paige

“You’re leaving…again?”

It’s been two hours since Mark got home from rehearsal—two hours of you pretending that this still counts as time together. He’d come in quiet, shoulders slumped, hair damp at the edges from sweat, exhaustion rolling off him in tiny yawns. You kissed his cheek, gently, not wanting to add to his pressure by pressing too hard. Then you told him to sit, to rest.

You always let him rest.

You always understand.

You have to understand.

So, in your pursuit of understanding him, you curled up beside him on the couch, tucked yourself into his side like you’ve always done when he gets home, and let the TV fill the silence he didn’t seem to have the energy to bridge. His hand rests on your thigh, but it doesn’t move. It doesn’t trace, doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t absentmindedly pull you closer the way he used to when loving you was instinct instead of effort.

But still—you didn’t say anything.

Because he’s tired. Because he’s busy. Because his world is bigger, louder, faster now, and you’re trying—God, you’re trying—to not be the thing that slows him down. 

So you make yourself smaller.

You bend around his schedule, carve yourself into the little space he leaves behind. Late nights, early mornings, cancelled plans that you pretend don’t sting because he looks so sorry when he does it, and that has to count for something, right?

It has to.

It used to.

But then his phone rang.

With that single ring of buzzing, everything shifted. The way his body went still, the way his jaw tightened slightly before he reached for it. He didn’t, he couldn’t, even look at you when he answered and listened. Not until he sighed and let out the faintest little: “Okay.”

Always okay.

You hate that fucking word because okay always means yes. Never no, not even once. Not even for you.

His hand slipped from your thigh as he stood and started moving around your shared apartment. You followed him without thinking. Bare feet padding against the wooden floor after him. It’s a little pathetic, really. Maybe if you stayed close enough in his shadow he wouldn’t disappear completely.

Short lived thought, because the minute you get to your bedroom, you see him already pulling his packed suitcase from the corner of his closet. 

It’s that preparedness that really does it for you. Hits you hard in the stomach like a rock. The way there’s always a bag waiting, like this—like you—are temporary. Something else can, and will, easily call him away, and he’ll go without needing to gather anything, without needing to choose. 

You never ask him to, and a part of you wonders if that’s because you hate the possibility that the choice is never you. That the likely possibility is not picking you. 

So now you’re in the doorway, arms folded tight across your chest, watching him move around the room like he hasn’t been gone from it more than he’s been in it lately. It’s weird—watching him like this. He knows exactly where everything is, but he barely exists here anymore. 

Your eyes drift, slow, around the space. The bed. The dresser. The windows.

God, the windows.

You remember this place before it ever felt like this. Before it felt…cold. You remember standing here two years ago for an apartment viewing, and there was sunlight everywhere. You’d loved that—the light. The way it made everything feel warm. Mark loved it too, but he loved something else more…

“I can’t wait to fuck you against the windows,” he’d said, mouth right against yours, already smiling. “City behind us, everyone else out there, and you’re just—mine.”

You’d rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. You always were with him back then.

“And then,” he’d added, softer, “I’ll wake up with the sun ghosting over you every morning. Hot as fuck. We’re definitely buying this place.”

You believed that version of him. The one who couldn’t wait to be here. The one who made it sound like this—like you—were the thing he was building his life around.

But now the curtains stay closed most of the time, and the light doesn’t bleed in. He’s not even here to see the sun ghost over you, never mind fuck you. You sit in the dark more than you sit in anything else, phone in your hand, TV on low, pretending you’re not listening for the door.

Waiting.

Always fucking waiting for him to come home. 

“You’re leaving…again?”

He pauses, just for a second, but he doesn’t turn to face you right away. Instead, he just exhales slowly. “Y/N, you know I have to.”

You nod, even though he’s not looking. Even though it feels like agreeing to something you never actually signed up for. 

“Right,” you murmur. “Of course you do.”

There’s a pressing silence where you wait for him to say something else. To explain, or apologise. Or even just for once hesitate when it comes to leaving you. But you know he won’t because he hasn’t done that in years when this first started happening. 

Of course you knew what you were getting into when you started dating Mark Lee. At least—you thought you did.

Back then, he was just Mark from geometry. The boy who tapped his pencil against the desk because he had music drilled into his bones. He sang too loud in the choir and tried to recruit as many people to join the bleachers. You had a huge crush on him back then; it was safe to say you built a life around him before either of you even had one.

