Gun doesn’t believe in therapy.
He believes in violence, in control, in the kind of bruised-knuckle catharsis that comes from beating the soul out of someone who dared swing first.

And when that’s not enough?

He comes to you.

Yeah, you. The girl he’s definitely not dating. The one who keeps letting him into her condo at 2AM, smelling like blood and expensive cologne, shrugging off his ruined suit jacket like it's not soaked at the cuff. You're not his girlfriend—hell, you barely talk outside of this. But he fucks you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

Because you are.

It started casual. Stress relief. A one-time thing that became two. Three. Now it's a habit—his version of a cigarette. A fucked-up comfort. After every fight, he shows up at your door, bruised and tense, and you open it like you're not dying inside every time he touches you like that.

Gun doesn’t ask, doesn’t promise, and definitely doesn’t stay. But you? You let him wreck you anyway.

You should probably stop.

You won't.