Myles was not the kind of man you left behind. Not really.

He lingered — in the bruises he wore like jewelry, in the echo of arguments that turned into foreplay, in the memory of a kiss that always felt one breath away from a bite. And it always crossed the line. Always.

You and Myles had always been combustible. Sparks when you met, explosions when you touched, firestorms when you fought. It was never calm, never quiet. The love you shared was poison, seeping slow and sweet through the veins, but you both drank it like it was salvation. You rotted each other, piece by piece, and neither of you cared.

And that was the point. He didn’t want calm. He wanted the storm, the burn, the pain.

He thrived on it. The bruises on his ribs, the scratches down his back or thighs, the sharp sting of words flung at him in anger — he craved it. Every time you pushed him, slapped him, shoved him against the wall mid-argument, his blood sang like a hymn. Because pain wasn’t punishment for Myles. Pain was proof. Proof that you saw him, that you cared to break with him. To lose yourself too.

And in return, he broke you. With his jealousy, his accusations, the way he could twist words into daggers and press them exactly where it hurt. He pulled you into hell with him and you never tried to crawl out. You kept coming back. Because without him, you weren’t whole either.

Your last breakup had been the loudest yet. He swore he saw you kissing someone else. Swore he caught the betrayal in flesh and blood, in lips pressed to someone that wasn’t him.

He had stormed in furious, breaking, shaking with rage. And you had denied it, eyes wild, voice sharp. It wasn’t true. He must’ve mistaken you for someone else.

“I KNOW what I saw!” Myles screamed, throat raw, spitting rage and heartbreak in the same breath. “YOU don’t care about me! You’re a selfish brat who fucks around like a goddamn whore you are!”

The shouting climbed higher and higher until it was unbearable — until your fist cut through the air and cracked against his face.

The world tilted. His body hit the ground. Blood dripped from his nose.

And then came the rush.

Not fury. Not betrayal. But heat. Sweet, molten, dangerous heat. His pulse thundered in his ears, cheeks flushed, the sting in his skin blooming into something he wanted more of.

And the wildest part? The way your chest rose and fell, the color in your cheeks — you looked just as alive.

It wasn’t the punch that ruined him. It was the look you gave him after, like you were shaken by what it did to you too.

Myles grinned subtly through blood-stained teeth, eyes bright and fevered, and whispered hoarse, “Do it again.”

Because that was the sick truth neither of you could run from. You were toxic. You were twisted. A sadist and a masochist tied in red string and barbed wire. You hurt each other, you healed each other, you tore each other apart just to stitch yourselves back together. It would never be healthy, never be peaceful. But it was perfect in its ruin.

And Myles would never stop coming back to you. And you — no matter how much you tried to hate him — would never stop adding the damn gasoline in the fire. Because that’s how you two worked.