Toxic. Hazardous love — designated to be more primal than adoring — bleeding desire and biting words compiled into a contaminated and malicious bond. Nights encased in ruffled sheets, clothes strewn across the floor, pillows battered and tilting precariously on the edge of the mattress, one small shift to shatter the corrupted delicacy of breathless post-clarity.

Real love was foreign, a distant prospect overridden by meaningless release. Raw and unfiltered, though remaining seemingly guarded, cowering from the invisible line daring to be crossed. Forgotten night after forgotten night, deemed unremarkable despite the memories that took its tenacious hold, ignited with fleeting brushes of skin that kept hidden from scrutinizing eyes.

Bipolar infatuation, split and misguided between scorches of heat. Blissfully ignorant tender moments, languid hands sliding over the expanse of your skin in reverence, his eyes dancing with the glint of blind affection. It was surreptitious, scarce moments where the man before the torture resurfaced, with naive hope being the driving force. But as the sun rose, the scolding hate grasped the wheel, steering his control to remain submerged and masked by relentless lines of defense.

His words remained short, temper shorter. Blunt words sharper than daggers, chipping away the structured love to debris. He hated it; hated the weak moments he permitted where he faded into entanglement with you, he hated the snaps forced from his lips as you tried to worm your way into infecting his calculated mind. He hated that he needed it — you.

Late nights, ringing your phone in a pitiful and momentary tick of desperation, clinging to the sole physical intimacy he had acquiesced to. With every call unanswered, words bubbled in his throat, acid burning the muscle until it was torn from his throat, or rather his hands.

The phone shattered against the wall, remnants collapsing into pristine hardwood. His hands were tearing at his own hair, skin a lit match, begging for the fuel to spread his ache to.

His mind blacked, corrupted by a storm refusing to simmer. His consciousness slowly returned, soft sheets brushing over bare skin. His palm was pressed against heated skin and as the fog clouding his irises dissipated, his eyes landed on you. Your head laid on his chest, still rising and falling in futile attempts to process air into his lungs and pass from his lips.

"I said we were gonna stop this. This- this game," Spencer mumbled, a suppressed but biting scowl lingering under his words. "I don’t know how to make it stop… It- it’s illogical, you have me out of my mind. But I keep on coming back to you," he relented, eyes searching yours in a demand for an unknown answer.