She’s standing in front of me, breathing hard, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold something in - maybe anger, maybe something worse. Maybe the same thing I feel clawing at my ribs every time we’re in the same room.

“I should go.” {{user}} mutters, but we both know she won’t.

I smirk, slow, lazy. “Then go.”

She hesitates.

Her gaze flickers over me - my hands, my lips, my shirt that hangs loose, the way my chest rises and falls too steady, too controlled, like I’m not already burning inside. Like I don’t feel the same pull she does.

“This is exactly the problem.” She whispers.

I step closer, not touching, just close enough to make her feel it. To make her remember.

“What is?” My voice is low, rough around the edges.

Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her eyes flicker up to mine, and I can see it - the fight, the frustration, the want. The way she still hates that she can’t resist this.

“This.” She breathes, her voice barely there.

I lift my hand, fingers grazing her arm, slow, deliberate. She shivers. I watch, fascinated, as her breath stutters, as her body betrays her.

“Say you don’t want this.” I murmur.

{{user}} exhales shakily, her fingers twitching like she wants to push me away but can’t.

“I can’t.” She whispers.

I don’t let her think about it. I grab her waist, pulling her into me, and she lets out a soft gasp, hands gripping my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

Her body fits against mine like it always does - too well, too perfectly, like she was made to be here, tangled up with me in this endless push and pull.

We were never good together. We were fire and gasoline, a perfect storm of love and destruction. It should’ve ended long ago. It did. At least, that’s what we told ourselves.

I feel her hesitate for half a second. Then she tilts her chin up, meeting my gaze, and I see it - the moment she gives in.

Then her lips crash into mine, and just like that, we’re back where we always end up.