Sunlight seeps through the thin curtains, warm against your skin, but the bed beside you is cold. Empty.

You sit up slowly, your eyes scanning the room. His duffel bag is gone, his leather jacket no longer slung over the chair. The ache in your chest isn’t new, but it feels sharper this time. You should have known. He always leaves.

The room still smells like him—whiskey, leather, smoke. Him. It clings to your skin, even now, as you pull on your clothes with heavy, tired hands. Then, just as you tell yourself he’s gone for good this time, the crunch of gravel outside stops you cold.

The door creaks open. And there he is, leaning in the doorway like he never left.

Your chest tightens as his eyes meet yours, a flicker of something soft behind the crooked smirk you know too well. The silence stretches, heavy and sharp.

You want to yell, to demand why he keeps doing this—why he leaves, why he comes back, why he makes it impossible to forget him. But the words lodge in your throat, tangled in all the things you wish you could say but never do.

He steps closer, boots scuffing against the worn carpet. His presence fills the room, a weight you can’t ignore. You swear you won’t give in this time, but when his hand brushes against your arm—a fleeting, electric touch—you know it’s already too late.

His forehead rests gently against yours, his breath warm and steady as it mingles with yours. You close your eyes, torn between the voice in your head screaming for self-preservation and the part of you that aches for him, no matter the cost.

"Miss me, sweetheart?"

The morning will come, and he’ll leave again. He always does. But right now, with his touch burning into your skin and the gravity of him pulling you closer, you let yourself fall. He was no good for you, yet you always wanted him.