I should've walked away the first time he said my name like that.
Slow. Like he was testing how it would taste.
Like he wanted to make me unravel with just one word.
But I didn't.
I let him in.
---
We met in the worst place to fall in love — a friend's engagement party. I'd had two glasses of champagne and one fake smile too many when he leaned on the bar beside me and said, "You don't want to be here either, do you?"
His name was Adrian. And his mouth was dangerous. Not just pretty — dangerous. Like it knew secrets my body hadn't even confessed to me yet.
We slept together that night. No slow build-up, no carefully written love letters, just breathless, wordless need between tangled sheets in a borrowed hotel room. He kissed me like he'd known my mouth in another life. He touched me like he was discovering a lost country, and he was the only one fluent in its language.
I should've walked away in the morning.
But I didn't.
Because it wasn't just sex.
It was how he looked at me when I undressed. Like my skin had scripture on it. Like my thighs carried stories worth telling. Like the dip of my back was some divine mystery he was lucky to witness.
I craved it again. And again. And again.
---
He never made promises.
That was the thing.
He never told me he'd stay.
But he always came back.
And every time, I let him ruin me all over again.
---
Sometimes, we didn't even make it to the bed.
He'd pin me against the wall, whispering filth into my ear while his hand slid down the front of my jeans. I'd ride his thigh in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. One time, I sucked him off in his car after a late-night drive, and he came with my name in his mouth and his fingers tangled in my hair like he was trying not to fall apart.
And when he made love to me — really made love — it was slow and devastating.
He'd lay me down and trace his fingertips along every part of me like he was memorizing a map he knew he'd lose. His mouth would move over my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, kissing me open and tender until I forgot where I ended and he began.
"I feel everything with you," I whispered once, dazed and soaked and aching, legs wrapped around him as he moved inside me.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at me like he wished he could believe it too.
---
I asked him once if there was someone else.
He didn't lie. He didn't pretend to be innocent.
He just looked away and said, "Not in the way you mean."
That was the first time my chest cracked open.
The second was when I told him I loved him.
We were naked, breathless, sweat still cooling between us. I said it without planning to. Just felt it rise up from that trembling place between sex and soul, and I let it spill.
"I love you."
He paused, eyes locked to mine. I watched his jaw tighten. Watched him swallow it.
And then he kissed my forehead.
Not my lips. Not a yes. Just silence.
---
He never said it back.
But he kept coming back.
That's what messed me up the most. The way he'd keep showing up just when I swore I was done.
The way he'd hold me like I was precious but love me like I was temporary.
---
One night, I made the mistake of letting him stay.
All night. No excuses. No running off after sex. Just sleep and breath and the rise and fall of his chest beside mine.
It was maybe 3 AM when I woke up.
I looked at him while he slept — lashes long, lips parted, one arm slung across my waist like he belonged there.
And I thought: God, I'd ruin myself to keep this.
To keep him.
But I didn't get to.
Because the next morning, I woke up to an empty bed.
No note. No text. No goodbye.
Just cold sheets and a ghost in my mouth.
---
I didn't hear from him for weeks.
No calls. No excuses.
I tried to delete his number five times. I only made it to four. He was still in my favorites. Pathetic, I know.
When he finally texted, it was a single line:
"Can I see you?"
And like a fucking idiot…
I said yes.
---
He showed up late. Always did. But I opened the door anyway.
His eyes were tired, like he hadn't slept in days. He didn't say a word at first — just stared at me like he expected me to slap him or cry or both.
"I shouldn't have left like that," he said quietly.
"No," I replied. "You shouldn't have."
He stepped forward. I stepped back. But not far enough.
"You still want me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
And I hated myself for how fast I nodded.
---
We didn't rip each other's clothes off this time. We weren't in a hurry. The pain between us was already an aphrodisiac.
He undressed me like I was made of something breakable. Kissing every inch of me like it was an apology. His mouth on my throat, my breasts, my stomach — everything was slow, aching, worshipful.
When he slid his fingers between my legs and felt how wet I already was, he smiled a little.
"You missed me."
I didn't answer. Just arched into him, gasping when his thumb found my clit, his fingers sliding inside me with maddening rhythm.
When he finally entered me, it felt like grief.
The kind that feels good right before it kills you.
We moved together like always — like we remembered every inch of each other. Like our bodies had muscle memory for this kind of heartbreak. His lips on mine, his hand around my throat, his hips grinding deeper.
I came hard. Twice.
He came whispering my name into my neck, like a secret no one was allowed to hear.
We stayed there for a long time after. Our legs tangled. Our breath syncing. My fingers on his chest, tracing the curve of his ribs.
"Stay this time," I whispered.
He kissed my hair.
That was all.
---
He left before sunrise.
---
It's been three months now.
I haven't seen him since.
Sometimes I still dream of him. Still wake up aching. Still smell him on an old shirt I can't bring myself to throw away.
I think of all the things I wanted to say. The stupid fantasies I had where he came back, looked me in the eyes, and said the words I wanted:
I love you. I'm sorry. I'm yours.
But I don't get that ending.
Some people don't break your heart.
They live inside it.
---
The last time I let him in, I told myself it was the last time.
But I still check my phone.
And I still sleep on one side of the bed.
Just in case.