Let him see.
Let him ache.
I wrap my arms around myself, pretending for a moment that it’s comfort. That it’s protection. But then my fingers trail lower again, and I twist, letting the light catch my skin, the angles of my body turning feral in the dimness.
I climb back onto the bed, not like I belong there, but like I’m reclaiming it—tainting it with something he can’t name.
And then I moan.
Soft. Hollow.
Just enough to echo through the room like an unanswered prayer.
I know what it’ll do to him.
I know he’ll lean forward, fists clenched, breath caught, eyes eating the screen like it’s his only salvation.
So I close my eyes.
I arch.
I whimper.
I touch the scars on my wrist, tracing over them like they’re sacred. Like they’re mine.
Because they are.
He took so much.
But not this.
I don’t break down. I don’t cry. I just lie there—spread out, used up, beautiful in the way broken things become when they realise they’re still sharp.
Still dangerous.
I breathe his name again.
Softer this time.
“Hook…”
Not a scream.
Not a beg.
Just a ghost.
And then I fall silent, letting the moment choke itself out, letting the weight of it pull the whole room down around me like a house built on ash.
He still doesn’t come.
Good.
I’m not done making him bleed.
I don’t know if he’s watching.
But I hope to God he is.