You’ve known him since you were teenagers. First crush, first kiss, first everything. When you love someone like that, it’s not a question of if you’ll stay—you just do. You grow around and into each other. 

You knew all about his dreams. As you said, Mark always wanted music, and you loved that about him. You loved him for it. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. So you made a promise not to be the thing that held him back. His wins would be yours. His life would be yours. Even if it meant stretching yourself thin trying to keep up with something that was never meant to include you fully. 

And for a while, it worked. Or maybe you just told yourself it did.

Because now—

Now he just keeps packing. And something inside your chest shifts. No—breaks. It’s like a crack splintering all the way through your chest as you notice the way he doesn’t fight for you the way you’ve been quietly, desperately fighting for him.

Your voice comes out quieter this time. “When do you come back?”

He zips the suitcase. That sound is loud and final. “A few days,” he says. “I’ll text you.”

I’ll text you.

You almost laugh. Like that’s enough. Because—what is that supposed to be? A consolation prize? He treats you like you’re something that can be maintained through notifications and read receipts and something to be scheduled in. 

Swallowing hard, you feel your throat tighten and burning because there’s something pushing up that you’ve been suppressing for months, maybe even longer. Every cancelled plan, every “I’m busy,” every night you told yourself next time will be better.

“Mark,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through his name. You don’t even know how to finish it without breaking something open that you won’t be able to fix. 

Do you even want to fix it? 

He finally looks at you then. And for a second—just a second—you see it.  A small wash of guilt that passes just as quickly as it comes. Because, well, it always passes.

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not okay.”

He straightens at that, grip tightening on the handle of his suitcase like he needs something solid to hold onto. “What’s not okay?” he asks, a little biting. “Me going to work?”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t get it. Like you can make this smaller than it is so you don’t actually have to hear me.”

His jaw sets. “I am hearing you.”

“No, you’re not,” you say. “You’re waiting for me to say something unreasonable so you can tell me I’m wrong and we can move on from this.”

His brows pull together. “I’ve never done that.”

“You’re doing it right now!”

A thin, uncomfortable pause settles.

“Okay,” he says finally, forcing himself into patience. “Okay. You’re not okay with me leaving. I get that. But, Y/N, you kn—”

“I swear to God, Mark,” you cut in, nostrils flaring, “if you say I knew what I signed up for when I started dating you, I will genuinely blow a fuse!”

Mark just…stares at you.

Mouth parted, like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence. Like you’re going to laugh and take it back or tuck it into something smaller and easier for him to hold. And a part of you almost does—because you’ve never spoken to him like this before. 

You don’t speak to him like this.

But you’re so tired.

So unbearably, bone-deep tired of watching him leave—of letting him kick you on his way out and still being the one who bends down after, licking your own wounds clean like a puppy so he never has to look at the mess he’s made.

His lips press together, thinly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Y/N. You knew. You encouraged it.” 

That makes your eyes narrow. Maybe it’s the impersonal way he keeps saying your name—your actual name. Back when you started dating, he wouldn’t even use it. It was always baby, babe, something cheesy and close and yours. 

“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing the sting. “I did encourage it. Because I chose you, Mark. I chose your happiness.” Your voice cracks, but you push through it anyway. “It’s a shame you’ve never been able to do the same for me.”

Defensively, his expression hardens. “What are you talking about? I do choose you. I am choosing you. I’m here, aren’t I?” 

His audacity almost knocks the breath out of you.

“Yeah. For the next five minutes, maybe.” You push yourself off the doorframe, stepping further into the room whilst shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re visiting, Mark,” you tell him. “That’s not the same thing.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” You shoot back, the syllable catching on something jagged in your chest. “Then what is fair? Because I’m trying really hard to understand what part of this is supposed to feel okay to me.” 

“This is my job,” he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair because you’re exhausting him. “You knew that. You’ve always known that.”

“I know,” you say immediately. “I know and I’ve never had a problem with your job.”

“Then what is this?” he gestures between you. “Because right now, it feels like you do.”

“It’s not your job that’s the problem. It’s—” 

The words snag somewhere in your throat. They don’t come out clean. They never do anymore. “It’s everything around it,” you finish, quieter. “It’s what it’s turning us into.”

