Chapter 1
Natalie
Ace: You up?
It’s two in the morning. He’s probably drunk, probably horny, probably texted a bunch of other chicks before me.
And I should know better. I do know better.
But for some reason when it comes to him. I always come through.
Me: Yeah. Where you at?
Ace: Down at Justin’s. Wanna come through?
I shouldn’t. But I’m putting the hoodie on anyway. No bra, no point in that. Justin’s a five minute drive.
I grab my keys. The night air hits like a slap—cold, sharp, waking me up more than I want.
The streets are dead. My tires hum against the asphalt, windows cracked, hoodie pulled tight.
Justin’s porch light glows dim. There’s a low thump of bass inside, a scattered mess of empty bottles on the steps.
I don’t knock. The door’s already cracked open. Inside smells like weed, cheap beer, and sweat.
I spot him—Ace, slouched on the couch, legs wide, a grin crooked on his face like he knows I’m weak for him. His eyes heavy-lidded, bottle dangling from his fingers.
“Hey,” he drawls, voice rough, lazy. His gaze rakes over me, lingering where the hoodie doesn’t hide much.
I hate how my stomach flips. I hate how I’m already stepping closer.
“You came.” A smirk. A challenge. Like I’d ever say no.
I sink down beside him. His arm slings around my shoulders, pulling me in, warm and heavy. His breath’s hot against my ear.
“Couldn’t sleep without you,” he murmurs, hand sliding down, fingers brushing the bare skin of my thigh.
I should shove him off. I should leave.
But I lean in.
I always do.
Like usual, like always, we end up upstairs, shitty room, his guitar catching dust. Never saw him play anyway. Doesn’t take long for us to fall into his mattress.
On top of discarded clothes, and other bad decisions I know he made.
Don’t know why I still come. I know he’ll treat me like shit in the morning. I know he just wants me now because it’s easy. Because I come through.
He pulls my hoodie off, tits bounce in his face, he licks and bites a nipple. Doesn’t care much if it’s good or if it hurts.
I hiss through my teeth—sharp, unfiltered. His stubble scratches raw where his mouth works, hot breath fogging over my skin.
He palms my other breast, rough, greedy. Squeezes like I’m his stress relief, like I’m something to manhandle, not savor.
The mattress creaks beneath us, springs whining like they’re sick of this scene too. His jeans half-shoved down, my panties tugged aside, careless, impatient.
“Mm, fuck,” he mutters against me, fingers fumbling between my thighs, too quick, too hard, no rhythm.
I arch, but not from pleasure—from trying to shift his touch, guide him, anything. But he’s drunk, lost in his own head, chasing what he wants, not what I need.
And still—I stay. Because I always do. Because I let him.
Because some nights, I don’t want gentle. I want to forget. And Ace knows just how to ruin me.
His fingers shove in—two, no warning—stretching me fast, sloppy. I gasp, not from bliss.
He grins against my skin, like he’s proud of the noise. Like he thinks that means he’s got me good.
“Shit, you’re so wet for me,” he slurs, voice thick, cocky.
But it’s not for him. It’s the heat of the room. The ache of wanting more. Wanting better.
His cock’s out now, hard against my thigh, leaking. He rubs it on me, smearing precum where he can, breath ragged in my ear.
“Turn over.” No please. No patience.
I do. Like I always do. Face down in the pillow that smells like him—like smoke, sweat, bad decisions.
He lines up, no teasing, no time wasted. Pushes in, all at once, thick and fast.
“Ahhh, fuck yeah…” His moan low, guttural, hips grinding deep, chasing that high.
Me? I bite the pillow. Take it. Feel the burn as he ruts, sloppy, frantic.
And I hate how my body still answers him. Hips pushing back. Heart racing.
Because even when it’s wrong, it’s him. And I always come through.
Why do I keep coming through?
We follow into rythmn, same one. Shitty one. But I moan anyway, sometimes he’s too fucked up to care anyway.
His pace stutters, sloppy, off-beat, chasing pleasure like a man starved. The headboard knocks the wall—thud, thud, thud—like it’s keeping time when he can’t.
I moan, because it fills the silence. Because it keeps him going. Because maybe if I sound into it, I’ll feel it, too.
“Yeah... yeah, just like that,” he groans, voice rough, breath hot on my neck, hand gripping my waist like I’ll slip away.
God, I wish I would.
But I stay. Let him use me how he wants. Let him take what he thinks is his. The room reeks of us, of sweat and regret, of another night I’ll hate myself for.
His thrusts turn frantic. He’s close. I know the signs. I always know.
And still, I push back into him. Give him what he wants. Give him what I always do.
Why do I keep coming through?
Maybe because it’s easier than being alone.
Maybe because that’s all I have from him anyway. Our timing’s off. It’s always been off. I fell. He didn’t. I said it. He didn’t.
And after that awkward shitty phase, this is how we are. He says he thinks about me. I pretend it doesn’t hurt.
He groans, deep in his chest, fingers digging bruises into my hips as he chases his finish.
“Fuck... fuck, baby...”
Baby. Like the word means anything. Like it’s not just noise spilling from his mouth as he uses me to get off.
His rhythm falters. Slams in hard, once, twice—then stills, buried deep, pulsing inside me.
I feel the warmth of it, the mess of it. My cheek pressed to the pillow, heart hollow, eyes burning.
He slumps over me, heavy, breath ragged in my ear. No kiss. No soft words. Just the weight of him, the stink of sex and stale booze.
I stare at the cracked paint on his wall. At the poster peeling at the edge. At nothing.
Maybe because that’s all I have from him anyway.
Maybe because, for those few minutes, he pretends I’m enough.
And I pretend it doesn’t kill me inside.
Doesn’t take long before his breathing evens out—deep, heavy, dead to the world. He’s out like he always is after. Spent. Oblivious.
I sit up slow. Sheets cling to my skin, sticky with sweat, with him. My panties still twisted on, thighs slick with the mess he left behind.
I glance at him. His hair’s wild, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. For a second, my hand lifts, thinking about brushing that hair back, maybe just to feel close.
But I let it fall.
We’re not like that.
We’re not anything.
We’re bad habits, worn thin. His mistake. My mistake. The kind that keeps happening because it’s easy, because it fills the quiet.
Maybe some girl turned him down tonight. Maybe that’s why he called. Maybe I’m the fallback.
I don’t ask. I don’t want to know.
I pull on my hoodie, fingers trembling like they always do after. The hollow feeling sinks in, heavy in my chest, cold as the night waiting outside.
And I tell myself it’s the last time. Like I always do.
And I don’t believe it. Like I never do.
I stand. The floor’s cold under my feet, creaks loud in the quiet. His room smells like sweat, cheap cologne, regret.
I look at him one last time—mouth parted, hair a mess, arm flung wide like he owns the whole damn world. Like he owns me.
I hate him for that.
I hate myself more.
I grab my keys. My phone. The condom wrapper on the floor catches my eye—forgotten, like me.
The night air hits sharp when I step out, hoodie pulled tight, heart thudding empty. Streetlights buzz, shadows stretch long.
I get in my car, grip the wheel, stare at my hands.
Every time I think maybe, maybe this is the time he sees me.
Every time I leave, knowing he won’t.
Engine hums to life. I drive. Nowhere that matters. Nowhere that feels like enough.
And the hollow rides with me, quiet, constant.
Same as always.
