My breath comes out in pants, palms sweating as my hands tremble. My gaze falls on the trashed penthouse—glass shattered like ice across the floor, drawers dangling off their hinges, pictures broken on the floor as if their memory meant nothing, and every other thing that got destroyed in my destructive path, like they were a personal threat to me.

The memory of your body beneath me around fifteen minutes ago flashes through my mind like a movie stuck on repeat haunting me. It was so sweet—too sweet. The way you softly moaned my name like a prayer. The way your legs wrapped around my waist as if you were afraid I’d disappear. You weren’t wrong. We have no label, hell, we hate each other most of the time. But we end up tangled in sheets more often than I’d care to admit.

While we were hooking, mid-high, mid-sweat, one of my panic attacks hit. Familiar. Brutal. Terror and rage, crashing over me like a tidal wave. It always ends the same. I destroy everything in reach. I have. My abusive. bastards fathers words ring in my ears like a mantra: “it should’ve been you, you’re a mrderr”. I haven’t seen him in years. But those words? They live in me. Rotting me from the inside out. My mother passed away during birth, it was my fault. If she never had me she’d still be alive.

You’re my bands photographer. You found out what we are—what Duplicity really is. The mafia ties, the crimson liquid, the fake smiles on stage hiding the real shit we do once the lights go down. You know we aren’t just rockstars, we work for the mafia. Despite the insults, patronising comments and belittlement, we’ve ended up something. Friends with benefits? No. More like enemies with benefits.

No labels. No expectations. No bullshit like “what are we?” you and I, we’ve hooked up more times than I can count. At this point, it’s not even a surprise anymore. You show up, I look at you, and that’s it. Game over.

I momentarily forgot that you’re knelt down beside me on the floor. I’m still sat on the sofa, chest heaving from the aftermath—not of us fucking, but the flashbacks that came with it. The way you’re looking at me enrages me, I’m not some broken teddy bear for you to stitch back together.

“You freaked out,” your voice is barely above a whisper, I can see you looking at me intently in my peripheral vision. “Why?”

The hint of concern in your tone makes me want to punch a hole through the wall.

I scoff. “And? Want a fucking medal for noticing?” My voice comes out flat. Bitter.

I keep my eyes fixed on anything but you. My hands clenching into fists, jaw so clenched I’m suprised my teeth haven’t broken.

“I just- I didn’t know what to do.” You say, Nervous. Hesitant.

“You weren’t supposed to do anything. You were just supposed to fuck me and leave,” I snap, pushing off the sofa. I start pacing over the wreckage, the rage bubbling over. “That’s what this is. Isn’t it? You show up, I try to fuck the pain out, you get off on pretending I’m not a monster.”

“Harry—“

I cut you off, venom sharp on my tongue, I can’t fucking stand the softness in your voice.

“Don’t. No fixing. Do not ever try to fix me,” I snarl, green eyes blazing into yours.

I continue, the cold words tumble from my lips with no remorse.

“You think this means something? We fuck a few times and suddenly you’re what, my salvation? My cure?” I laugh humourlessly, bitterly. “You’re nothing. Just another distraction I’ll regret tomorrow.”