📚 Just Until Morning

He always said he didn’t believe in second chances.
The first time he left her apartment at dawn, he promised himself he wouldn’t come back. That was six months ago — yet tonight, here he was again, staring at her bedroom window from his parked car, the streetlight painting her curtains gold.

He could leave. He should.
But the loneliness pressed into his chest until it cracked him open, made him knock on her door like an addict looking for one last hit.

When she opened it, her hair was messy, eyes rimmed with sleep and disappointment she didn’t bother to hide. She didn’t smile — but she stepped aside, letting him slip inside like a secret she couldn’t stop telling herself.

They didn’t talk. They never did when he came this late.
She led him to the couch, pushed him down, climbed onto his lap like she owned the bones under his skin. Her mouth tasted like stale wine and salt — he didn’t care. She kissed him so deep it felt like she was stealing air from his lungs just to keep breathing herself.

His hands found the hem of her shirt, tugged it over her head, fingers tracing the curve of her back like maybe he’d find the truth hidden in the freckles there. She gasped when he bit her shoulder — soft at first, then harder, like he wanted to mark her for tomorrow, even though tomorrow he’d pretend none of this ever happened.

She ground her hips into him, slow and punishing, lips brushing his ear. “Take it off,” she whispered — and he obeyed. Shirt, pants, the last scraps of dignity they both pretended to keep.

They moved to the floor — blankets piled under her back, cold tiles biting into his knees as he slid inside her slow enough to make her swear under her breath. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like he’d lose her the second the sun came up.

She whispered things she never said in the daylight — that she missed him, that she hated him, that she’d let him do whatever he wanted if he just stayed until morning. He kissed her to shut her up, kissed her like maybe he could mean it this time.

When they both came undone, shuddering and tangled in old sheets, she clung to him like an apology. He held her back like a promise he knew he’d break.

Outside, the city hummed — neon signs flickering, taxis passing.
Inside, they lay still, skin pressed to skin, pretending the dawn wouldn’t tear them apart all over again.

Just until morning.
Then nothing at all.

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