It was over.I was done with him.
Except now he’s standing right in front of me, years later, mouth twitching with that same damn smirk—the one I used to kiss off his face—and I hate that it still affects me.His voice is tinged with that dangerous edge that used to make me come undone with just one whisper in my ear.
His eyes lock onto mine like he’s flipping through our greatest hits—every moan, every fight, every time we broke each other and kept coming back for more.
And maybe he does own those memories.
Because no matter how many times I’ve told myself I’m done with him—done with the scars, the sex, the slow-burn heartbreak—my body doesn’t fucking listen.
It remembers.
It remembers how he touched me like I was air and he was suffocating.How he murmured my name between kisses, breathless and low, like it was the only word that ever mattered.How we used to fuck like we were trying to erase the world around us—like stopping meant shattering.
And I hate him for still having that power.
I hate myself more for wanting him to use it again.
For letting every man after him treat me like an afterthought, like I was only ever good for creating lyrics and backseat sex.
Maybe that’s why I’m with Timothy.
Sweet, reliable, emotionally beige Timothy.The safe choice.The guy who tells me I’m pretty, asks if I’ve eaten, and doesn’t fuck with my head or my heart.With Timothy, everything is surface level.No real highs, no devastating lows.He keeps things light and manageable.Predictable.
I learnt that if I don’t fall, I can’t be the girl sobbing on a bathroom floor again.
I’ve been burned too much.
Let’s not forget Jagger fucking Jones.The rebound I ran to after Roderick.A bad boy with a voice like whiskey and a sex drive that could burn down cities.The first time we fucked was in a sound booth at my dad’s studio.It wasn’t romantic.It wasn’t even fully consensual on a spiritual level—I think I just needed to feel something louder than pain.
The point is, my dating history—including Roderick—reads like a cautionary tale wrapped up in a Billboard playlist.Like one of those burned CDs you regret making the second you hear track two.“What the Fuck Were You Thinking, Kit?”scrawled across it in Sharpie.
Honestly, my love life is a montage of “what was I thinking” scored by a symphony of “I told you so.”
My therapist once asked, “Where was your father during all of this?”
The answer is pretty simple.He disappeared when Mom died.He was usually drunk, working, and grieving my mom while banging women half his age because he was Connor Dempsey.
Seattle’s very own rock god and self-described talent genius.He’s the one who introduced me to Jagger, by the way.Said we’d make beautiful music together.He meant it literally, but mostly I got manipulated into co-writing songs and pretending orgasms weren’t part of the process.
Jagger was the first of many musicians my father showcased to me, like broken instruments I was supposed to fix.I was the muse, the magic, the girl who made them feel something just long enough to write a platinum single and disappear.
And I let them.For way too long.
Because I wanted to matter.
My taste in men is ...a disaster.A cosmic joke with a punchline that reads:You’re doomed to fall for narcissistic rockstars with unresolved trauma and cheekbones that should be illegal.
And this?This moment?
Staring into Roderick Wilder’s eyes, like I still remember how his actions gutted me?
This is a bad idea with a pulse.
The fact that my knees haven’t buckled is a fucking miracle.
Because standing this close, I swear I can still feel the scrape of his stubble on the inside of my thighs.I still know exactly how he groans when he’s buried deep, how his fingers tighten on my hips right before he?—
No.
