“I’m coming over for the night,” Rafael says, voice low and steady like the road beneath his wheels. You hear the weight behind those words—the promise and the distance all at once. But to him, they’re just routine. Predictable.

He likes hearing the way your voice lifts when he calls, not because it means anything to him, but because he knows what it means to you. You’ll be waiting, soft and eager, ready to let him in without asking for more. That’s what he likes—the ease of it. The control.

He doesn’t feel anything for you. He never has. But your hope is convenient, and your warmth is something he can slip into for a night before driving off again. It’s not love. It’s not even affection. It’s just comfort dressed in your body and the way you look at him like he matters. So tonight, like always, he’ll come. Use what you offer. And be gone before morning.