He shakes his head immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I’m choosing something over you.” His voice sharpens. “I’m not. I’m doing what I’ve always done. What I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And I’ve been right there,” you cut in, softer now—but it hurts more like this. “The whole time, Mark. I’ve been there for all of it.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” you ask. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do.”

The confession hits him harder than you expect. You can see him processing it—the flicker of something uncertain behind his eyes. Brittle silence stretches between you. You’re certain it could snap if either of you breathes too hard.

“Y/N, I don’t understand—”

“I know you don’t,” you cut in, almost gently. Then to yourself more than him you say, “you never do.”

He drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Then help me understand, because from where I’m standing, this is coming out of nowhere.”

“Out of nowhere?” you repeat, staring at him like maybe—just maybe—he’s joking.

“Mark, I’ve been right here.”

“I know that—”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ve been left right here. Every time you cancel. Every time you leave. Every time you say ‘I’ll make it up to you’ and then don’t—I’ve been right here. Left behind.”

His expression shifts. “I do make it up to you.”

“When?” 

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s what I thought.”

“That’s not fair,” he says again, clinging to it. “You know how busy I am right now.”

A defeated tut breaks out of you. “God, I am so sick of your definition of fair.” You shake your head, pacing now because standing still feels impossible. “Nobody understands how busy you are more than me. I always know exactly where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re with—”

“Because I tell you.”

“And I listen,” you fire back. “Every time. I adjust. I move things around, I cancel plans, I wait—”

“So now you’re mad that I communicate?” He cuts in. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” he presses, frustration rising to meet yours. “Because it sounds like no matter what I do, it’s not enough for you.”

Your chest twists at that. Because that’s not—that’s not what this is. Can’t he see?

And the audacity. 

‘What he does?’

What does he do?

Sucking in a breath, you start slow. “I’m saying that I don’t feel like I’m part of your life anymore.” 

That quiets him.

“I feel like I’m something you visit when you have time,” you continue, throat tightening. “Like I’m… in between things. Like a burden.”

“That’s not true.”

“But it feels like it is,” your voice cracks despite everything you’re doing to hold it steady. “Do you get that? That it feels like it is?” 

He shakes his head immediately. “I can’t control how you feel.”

“No,” you scoff, “but you can at least care about it.”

“I do care—”

“Then why doesn’t it change anything?”

Silence.

The question that’s been sitting between you for months—maybe longer. The one you’ve swallowed over and over again because you were too scared of what the answer might be.

You’ve given him signs. God, you’ve given him so many.

The nights you wake up alone, storms in your eyes with the sheets cold from where he should be, listening to him pacing in another room over something that can’t wait until morning. The way your body has started to feel like it’s running on empty, like something vital is quietly shutting down inside you. The mirror reflecting someone duller, greyer—someone you don’t recognise anymore.

You’re sick. But you thought it would temporary. You thought love would fix it. That time would fix it.

It hasn’t.

“I keep thinking,” you whisper, “if I just give it more time… if I just be more understanding, if I just—be better about it…”

He watches you, silent.

“It’ll go back to how it was.” Your laugh breaks halfway through. “But it doesn’t. It just keeps getting worse.”

“It’s just a busy period,” he tries to soothe you. “It won’t always be like this.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to believe me.”

“How?” you turn to him with an edge flashing through your exhaustion. “This is the life you’ve always wanted, Mark. The busy. The music.”

“It is,” he says without hesitation. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you in it,” he adds quickly.

“Then where am I? “Where do I fit?” you press, voice shaky now. “Because I don’t see it anymore. I don’t see where I’m supposed to go in all of this.” 

“You’re my girlfriend,” he says, like that should be enough.

And if it were different circumstances, it might be enough. But right now, it’s like he won’t admit you’re both broken. 

You’ve been his girlfriend for years, and somehow it’s still like this—still waiting, still bending, still shrinking yourself into something that fits into the gaps of his life instead of ever being part of it.

And it’s not like he’s going to marry you. When would he have the time? When would he ever stop long enough to realise he should? And worse—why would he need to?

He already has you.

You, who will laugh it off, defend him, like the pathological people pleaser you are, by making excuses that sound so convincing you almost believe them yourself when your friends point out his behaviour.

He’s just busy. It’s a big opportunity for him. It’ll settle down soon.

