I laughed bitterly. "I already am, Mikhail. Every scar, every lie, and every time I pretended I wasn't breaking. And now, it's you."
His jaw clenched, and his hand tightened on his knee. He wanted to reach for me, I could see it as his breath caught. But he didn't move.
I took another sip and leaned forward. "Maybe I should thank you," I said in a low and sharp voice. "You taught me how to fight without feeling."
He looked at me with his dark eyes, unreadable. "And did you learn?"
I gave a faintly cold smile. "Maybe."
Then I leaned closer until I could feel his breath on my lips. My words were soft but venomous.
"And maybe," I whispered, "I'll teach you what it feels like to be destroyed from the inside."
The silence between us cracked like glass; neither of us looked away.
The room felt heavy. Not with silence but with everything we weren't saying. Mikhail stood by the door, with his shirt half unbuttoned, his eyes locked on me. I stood by the window, the moonlight brushing my bare shoulders. Neither of us moved, but the air between us did, and it was sharp, trembling, and dangerous.
"You should leave," I said quietly.
He didn't. "You don't mean that."
I gave a soft, bitter laugh. "You think you know what I mean?"
"I know what you want," he said in a low voice.
"Do you?" I turned slowly, meeting his eyes. "Because I don't even know anymore."
He took a step closer. Then another until his hand lifted, hesitantly brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was too gentle. It made me angry.
"Don't," I whispered, even as I leaned in.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his breath warm against my skin.
But I didn't. No, I couldn't. When his lips met mine, the world tilted. Every wall I'd built started to crack. I told myself this was control that I was the one leading, the one choosing.
So, I pushed him back onto the bed. My fingers traced his jaw, and my lips brushed his ear. "I trust you," I whispered.
He closed his eyes, and his breath was unsteady. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I love you," I said instead, my voice sounded foreign and too soft.
He froze, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to fight it, but then he whispered it back. "I love you too."
And it broke something inside me. He touched me like I was glass. Careful and afraid to hurt me. But I moved againsthim like fire, burning everything between us. It wasn't love, not the kind that healed. It was hunger, fury, and desperation.
Every kiss felt like a lie I wanted to believe. Every breath between us was a dare, and when it was over, the storm faded into stillness. The city outside kept moving, but inside, time stopped.
Mikhail fell asleep beside me, his hand still tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm.
I lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. My heart wouldn't quiet. The words I love you still echoed in my head. His voice broke on them, real in a way that scared me.
I told myself it was part of the plan, that this was a strategy. That I was still the one in control. But when I turned to look at him, peacefully unaware, a single tear slipped down my cheek. I didn't know if it was guilt or confusion or something worse.
I got out of bed, slowly wrapping the robe around my body. My feet were silent on the floor as I moved toward the door.
I looked back, one last time. "You shouldn't have told me you loved me," I whispered.
He didn't hear it, but I did. And it hurt more than I expected. The night was too quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made every sound feel like a secret.
