The night was stifling, the dim light from the bedside lamp barely illuminating enough for me to see her face as she sat on the edge of my bed. {{user}} looked so fragile in that moment, her eyes full of something I couldn’t want to name. There was vulnerability there, a desire to connect, to be more than this. But that wasn’t what I wanted.

I had always been clear. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. There were no lies between us, only a dynamic she somehow accepted. I grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer, and felt the subtle tremor that ran through her body.

“You’re still here?” I asked, my voice dripping with casual sarcasm as a crooked smile played on my lips. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

She didn’t respond immediately, and that irritated me. Not because I wanted an answer, but because her silence was a reminder that maybe I was wrong about the control I thought I had.

“I wanted to see you,” she finally said, her voice so soft it almost disappeared into the heavy air of the room.

I laughed, but it was a cold laugh. “Wanted to or needed to?”

The way her shoulders slumped, as if carrying the weight of every time I’d left her alone, struck me with a pang of something I didn’t want to acknowledge. I had never promised anything more than fleeting, empty moments.

And yet, there was something addictive about the way she kept coming back, as if I were the only thing she needed, even when she knew I’d discard her the moment she stopped serving my desires.

I traced a finger along the contour of her face, watching as she closed her eyes, as if my touch was something precious. I knew the power I held over her, and it gave me pleasure—a selfish, cruel pleasure.

“You really should learn to hate me,” I murmured, though I knew she never would.

She opened her eyes, looking at me with something that seemed like a mix of sadness and hope. And in that moment, I realized that no matter how many times I pushed her away, she would always come back.

And I would always let her in.