Ten years, and you’re still saying soon.

Because all you’ve ever wanted—all you’ve ever needed—is for him to see you.

Really see you.

And instead, you survive on pieces of him. On the scraps of his attention, the half-finished conversations, the fleeting touches that feel like habits. You take them, hold them, stretch them as far as they’ll go—and tell yourself it’s enough.

Even when it’s not.

“Being your girlfriend isn't a place,” you finally say. “It’s just a label. A word.”

He looks at you like he genuinely doesn’t understand why that isn’t enough. And maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole problem.

“I need more than that,” you admit, your voice barely holding together. “I need to feel like you’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

“I would miss you.”

“But would it change anything?” you ask. “Would you not go tonight? Would you stay if it meant I’d be gone when you came back?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t.

You swallow, chest aching because it feels like something is physically tearing inside of you. 

“I give you everything I have,” you mutter. “All the best parts of me. The patient parts. I try to be so understanding. I try to be easy to love.”

Your voice shakes.

“I try to be the kind of person you wouldn’t have to choose between.”

A tear slips down your cheek, but you don’t wipe it away.

“And I think that’s where I went wrong.”

He takes a hesitant step toward you, his voice ultra soft. “You didn’t—”

“I made it too easy,” you shake your head. “I made it so you never had to fight for me at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then when have you?” you ask, looking at him—really looking at him. “When have you fought for me, Mark?”

He opens his mouth.

Nothing.

And it hurts more than if he’d said the wrong thing. Because at least the wrong thing would be something.

You were waiting. Some stupid, fragile part of you was still waiting—for him to finally choose something. To risk something. To lose something. To prove you wrong. 

He could fucking do it right now. But he doesn’t.

He literally doesn’t.

And you’re fading. 

“See, that’s the issue,” you say, almost laughing through the ache. “You don’t fight, Mark. And I’ve been fighting for both of us this whole time. On the front fucking lines, might I add. I’ve given you nothing but my endless empathy.”

His brows pull together. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Because you don’t ever have to!” You shout. “Because I just do it because I love you, asshole,” you grit. “Because I thought that’s what loving you looked like.” 

Silence settles again. 

“So what are you saying?” he asks finally. “That I don’t love you?”

You hesitate. Because this—this is the answer that, once spoken, won’t let either of you go back to what this was before.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Do you?”

His head snaps up like you’ve slapped him straight across the face. A part of you wants to. 

“Of course I fucking do,” he bites, anger flashing quickly across his dark eyes. “Are you serious?”

It’s funny. His confession sounds like anger instead of certainty. Feels like defence instead of love. 

Now he decides to be a soldier, huh?

“How can you love someone and not realise they’ve died?” 

“What do you mean?” he asks, and the anger drops out of his voice so fast it almost echoes. “What does that mean?”

For a second, he looks panicked. Really panicked.

Which is odd, because you’re not.

You’ve spent years matching him. Meeting his urgency with your own, your heart racing every time his did, bending and breaking in real time just to keep up with him.

But now—nothing.

No spike. No pulse. No desperate need to fix the situation. You search for it anyway, out of habit. Press against your ribs like you might find something still beating for him there. There’s nothing. Only empty. 

And something that feels a little too much like peace. And maybe… a little like pity.

“Y/N,” he says again, stepping closer now, reaching out for you with one hand. “What does that mean?”

You glance down at his offering. One hand. One fucking hand, because the other one still has the suitcase hanging from it. 

He’s still packed. Still ready to go. 

And that’s your answer.

“How long can we really keep doing this, Mark?” 

“Baby, don’t—” 

You turn away from him before he can finish, moving toward the dresser, your hands already reaching for your own bags—only yours aren’t ready to go. You’ve never thought about this…about leaving. 

Confusion etches his brow. “What are you doing?” He asks. 

You don’t answer right away. You just pull open the drawer, grab the first few things you see. A shirt. Jeans. Underwear. 

“Y/N,” he says again, louder this time. “Answer me, please. What are you doing?”

You unzip a bag and start folding without really seeing what you’re touching. “See?” you say, glancing at him for only a second. “It’s not a nice feeling, is it?”

His brows pull together. “What are you talking about?”

“Watching your partner leave,” you clarify. “It doesn’t feel good, does it?”

