A/N: TW: Smut here is a bit heavier than my usual so just want to emphasise that this is purely fictional ;)!
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I glance at my bedside clock again — 2 A.M.
I should be used to this by now—the way Mikha slips in and out of my life like a shadow, leaving just enough warmth in my bed to make me crave more. My apartment still smells like her: faint traces of her perfume mixed with the cigarette she swore she wasn't smoking again. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on my chest. No new messages. No missed calls.
I know where she is. I always do. And she's not here.
People tell me I'm stupid for this, for letting her waltz in and out like she owns me. Maybe they're right. Maybe I am crazy for a woman who treats me like an afterthought. Maybe I should stop pretending that I don't care that she still runs to them when the night gets too long, when she needs something I can't—or won't—give.
But the thing is, when she does come back?
God.
I sigh, throwing an arm over my face, trying to block out the truth. Because the truth is, no matter how many times I tell myself I'm done, the second she walks through that door, I'll let her ruin me all over again.
The sex is good. Too good.
And that should be all this is—a convenient arrangement, a casual thing, a secret we both pretend doesn't mean more than it does.
But then her mother called yesterday. Told me, in that soft, knowing voice, that I was the best thing Mikha ever had. Said Mikha was a fool for not seeing it.
And I believed her.
That's the real problem, isn't it? Not the way Mikha disappears for weeks at a time, or how I keep my phone volume up just in case she decides to call. It's that deep down, I still believe there's a version of this story where she stays.
And I don't know what's worse—knowing she won't, or knowing that even if she did, I'd never be enough to make her stop running.
I exhale, shaking my head. I should be smarter than this. Should have more self-respect. Should block her number, change my locks, and finally stop letting her pull me under.
But I won't.
Because the loving's so good.
And if I could stop it, I would.
/
The knock comes just as I'm about to drift into that restless half-sleep—three times, never more, never less.
I freeze. My body betrays me before my mind can catch up, heart racing, breath hitching. I know it's her. It's always her.
For a second, I consider ignoring it. Just this once. Let her stand outside my door and wonder how it feels to be the one left waiting.
But who am I kidding?
I drag myself out of bed, feet cold against the floor as I pad toward the door. I don't check the peephole. I don't need to. Instead, I press my forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath before unlocking it.
Mikha stands there in the dim hallway, hood up, hair messy, lips parted like she's about to say something but isn't sure how. She smells like rain and a night spent somewhere that isn't here.
"Hi," she says, almost sheepish.
I should say no. I should tell her to go home—wherever the hell that is.
