It wasn't supposed to get to this point. That thought kept echoing in her head, even now, standing way too close. Again.
"You keep coming back." His voice was quiet, but there was nothing light about it.
"I don't," she said. It just came out—a tired, automatic defense. Barely convincing.
He waited, just for a moment. "Then why are you here?"
She didn't answer. What was she supposed to say? Any answer would prove him right.
Silence hung tight between them. Uncomfortable.
"I saw you yesterday," he said suddenly.
Her head jerked up. "What?"
"You weren't alone."
Now his words cut in a different way—sharper, no pretense.
"That's none of your—"
"It is." He cut her off, steady, controlled.
Her chest tightened. "You don't get to decide that."
He stared at her, unmoving. "I already did."
There it was—that unwavering certainty, the way he always tried to hold all the cards.
She snapped. "You don't own me." Her words came out too sharp. She backed away.
But he closed the distance in a heartbeat. "I never said I did."
He was closer this time. Too close.
She pushed back. "But you act like it."
Silence. His jaw tensed, something flashed in his eyes—but it was gone before she could figure it out.
"And you let me," he said, voice low.
That landed harder than anything else. Because it wasn't entirely wrong.
Her breath stumbled. She tried to answer—"I don't—"—but the words stuck, and he was already inches away.
"Then leave," he said. Quiet. A challenge. "Go."
But her feet stayed planted. And that… well, that said enough.
Silence again, but different this time. Charged. Waiting.
"You see?" he murmured.
Her chest kicked up, sharp with anger. "Stop acting like you know me."
"I do."
"No, you don't."
"Yes. I do."
The air between them twisted tight, no space left.
"Then say it," he said, soft now. "Say you don't feel anything."
She opened her mouth. Nothing.
Because that would be a lie. And he knew it.
His hand found her arm—not suddenly, not rough, just grounding her where she was.
"Say it," he repeated.
Her heart hammered in her ears. "I—" The word shattered before it even began.
And for him, that was enough. In that moment, everything else just vanished—the distance, the logic, every warning in her head.
He didn't force it, just closed the space left. The kiss didn't ask for permission—it happened fast, hungry, like it'd been brewing too long to hold back.
She froze. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this.
But she didn't pull away. That was the real mistake. Her hand twisted into his shirt without thinking, desperate for something solid.
Time bent, messy and chaotic and too real.
Then she broke it off, stepping back hard, breathing unsteady.
"What are you doing?" Her voice—too quiet, a little shaky. Not angry. Just rattled.
He just looked at her, waiting her out.
"You didn't stop me," he said softly.
That stung deeper than the kiss.
Her chest squeezed tight. "I should have."
He shrugged. "But you didn't."
Another silence. The truth pressed in on both of them, uncomfortably clear.
She found enough space this time. Real distance. "This was a mistake." Her voice steadier—but not by much.
A pause. Then he said, "Then don't do it again." It sounded so simple. Too simple.
She almost laughed. Something about that wasn't an ending at all—it felt like a dare.
And that was the worst part. Because when she finally turned away—really left this time—one stubborn truth followed her out the door.
It didn't feel like a mistake. And that terrified her more than anything.