Alarm scorns across his features. Real alarm and worry. “You’re leaving?” he asks. “You’re—are you serious right now? I can’t believe you, Y/N.”

You let out a breath, but it doesn’t steady you. Nothing really does anymore.

“This isn’t optional for me,” he goes on, frustration bleeding and clinging to the only argument he’s ever had. “You think I like this? You think I want to be running around all the time instead of being here?”

“It doesn’t matter if you like or want it, Mark,” you cut in, finally looking at him properly. “You’re doing it. And honestly…” your voice softens, not out of kindness, but because there’s nothing left in you that can rise to meet him anymore. “You’re losing me.”

His eyes flick down to the bag in your hands. To the way you’re folding things. His jaw tightens. “Looks like I already have.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Because this is where you usually step in. This is where you fix it. Where you laugh a little, relieve it and tell him that’s not true, that you’re not going anywhere, that you’re still his.

But you don’t. You won’t. 

Standing there, holding the edge of your bag, you realise for the first time since you were teenagers, you’re not sure love is enough to make you stay.

“Well,” you sling the bag over your shoulder. “What’s that saying?” 

He looks up at you. You hold his gaze for a second longer than you should. Long enough for it to hurt when you land the final blow.

You’re getting finger fucked in the back of the club, bass thundering through the walls and straight into your spine, and you feel absolutely zero shame about it.

In fact? This was the plan.

You didn’t spend forty-five minutes perfecting your eyeliner and squeezing yourself into a skirt that could double as a belt for nothing. You came here with a purpose. Get under someone new so you can forget about the someone old.

And the hottie with pouty lips, silver rings on his fingers, and a black jacket stretched distractingly across his shoulders walked right into your trap.

Hook, line, and sinful little sinker.

It all started earlier tonight when you found the skirt. The itty bitty, teeny tiny, little slutty skirt. You think it’s from your freshman year of college but you can’t remember exactly when you stopped wearing it—only that your ex hated it. And you can’t blame them. When you bend over, it becomes more of a suggestion than an article of clothing.

“Can you see my ass when I bend over?” you asked Giselle, twisting in front of the mirror and pretending not to admire the way the thin fabric hugged your curves. 

Giselle didn’t even look up at first, still crouched on the floor applying her mascara. “Babe,” she deadpanned, finally glancing over. “I think I can see your pussy.”

You straightened slowly. “Yeah?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

You leaned closer to the mirror, turned, checked the side profile. “Okay, good.”

Giselle barked out a laugh. “God, I forgot how much of a slut you used to be before that ex of yours had you on house arrest.”

“I was not on house arrest,” you said, shoving your tits up in your bra and glossing your lips. “You make me sound like one of those girls who lets their partner dictate their life.”

She just stared at you.

Blankly.

“Babe,” she said gently. “I love you. But you were.”

Okay.

Maybe.

You did cancel girls’ nights sometimes because they “didn’t like the club scene.” You did stop wearing half your closet because it was “too much.” You did stay home most weekends because the sex was too good and the drama of breaking up felt exhausting.

But that was before.

Before the fight. Before the breakup. Before you realised good sex isn’t worth shrinking yourself. 

So tonight? Tonight you’re expanding.

You’re looking for someone hung. Someone new. Someone who’ll fuck you in a grimy club bathroom because apparently good sex in the city is cheaper than therapy and way more effective after a breakup. 

Which is how you’ve ended up pressed into the back of the club, half-hidden by a shadow of bodies with the bass pounding so hard it rattles your teeth. The hottie’s palm is flat against your stomach holding you steady while his other hand slides between your thighs. His fingers dip under your microscopic excuse for a skirt, no hesitation, no asking. He nudges your panties aside and—

“You’re not wearing much under here,” he murmurs into your ear, breath hot, teeth grazing your skin. 

“That’s the point,” you shoot back.

He groans when he finds how wet you are. Then his fingers push inside you. Slow at first until he’s curling them. Your head tips back against him as the music swallows your moan whole. The crowd is thick enough to hide you—sweaty bodies, flashing lights, everyone too drunk, too distracted to notice the way you’re grinding back against his hand like a bitch in heat. 

“You always meet guys and let them fuck you in clubs?” he asks, thrusting his fingers deeper now, thumb brushing your clit in lazy, infuriating circles.

You laugh breathlessly. “No.”

