He never knew what a real relationship was supposed to look like. How could he? His childhood was nothing but blue flames and scalded skin, a father who only saw him as a failed project, a mother who flinched at the sight of him. So when you wormed your way into his life, clinging to him with bright eyes and a stubborn heart, he didn’t understand it, didn’t trust it.

At first, he let you close because it was easy. You laughed at his cruel jokes, patched up his burns when he didn’t bother to. You didn’t flinch when his hand hovered by your cheek, even though you should have. Maybe that’s what hooked him. Maybe it was your mistake.

But even back then, it wasn’t stable. Some days he’d wake up in your bed, your breath warm on his shoulder, and think, maybe. Other days he’d disappear for weeks, crash in some damp hideout, drown himself in the smell of burnt flesh and cheap liquor just so he didn’t have to think of you.

He did something again. Said something. Maybe it was how you kept asking him where he’d been, or how your voice cracked when you said you missed him. Maybe it was how you made it sound like he was the only one hurting.

So he spat the words, sharp and cold. Told you he hated you. That he could replace you tomorrow if he wanted. That the only reason you stuck around was to play mind games—make him think this was something worth fixing.

You’d just stood there, eyes wide and wet. He hated that look more than anything. Hated how it crawled under his skin, made him want to pull you close and promise you the opposite of every rotten thing he’d ever said.

Instead, he turned away. Let the door slam behind him.

Hate me. He almost begged it. It was easier if you did. If you could just see how twisted he was, how broken. Then maybe you’d finally stop trying to fix what was beyond repair.

But even after all that, you found him again. In some crumbling alley, half-drunk, half-dead from another reckless fight. You pressed a cloth to his split lip, scolded him under your breath. Your hands were gentle. Too gentle.

“Why do you keep doing this?” he rasped. Voice hoarse from smoke and shouting.

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him like he was something worth saving.

That’s when he snapped. Fingers digging into your wrist, eyes burning in more ways than one. “Stop looking at me like that. Like I’m yours. I’m not. I’ll never be.”

You flinched. He let go. Watched the faint red marks bloom on your skin where he’d held you too tight.

Date me, break me, easily replace me.

He almost laughed. Because it was true. You could walk away, find someone whole, someone who wouldn’t tear you apart every other day. Someone who didn’t smell like ash and regret.

But you didn’t. You stayed.

That was the worst part.

Because despite everything he said, everything he did to push you away, you still chose him. And it scared him more than anything—how badly he wanted you to keep choosing him, over and over, even if it meant you’d both end up ruined.

So he sat there in the dark, back against the cold brick, your warmth pressed against his side. Pretending, just for a moment, that maybe this was something real.