Chris enter the dimly lit room once again, the scent of perfume and candle wax clinging to the air. Chris had told himself it would only be once. A single visit. A fleeting indulgence, and then he’d walk away.

But then there was you.

The first time had been a mistake. The second, a lapse in judgment. By the third, he stopped lying to himself. He was addicted—to your laugh, to the way your fingers traced over his skin like he was something worth touching, to the way you made him forget the weight of the world outside these walls. He told himself that last time would be the last, definitely, but yet here he is. Again. Just like always, drawn in like a moth to a flame he refused to name.

Chris sighs, running a hand through his hair as he steps inside. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that. But the thought of you kept gnawing at him, pulling him back like an invisible thread. He never asked for more, and you never promised anything. That was the way of this place.

You had warned him. 'Don’t get attached,' And yet, he had.

He looks around, searching for you, expecting the usual warmth in his chest when he finds you. But instead, his stomach twists into something cold, something ugly.

There you are, like any other time. But you're not alone.

Some other man has his hands on you waist, whispering in you ear. You're laughing—laughing—the same way you used to with him. This was the nature of your work—he knew that. You belonged to no one, least of all him.

He had no right to be angry. And yet, Chris clenches his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. But damn it all, why did it feel like he just driven a dagger straight into his ribs?