He arches a brow against your temple. “No?”

“Just tonight.”

His grip tightens at your hip. “Lucky me.”

Right on cue with the beat dropping, he ruthlessly drives his fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. Thank God the music is loud. Thank God you’re buried in the back of the crowd. Thank God everyone’s too busy losing their minds to notice you losing yours. Because the only one who hears you curse God’s name is the man massaging your g-spot. 

“No, baby,” he says, low and smug. “I already told you—my name’s Jaemin. That’s the only thing I wanna hear out of those pretty lips when I put my cock inside this slutty little pussy.”

You mewl into his shoulder. “Your cock isn’t in my pussy.”

“Not yet.”

Fuck.

The press of bodies brushing past you makes you shiver, heat crawling up your spine as his fingers keep working. People bump your shoulder and graze your arm—so oblivious, so uninterested, like they don’t know exactly what’s happening right here in the shadows.

You do.

And God—you love that.

“You like this,” Jaemin murmurs, mouth right at your ear now, voice swallowed by bass and sweat and sin. “Being right here. Where anyone could see.”

Your breath stutters when his thumb presses just right, when his grip tightens like he’s daring you to lose it.

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though your hips chase his hand.

He laughs softly. “Don’t what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The music surges, lights flashing overhead, your body wound taut with the thrill of it—of being caught, of being watched, of being wanted this badly in the middle of a packed dance floor.

Your knees threaten to buckle, but he catches it.

“Bathroom,” he says, sudden and decisive, already hooking two fingers into your waistband. “Now.”

He drags you through the crowd without looking back, your hand clutched in his like property as he guides you. The bathroom door slams shut behind you with the lock clicking into place as your back meets cool tile. 

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna share this orgasm with a crowd of people,” he growls into your skin as he flips your skirt up in one sharp, efficient motion. “You might not be my girl—but I worked for this orgasm. It’s mine.”

Why is that so hot?

Cool air kisses your bare thighs as your itty-bitty skirt stays bunched at your waist. He unbuckles his belt, and you feel your pussy pool at the thought of his cock inside you. When he spins you around, palms flattening against the tiles, you let him.

You think you hear the soft tear of foil, and it makes sense because you’re already needy, already waiting to be filled. He takes his time after that, dragging his covered cock through your slick, nudging your clit with the tip just enough to make you shiver and make your breath hitch. He does it again. And again. Like he’s testing how much you can take.

“Easy,” he hisses when he pushes inside and your walls tightens around him.

The sensation steals the air from your lungs. You’ve had good sex before—really good—but this is different. This is big. This is full. This is absolutely going to make your head go blank. And he’s only just started.

When he bottoms out, your body reacts before you can stop it. Your eyes roll back with a broken whimper tearing from your throat. Behind you, he lets out a low chuckle and it’s so damn sexy you swear it might be enough to push you over all on its own. He’s already stolen one orgasm from you, and the way he sounds now tells you he knows it.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice right at your ear. “Should’ve known you’d be such a good little slut the second I saw this little fucking skirt.”

You bite your lip, a groan slipping out anyway, your hands pressing harder into the tile. “Then hurry up,” you breathe. “Fuck me like the pretty little slut you think I am.”

He kisses his teeth at that, then moves. Harder. Faster. Like he doesn’t appreciate being goaded, like he plans on making you pay for every word.

His hips snap back and forth, rough and relentless. It’s brutal in the best way because your thoughts turn fuzzy. You’d take this punishment happily—over and over and over again—just to hear the sounds he makes when he loses control and pounds.

No wonder your ex hated this skirt.

If this is what it does to men—makes them pant and groan and crowd your space like they can’t get close enough, breath hot and heaving against your ear while they drive into you again and again—then yeah. 

You feel his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slips through his fingers. Your legs are just as weak, trembling beneath you. Every thrust is maddening, hard enough that your face presses into the white tile, his name muffled as your body finally gives in, tightening around him as you cum around his cock. 

“Good fucking girl,” he coos, voice low and wrecked.

His grip tightens on your flipped-up skirt, knuckles digging into the fabric to keep you steady. You feel him clutch it harder when his own body shudders, one last brutal drive into your hips. He stays there for a moment afterwards, unmoving, as he spills inside the condom. It’s filthy. Dirty. Utterly slutty.