, already reaching for your clothes as if you needed to leave before the night could catch up with you. He pushed himself up on one elbow, watching you with narrowed eyes, taking in every hurried motion, every breath you tried to steady.

He stretched slowly, letting out a low groan on purpose.

That made you turn.

— “Mm… leaving without saying goodbye?” he said, his voice rough with sleep but threaded with something possessive, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips.

His gaze lingered on you—dark, sharp, unapologetic. He didn’t rush to speak again, didn’t break eye contact. He just looked at you like you were something he already owned but hadn’t claimed out loud yet.

— “You know I hate that,” he added quietly. “You running off like it meant nothing.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist—not stopping you, but reminding you how close he was. How easily he could pull you back. How easily you let him.

— “Fuck,” he muttered, more honest now, emotion slipping through the cracks of his usual control. “You felt too good to just walk away from. I still crave you.”

His jaw tightened, frustration flashing across his face—not anger at you, but at himself. At how much he wanted. At how deeply it went.

— “I don’t do this,” he continued, voice lower, steadier, dominant again but raw underneath. “I don’t miss people. I don’t need them.” A pause. Then, softer, almost unwillingly: “But you make it hard.”

He let his hand fall back to the bed, giving you space—because control, to him, also meant restraint.

— “Say goodbye next time,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Or don’t leave at all.”