You should’ve ended this weeks ago.

You tell yourself that every time. Every time he leaves, every time he brushes past you in the hallways of the athletic center like nothing ever happened. Like he wasn’t inside you the night before. Like you don’t still feel his fingers pressing bruises into your skin.

But then it happens again.

Because it’s Lukas Blomqvist. Stanford’s golden boy. The swim team’s captain. The world champion who can slice through the water like he was made for it. Disciplined, focused, controlled.

But with you, he loses control. And maybe that’s why you keep coming back. Because you like the way he unravels for you, the way his hands shake when they grip your hips, the way his breath stutters when you drag your nails down his back. It’s the only time he’s messy, the only time he lets himself need something. Need you.

But only in the dark. Only in secret.

Outside of this, he’s Lukas Blomqvist, the composed, unshakable athlete with five goddamn Olympic medals. And you? You’re just a distraction. A bad habit.

You learned that the hard way.

Like the time you caught him laughing with some girl from his sports psych class—easy, effortless, nothing like the way he is with you. Or the way he barely meets your eyes in public, like he’s afraid someone might see too much. Like they might realize you’re the same person he pulls into his bed at night.

Still, you play along. You let him text you at ungodly hours with nothing more than you up? and let him pretend like there isn’t something breaking between you every time he pulls his clothes back on and walks out the door.

Tonight is no different.

His dorm room is dark except for the glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds. You’re tangled up in his sheets, his arm heavy across your waist, his breathing deep and even. You should go. You always do. But tonight, for some reason, you stay. Just for a minute.

“You ever think about how this ends?”