CHAPTER ELEVEN
—Aphrodite—
He opens the door like he hasn't slept in days.
Like he's been standing there, waiting, listening for my footsteps in the hallway, praying I haven't disappeared forever.
His shirt is wrinkled. There's stubble on his jaw, darker than I've ever seen it. But his eyes—
God, his eyes.
I've seen lust in them. Anger. Fear. Worship.
But tonight?
Tonight, I see something worse.
Hope.
"Hi," I say softly, like I didn't vanish for days, like I didn't leave him on his knees, like I didn't turn off my phone just to feel him tremble in my absence.
He stares at me like I'm holy.
I step inside.
He doesn't speak. He just pulls me into his arms and holds me so tightly I can feel his heartbeat against mine.
I let him.
I wrap my arms around him and press my cheek to his chest.
He smells like coffee and desperation.
I close my eyes and smile.
Perfect.
---
I stay the night.
Not out of obligation.
Not to remind him who's in control.
No.
I stay because it's more powerful this way.
I give him what he's been craving—softness, presence, affection.
I let him spoon me in bed, his hand gripping my hip like he's afraid I'll vanish between one breath and the next.
I whisper, "I missed this."
He exhales like that was the answer to every question he's been too afraid to ask.
He doesn't say a word.
He just pulls me closer.
---
In the morning, I wake up first.
I stretch, slowly, letting the sheets fall off my bare shoulders.
He's watching me.
"Hi," he says, voice rough.
"Hi," I smile.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Like a baby."
He runs a hand through his hair.
There's something hungry in the way he looks at me.
But not just for sex.
For reassurance.
For meaning.
I kiss him softly. Briefly.
Then I get up and walk around his apartment like I belong there.
I hum while I make coffee—his mug, not mine. I wear his shirt. I curl my legs on the couch and sip with both hands like I'm in some domestic fantasy.
He watches me from the kitchen doorway, stunned.
"You're different this morning," he murmurs.
I look up at him through my lashes.
"Do you like it?"
He walks toward me, kneels in front of the couch, and presses his head to my knee.
"I'd take you any way I could get you."
I smile.
And I touch his hair.
Good boy.
---
For the next week, I'm sweet.
Perfectly, painfully sweet.
I answer his calls.
I send him good morning texts. Midday selfies. Voice notes where I say things like, "Miss your hands," or "I'm still thinking about last night."
He eats it up like honey.
I let him take me out—dinner, wine, rooftops, stupid little candlelit places that reek of commitment.
He opens doors. Holds my hand. Smiles like I'm salvation.
I wear soft dresses and no underwear.
I tell him he smells good.
That he makes me feel safe.
I even laugh at his jokes—the ones that aren't funny.
Because every smile he earns from me feels like a victory.
And that's exactly the point.
---
He starts asking questions.
Subtle at first.
"Where were you before this?"
"Did you miss me?"
"Have you ever felt this way before?"
I answer like a mirror.
Reflecting what he wants to see.
"I was thinking about you."
"Of course I missed you."
"This feels different."
Not true.
But not lies either.
Somewhere in between.
The space where addiction lives.
---
One night, he holds me in bed and says, "I've never felt this before. Not like this. It's terrifying."
I kiss his collarbone.
"It's beautiful."
"It's dangerous."
I smile. "That's love."
He kisses my forehead like I'm the cure to his illness.
But I'm the disease.
---
He starts talking about Tuscany.
"I want to take you there. There's a vineyard. My mother used to take me as a kid. You'd love it."
"Will there be wine?"
"The best."
"Then I'm in."
He kisses me, long and slow.
And when he pulls back, he says, "I think I want forever with you."
I don't flinch.
I touch his cheek.
And I say the most dangerous word I know.
"Maybe."
---
He starts planning.
New sheets.
New apartments.
A place where I can keep my things.
He clears a drawer.
I fill it with perfume and silk and nothing of meaning.
He buys me jewelry. I wear it in front of him, then take it off as soon as he leaves the room.
He says, "You're everything."
I say, "You're kind."
He says, "You're mine."
I say, "Aren't I?"
And the hope in his eyes destroys him.
Just a little more.
---
I leave when he's sleeping.
Not every night.
Just enough to make him wonder.
To make him ache.
To make him need.
I don't answer his texts until noon.
Sometimes I don't reply for hours.
But I always come back with a kiss and a smile.
He never questions it.
He just breathes again.
---
Eventually, he hears things.
He doesn't tell me.
But I know.
He hears my name whispered in rooms full of men who used to love me.
Men I once broke.
Men I let beg.
He sees the fear in their eyes when they realize he's next.
He starts watching me like he's memorizing me.
Like he's afraid of waking up without me.
He says, "I dreamed you left again."
I say, "But I'm still here."
He kisses me harder.
Clings tighter.
And the way he holds me tells me everything I need to know.
He already feels the end coming.
---
And that?
That's when I give him more.
I tell him I'm thinking about moving in.
I leave my lipstick in his bathroom.
My underwear under his pillow.
I let him call me his.
I moan it back when he fucks me slow, deep, trembling.
He says, "Say it back."
I say, "I'm yours."
But only in the dark.
Only when it hurts.
Only when he can't see my face.
---
Hope is my favorite leash.
It doesn't tighten.
It glows.
It doesn't bruise.
It burns.
And Duncan?
He's glowing.
He's burning.
And he still thinks he's the one holding the match.