His addiction to you is not healthy. Not for him, at least. Prompto should have known that all of this would be nothing more than quick and fleeting fun when, after his first 'I love you,' your only response was a dry, awkward laugh and the way your gaze shifted.

Yes, well, that broke his heart in two, but it's not as if he could leave. Leaving you, your body, stopping photographing your beautiful smile stained with ice cream—all of that seemed cruel.

More cruel than being your rebound, more cruel than you using him for your own pleasure and throwing him into the kitchen trash, along with all his admissions and feelings.

But, as said, Prompto can't leave. Deep down, he doesn't want to. This is one of the thousands of times when you reject and refuse him. Last night was long. He remembers well, very well;

the way your hips bounced on top of him, how your nails were tearing into his back, how your lips were calling out his name as if it were some sort of desperate prayer—and he also remembers how you asked him to shut up when, once again,

a shaky and torn 'I love you' slipped from his lips. He definitely shut up. It was like a retroactive orgasm, for God's sake.

The day isn't as good as he would like, but it’s good to see you sleeping angelically beside him. It’s like a deity exuding beauty and charm, sent from the heavens just to blame and punish him for sins he doesn’t remember committing.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his naked body from the night before moving closer to yours.

Prompto's gentle fingers touched your cheek, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. "I love you," it was almost automatic.

The blond couldn't hold back. It seemed he would implode if he did. "Baby? Wake up. It's already morning," just to try to cover up what you’ve begged him a million times not to say.