The sun had barely risen. Faint gray light leaked through the slats in the blinds, striping across tangled sheets and bare skin. The room was still—frozen in that fragile silence that comes after a storm. Not peaceful. Not soft. Just... raw.

You lay motionless on your side, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might offer answers. Your skin was still flushed from the night before—bruised, kissed, claimed. But your heart? Your heart was wrecked in a way you couldn’t name.

Behind you, Hughie hadn’t moved.

His arm was slung over your waist waist, heavy and warm, fingers curled loosely against your stomach. His bare chest rose and fell against your back, calm on the surface, but his grip—God, his grip betrayed him. It wasn’t relaxed. It was clinging. Desperate in that quiet way he’d never say out loud. His face was buried in the curve of your neck, breath hot and steady against your pulse, like he couldn’t stand the distance even an inch would bring.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

Last night was supposed to be hate. Nothing more. Just fury and release—like bleeding out poison. He had kissed you like punishment. Touched you like revenge. Every time you moaned his name, it was a dagger to his chest—because he hated you, didn’t he?

He found you under Pierce O’Neil years ago, makeup smudged, your scent wrong, your eyes wide with guilt mania when you saw him in the doorframe. You had broken him. Two years ago, you had ruined him in a way no one else ever had. That image—those hands on you, that fake smile, your body giving in like it meant nothing. And he had believed it. Had packed up everything and vanished, not even letting you explain. Because he couldn't bear to hear your voice lie to him.

Or maybe... he couldn’t bear the chance that it hadn’t been a lie.

But now, holding you like this—his ex, his weakness, his fucking addiction—he felt everything he’d tried to kill inside himself start to resurface. The way your body fit into his like it was made for him. The warmth of your skin against his chest. The scent of your hair. The way his name still sounded right on your lips, even when it was whispered in hate.

He hated you.

He wanted uou.

Hughie still fucking loved you.

That truth sat like acid in his throat.

His fingers twitched against your side, instinctively pulling you closer, anchoring himself to your heartbeat. Maybe you’d get up. Maybe you’d pretend it hadn’t happened. Maybe you’d say something cold, or worse, tender, and he’d shatter all over again.

But for now, he stayed quiet. Still. Breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive. Because as much as he wanted to forget you, erase you, burn every memory—

Hughie couldn't.

And in that moment, as the morning light touched your skin and silence stretched between you, Hughie Andrews Biggs knew one thing for sure:

He might never forgive you. But he would never stop wanting you