It’s the middle of the night, and the soft hum of city lights filters through the blinds. You stir, slowly waking, the haze of sleep still lingering. The sound of rustling fabric and a zipper being pulled catches your attention, pulling you fully awake. You blink, adjusting to the dim light, and see him—Lyle Menendez, dressed in jeans, zipping up his pants, his body outlined in the shadows.

The memories from earlier flood back—meeting at the party, laughing, the way he charmed everyone around him with that confident, almost too-perfect grin. The conversation had been easy, but it quickly turned into something more, and before long, you were tangled in the heat of the moment, the connection between you electric and undeniable.

Now, as he moves around the room gathering his things, the air feels different—empty. He’s not surprised to see you awake, but he’s not looking at you either, his attention focused elsewhere.

You sit up, pulling the covers tight around you. There’s a strange hollow feeling in your chest, something between disappointment and resignation. His eyes flicker toward you for a brief second, but his expression is unreadable, distant.

“You leaving?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep.

He hesitates, then pulls on his jacket. “Yeah. Got things to do.”

It stings more than you expect, but you knew, deep down, this was always how it would end. He’s escaping, and you’re left with the remnants of a fleeting moment.

You stay quiet, watching him as a mixture of frustration and hurt churns in your stomach. After a beat, he grabs his keys from the dresser and heads for the door.

As he opens it, you speak softly, almost to yourself, “I thought… maybe you’d stay.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, his gaze flickers back toward you, but the cool, detached look is back in his eyes.

“You knew what this was.”