I'll break you before you love me

The rain hadn’t stopped. The city lights blurred into watercolor streaks on the window as I sat still in the back seat of his car. My fingers trembled around the coffee cup he’d ordered without asking—black, bitter, just like him. He sat beside me, perfectly still, scrolling his phone as if he hadn’t just turned my life upside down with one cruel smile. “You shouldn’t run from me,” he said without looking. “It makes me chase harder.” I said nothing. I couldn’t speak without shaking. Every nerve in my body was screaming to escape, but his words were cuffs—I already knew I wouldn’t. His name was Lior. In another world, it might’ve sounded beautiful, even soft. But in his mouth, it was a weapon. Every syllable came wrapped in control, thick with the kind of power that didn’t need shouting. You felt it when he entered a room. You obeyed it when he touched your skin. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” I whispered. He turned to me, slow and deliberate. “Then tell me, angel, how was it supposed to go? You lie, I pretend I don’t notice? You break the deal, I look the other way?” I flinched. “You said there were no rules.” “I lied.” Silence. Cold and loud. My throat burned from holding back words I’d never be brave enough to say. He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered just a second too long. “Rule one,” he murmured. “You don’t cry when I’m the one who gave you the pain. Own it, or walk out.” I turned my face away. He caught my jaw and forced it back. Eyes locked. “Rule two—look at me when I talk.” “I’m not yours.” He laughed softly. “You were mine the second you stopped hating me.” I hated how true that sounded. The car stopped in front of a tall, black building that looked more like a fortress than a home. He didn’t wait. He stepped out, the rain curling around him like it didn’t dare touch his skin. I followed, every step heavier than the last. Inside, the walls whispered things I wasn’t ready to hear. His world wasn’t built for girls like me—soft, scared, still searching for reasons. “I want to go home,” I said as the elevator doors closed. He looked at me, eyes sharp. “Then go.” I hesitated. “I can’t.” “There it is,” he smiled darkly. “The truth.” His apartment was cold. Marble floors. Tall ceilings. No pictures. No warmth. Only the faint echo of a broken man pretending to be whole. He poured himself a drink. “Sit.” I didn’t move. He walked over, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down onto the couch beside him. “You came here with lies. I’ll burn them all out of you.” “I never lied about my feelings.” “Didn’t you?” he hissed. “You said I was a mistake. But you didn’t leave.” “I tried.” He leaned in so close I could taste the whiskey on his breath. “Then why didn’t you succeed?” Because I couldn’t. Because I wanted to stay, even when I knew I shouldn’t. Because some monsters don’t wear claws and fangs—they wear suits and sadness and kiss you like they mean it. He ran his fingers through my hair and whispered, “You’re addicted to pain dressed as love. That’s why you came back.” I broke. Tears I had buried beneath months of silence started falling like the storm outside. He let me cry—for a moment. Then he kissed me. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t healing. It was war. And I lost.