I think about the muffins cooling on the counter. The stupid tenderness of standing in her kitchen while she slept and making her something she could wake up to. Like muffins are sufficient apology for disappearing. Like anything I'm capable of is sufficient for someone who deserves everything I can't give her.
God, I miss her.
Not just the way her body feels wrapped around mine—though, fuck, I miss that too. The velvet heat of her clenching around me, the broken little sigh she makes when I sink deep, the way her thighs tremble when she comes. I miss all of it with a hunger that borders on madness.
But I misshermore.
The way her smile starts in her eyes first—that slow, radiant thing that lights up her whole face. The sound of her laugh, soft and surprised, like she still can’t believe the world can be gentle with her. I miss the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m notwatching, like I’m something worth saving. Like I’m not just the painted monster, but the man she chose anyway.
I miss the quiet moments. Her bare feet padding across the floor. The way she hums off-key when she thinks no one’s listening. The ridiculous way she argues with Ian about cheese like it’s the most important thing in the universe. The way she traces the tattoos on my chest with her fingertips like she’s reading every scar, every sin, every broken promise, and still loves me through all of it.
I left all of that behind.
I left her warm and soft and trusting in that bed, still smelling like sex and me, her lips slightly parted in sleep, and I walked away because hurting her is the only way of saving her.
She deserves better than a lollipop and cold muffins.
She deserves a man who stays.
Instead, she got me.
A monster who kisses her goodbye with baked goods and a heart-shaped candy because he’s too fucking ruined to give her anything real. Too selfish to wake her up and watch her eyes fill with tears. Too terrified that if she looked at me while I left, I wouldn’t be able to walk out that door. And Ihadto walk out. There was no other option.
Loving her has a price, and I’m paying it in silence and guilt and the throb of missing her.
The itch starts around the same time the self-loathing does.
It always does.
A familiar burn under my skin, crawling up the back of my neck, settling behind my eyes like a thousand tiny needles.
My hands flex at my sides, remembering the feel of the powder, the sharp chemical bite at the back of my throat, the sweet, merciful numbness that used to drown out everything else. One line. Just one. Enough to blunt the edges of this grief, enough to make the memory of her smile hurt a little less.
It would be so easy to disappear inside that white static where nothing matters—not the way she looked sleeping in my shirt, not the sound of her whispering my real name, not the knowledge that I just left the only good thing I’ve ever touched to wake up alone.
Just one. Fucking. Line.
I get up, start pacing. Hands running through my hair.
I don’t carry the box anymore. I thought keeping the addiction close and not caving gave me some sort of strength. Proximity as proof of willpower. Like keeping the knife at your own throat is the same thing as not being afraid of it.
After Prague, after Valeria proved how hard she can play this game now that Sophia’s in it, I decided to get rid of it. Not that it’ll be difficult to get my hands on cocaine here in Brussels.
But I won’t give in. If I chase that high even once, I’ll never stop. I’ll drown in it. And then I won’t be able to crawl back to her. I won’t be able to keep the promise I made with my body still buried inside hers.
So I breathe through it. Through the itch. Through the self-loathing that feels like acid in my veins. Through the memoryof her smile, the way her fingers traced my scars like they were beautiful instead of ugly.
“Fuck.” I grab my jacket. Go to the hotel bar instead. It’s not my usual scene, sitting in an open space where wearing my buff would get me a concerned look from the maître d' and a wellness check from hotel security. So I opt for being the most interesting thing in the room by being the man with the ugly-ass scar.
It's the lesser evil.
The bar is quiet for a Friday—a few businessmen, a couple at a corner table, the low amber light of a place designed to make expensive drinks feel like a reward. I sit at the far end where my back is to the wall and I can see the entrance, and I order a beer I don't particularly want because my hands need something to do that isn't the karambit.
Two days.
In two days, I fly back and walk into Valeria's compound and become what I am there—her weapon, her asset, the thing she owns and runs and punishes and collects. After the best week of my life. After days of Sophia and the fireplace in July and the things we said on the living room floor that I'm still carrying in my chest like something I don't know how to put down.
She saidI love you.
