His POV
I didn't mean to sleep with her. Not that night. Not like that.
But that's the thing about broken people — we never mean to. We just spill into whoever's closest, trying to feel something other than the rot inside us.
She had been looking at me like I was worth something. Like I could be… good. That was her mistake.
I don't do good.
I do damage.
The sheets twisted under me as I lay shirtless, staring at the ceiling fan turning in slow, lazy circles. My cigarette glowed between my fingers, smoke curling up in thin, accusing ribbons. She was still asleep beside me, curled into herself like a child who didn't trust the world to hold her.
Neither did I.
Her breath was soft. Steady. She looked untouched by the kind of weight I carried. But I knew the truth — no one who ends up with me walks away untouched.
I lit another cigarette. Not because I needed it, but because I needed something else to burn besides myself.
When she wakes, she'll ask me what this was. She'll say she thought it meant something. She'll cry. Or maybe worse — she won't. Maybe she'll just swallow it, pretending she's stronger than she is.
And I'll lie. I'm good at that. Pretending I'm colder than I really am.
But the truth?
I wanted her to save me.
And I hated her for even trying.
I slid out of bed like a thief, careful not to wake her. My jeans lay crumpled on the floor, the belt half-undone, my sins stitched into the fabric. I tugged them on, grabbed my shirt but didn't bother with it. The mirror on the dresser caught me in its glass — hollow eyes, jaw tight, smoke-stained lips. I looked like a warning, not a man.
I glanced back at her once. Just once. She was beautiful in that reckless, dangerous way — the kind of beauty you shouldn't touch if you plan to leave. And I was always planning to leave.
I left her heart on the pillow.
And I shut the door without a sound.
---
Her POV
The first thing I felt when I woke up was the cold.
Not from the air.
From the space beside me. Empty.
I sat up too quickly, the sheet clutched against my chest as if it could shield me from the truth pressing in. My head spun, my body ached, and the scent of him clung to the pillow like a ghost I couldn't push away.
He was gone.
The warmth of his body still lingered in the mattress. The echo of his touch still burned in my skin. But the man himself — vanished like it had meant nothing.
My chest tightened, a hollow ache clawing at my ribs. Maybe to him it was nothing. Just another night. Another girl stupid enough to believe there was more.
But to me, it wasn't just sex.
It was trust.
And I hate myself for giving it so easily.
I looked around the room, desperate for something — a note, a message, a trace of him that said I hadn't been imagining the connection. Nothing.
Just ashes in the tray.
A cigarette stub that wasn't mine.
Proof he had been here, proof he had already erased me.
Tears threatened, but I forced them back. I wouldn't cry. Not for him. Not for anyone.
I should've known better. Men like him don't stay. Men like him don't heal you — they teach you new ways to bleed.
And yet… when he touched me, it hadn't felt like poison. It had felt like fire.
That's the cruel part about fire. It warms you right before it burns you to ash.
I pressed my face into the pillow, breathing him in one last time, and swore I'd never let him see what he'd done to me. He could leave. He could pretend I was nothing.
But I wouldn't forget.
Because even if I was just another body to him, for one night, he had made me believe I was something more.
---
His POV
The morning air bit at my skin as I walked down the street, shirt still slung over my shoulder. The cigarette dangled from my lips, smoke mixing with the dawn like secrets dissolving into light.
I told myself leaving was mercy. For her. For me.
But the lie tasted bitter.
Because the truth was, I left not to protect her… but to protect myself. Staying meant facing what I felt when she touched me — and that was the one thing I couldn't survive.
I wanted her.
Not just her body.
Her light.
And I hated myself for it.
---
Her POV
I showered until my skin turned red, but I couldn't wash him off.
The steam fogged the mirror, hiding me from myself. Maybe that was better. Maybe I didn't want to see the girl who had thought she could matter to a man like him.
But deep down, I knew this wasn't over.
You don't meet someone who ruins you in one night and walk away clean.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A message.
Not from him.
Never from him.
But the silence screamed louder than any words he could've sent.
---
She thought she could hate him into silence. He thought he could leave her behind.
They were both wrong.
Because some nights don't end when the sun rises. Some nights mark you. Brand you.
And this was only the beginning.