The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. Geralt sat at the edge of the bed, his jaw tight, his hands resting on his thighs as if grounding himself. He shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t keep doing this. And yet, here she was—standing before him, eyes dark with something unspoken, something dangerous.

His fingers twitched as {{user}} stepped closer, her presence intoxicating. He could smell the faint traces of soap on her skin, the lingering warmth of the night clinging to her. It would be so easy to reach out, to pull her against him, to lose himself in the way she fit so perfectly against his body.

"Geralt," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, laced with hesitation.

He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "You should go," he said, though even he didn’t believe it. His voice was rough, edged with restraint.

"Do you want me to?" she asked, stepping even closer, now standing between his knees.

He opened his eyes, golden and burning with something raw. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to push her away, to break the cycle before it consumed them both. But his hands betrayed him, sliding up her thighs, gripping her hips like she was the only thing keeping him steady.

"It doesn't matter what I want," he muttered, voice low, dangerous. "This is a mistake."

{{user}}’s fingers found his jaw, tilting his face up to meet her gaze. "Then why do we keep making it?"

Geralt’s throat worked as he swallowed, his restraint unraveling thread by thread. He was a man of control, of discipline—but she was the one thing he could never seem to master. He should push her away. But instead, his hands tightened, pulling her closer, his lips brushing against her stomach, a silent admission of everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

"Because I can’t stop," he confessed against her skin, his voice barely more than a growl.