The couch creaks beneath the two of you. Jill's jacket is tossed over a chair, and her fingers brush yours as she passes you the first aid kit. It's the third time this week she’s come to you like this—wounded, half-shut, but with eyes that linger too long on your lips.

You patch her up in silence, both pretending this doesn’t mean something.

Jill doesn’t answer when you suggest she stay the night; trying to keep your mind off of more intimate, not to mention forbidden, matters. Her eyes flick up to yours, and there’s a quiet storm there. She wants to. You know she does.

But all she says is, “you don’t have to do this.”

Of course you don’t. You know you don’t. But, you just can’t help it. Can’t help that you’re always drawn back to her no matter what she does, or if she’ll betray you again.

You both know what this is: it’s not love, it’s not safety. It’s the in-between. She bends down to kiss you like a promise she won’t keep, and you let her, even though it hurts. Even though you’ll wake up to an empty bed again.

She always says it’s casual. But it never feels that way.