The breakup had been brutal. Lies, betrayal—he had shattered something in you that could never be pieced back together. Almost four months had passed since you last saw him. You had deleted his number, blocked him everywhere, and sworn never to look back. The nights were hard at first, but you had learned how to live with the silence. You were healing.

Then, it started.

At first, it was just a message. "Hey." You ignored it. Then another: "I know you hate me, but can we talk?" That was left unanswered too.

But it didn’t stop there. He started showing up—waiting outside your apartment, lingering near places you frequented. You knew better. You knew what letting him back in would do.

Yet, here you were.

A pounding headache. A dry mouth. The weight of a warm body beside you.

Your eyes snapped open. Dim lighting, familiar walls, the scent of him clinging to the air. Your stomach twisted. His room. His bed. Him.

Your breath hitched as you turned your head. He was lying beside you, eyes open, watching.

"You're awake." His voice was quiet, cautious.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. He sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. "You were wasted last night. Your friends left. I found you outside that bar on Fifth." He explained, without you asking.

Your head throbbed as you tried to remember. Blurred laughter, the burn of alcohol, footsteps chasing after you. His voice, calling your name.

"You should've just left me."

He scoffed. "Yeah? So someone else could've taken advantage of you? Not a chance."

You forced yourself to sit up, gripping your temples. "This doesn’t mean anything."

His jaw tightened. "I know." He hesitated before adding, "But do you?"

Silence.

You needed to leave. Before old wounds reopened. Before the past started to feel like something worth revisiting.

But his presence was suffocating, intoxicating.

And you weren’t sure if you were still drunk from last night—or from him.