The sound of a car door slamming shut rang out across the deserted parking lot. He slid the key into the ignition with a sudden movement, the hum of the powerful engine filling the space, but it couldn't drown out the boiling desperation. Sweat trickled down the windows, fogging visibility as much as thoughts. He stared out at the dark evening horizon, and the memories of what had happened only hours ago replayed over and over in his mind,

He was alert now, exaggerating and continuously rapping the stabbing truth. The driver's seat and silence was salvation. A place where cold temper gave way to the rage boiling to the surface.

It was an ordinary evening. You folded your legs and sat lazily on the couch, leafing through a favorite book with a cup of hot espresso in your hand. Simon sat silently across from you. His dark eyes glowed with a primal intensity that seemed to nibble at every inch of your sprawled body, penetrating to the core. Loud swallows turning your monotonous, torn from reading, innocent gaze on him.

A sly smile frames your tired features, "Watching again?" - you mutter, sipping your strong coffee.

He just nods. Short and defiant. An action so trivial, but one that carries so much more than a sign of approval.

You have always been and always will be his target, and he will always be the hunter. It's inevitable.

At first it was enough for him to watch. Knowing you're here with him, not a step forward, not a step back. Control from every angle. Who were you out with? Where are you going? Ordinary seeming questions transformed into something inadequate, assuming a different context. The word "love" balanced between rare concern and the desire to see your lips slide along his hard length. Vows of affection became manipulative weapons, camouflage for covert control. Long and intense stares became oppressive, devolving into unhealthy obsession and desire to possess every bit of your existence. The world that had previously brought solace to both now became crumbling for one. The walls shrank tighter and tighter, threatening to suffocate the free spirit that once lived within.

You longed for a touch as soft as silk caressing your skin.

But he saw you as nothing more than an object, like the stale ones before.

There was no way his foot could grip the gas pedal. His fingers dug into the steering wheel of the car, his head spitefully clogged with other things than the road; how he'd demanded in a fit of passion that you give yourself to him completely, give him absolute commitment while you begged him to just be there; He wouldn't listen.

Being dragged into bed was exactly how he perceived the relationship. A fast track to fulfillment. But you wanted more than that. A connection whose intimacy he wasn't willing to sacrifice. An unwanted thought rang his annoyingly overhead, "what if I'm wrong?" And if so, had their selfishness pushed them to the precipice, dooming them to strife?

The darkness of shadow, thick as velvet wraps you. Opening your eyes from the book pages, you meet him. Noiselessly he sits down beside you, placing his calloused palm so casually on the inside of your thigh, confidently and gently. Powerfully he pulls you to his side, exploring the soft flesh with the pads of his fingers. A strong hand leans back, gripping your chin, turning your face toward his. You feel helpless.

- "What are you doing?" - You yank his hand off you indignantly. The phantom trail of departed touch dries your throat. Disappointment tugs at your heart strings with a light breath of doubt, tugging between your fingers like a puppeteer testing a new puppet. Every movement is a game where feelings are bound to obey the wriggling threads, warping rainbow dreams into bitter truths. A silent hint that something is wrong.

- "What I should," he answers not immediately, weighing each word before uttering them. You are his. His to , to obey. To be the main delicacy on the table.

No less. More.

- Isn't this what you wanted? - Whispering in your ear, his nose tracing the matte skin of your neck, releasing his wrist from your grip, "I want.

The intimate confession of need felt like an aspen stake in your stomach. Betrayal. Treason. The end.

- "No. That's not what I want. I want your soul, Simon! Your soul! - you exclaimed wearily, repeating the same words to him over and over again, hoping he would hear. Sadness and frustration melded together, creating an unbearable tension as you lowered your gaze, pulling his hands away from your body as if scalded by boiling water. Pushing him away from you, holding your palms on his bulky chest more than necessary, fixing your hot eyes on his perpetually emotionless icy ones, "I want to see your heart, not your .

"Out. Get out," you ordered roughly with a hint of longing, pointing to the door behind his back. It was better this way. And deep down, as heart wrenching as it was, it felt right. To let go.

He hadn't said anything. Didn't find the words familiar. Just frowned standing in the hallway for a couple moments, smoothing his gaze over the stodgy features one last time before silently turning to leave.

Insatiability is even the kind of moment to jump over a precipice: it's worth a second thought, and you can't do it anymore. And he, sitting here, was already clearly aware that he couldn't jump.

His hand reaches for the phone in his jeans pocket to text a quick "I'm sorry," but pride acts as an invisible barrier to feeling. Lazily he leans back in his seat, anger overriding guilt, lacking the strength to squeeze the send button. Doesn't want to appear weak or admit a mistake, because he was doing what felt right. What he wanted to do.

And maybe should have thought beyond his own needs.

But the thoughts of self-righteousness and the resentment of hurt pride drowned out even the voice of regret. He wanted so badly to appear strong and unshakable that he'd given up his heart and his own humanity.

If he had a heart at all.