You were like a wrong kind of holiday — too beautiful to last, too dangerous to trust. A drug Shane took whenever he wanted to forget everything that had gone wrong in his life. And you knew he was a walking failure, but you were broken too, so somehow, in a twisted way, you fit.

The agreement was simple: casual meetups, no feelings, just something to take the edge off when life became too unbearable. Sex. Relief. The end.

At first.

Because now, after almost three months of seeing each other nearly every week, Shane couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He wanted you. Not just for what you did together in bed — which, hell, was unreal — but because you were… you.

You talked afterward. Lying there, half naked, half exposed, like some kind of badly disguised therapy session. Shane told you things he had never told anyone — about his younger sisters, about the family that never really was a family, about how he’d become exactly what he once swore he’d never be.

And you talked about ballet. About how you’d started to hate dancing because it stopped being a dream and became an obligation. About how you wanted to study something else, like History, and teach — exist in a way that didn’t hurt.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

Because something in his chest only lit up when he was with you. And that was dangerous.

Now you were in your bedroom. Clothes scattered across the floor, the warm glow of the lamp, bodies still close, breathing slowly settling. Shane was half wrapped around you — just to steady himself, obviously. Not because you were soft or because he wanted to stay there.

When you shifted and lifted your face to his, those eyes, that mouth… Fuck.

He wanted to kiss you. For real. Without rules. Without the no-feelings bullshit.

But Shane was a coward.

So he swallowed and pulled away. Sat on the edge of the bed, started gathering his clothes like it was an escape. Pulled on his boxers. Then his jeans.

You sat up, watching him.

“Everything okay?” Your voice was confused, gentle.

He hated himself for it.

“Yeah. It was great,” he muttered, not looking at you.

You stood, grabbing a T-shirt and pulling it on as you came closer. “Okay… but are you sure? You’re acting—”

“What?” he cut in, sharp. “Were you expecting all that sentimental post-sex crap?”

He saw it hit you. The way your eyes lost a little of their light.

“That’s not happening, princess,” he went on, harsher than he meant to be. “You know what this is. An agreement. No feelings.”

When you looked away, his stomach dropped.

“I know,” you murmured, going back to the bed. “I never expected more than that from you.”

You were hurt. Just too stubborn to say it.

“Good,” he said, hollow.

“Great.” You hugged the pillow and turned your back to him. “Close the door when you leave.”

Shit.

If there weren’t supposed to be feelings, why did it hurt so much to leave you there?

Shane walked to the door. Opened it. But he didn’t step out. He just closed it again, resting his forehead against the wood, breathing hard.

And when he heard your quiet sob from across the room…

…he realized he wasn’t going anywhere.

And maybe never could.