Jessie's obsession

Hate the way I hate you

Flashback – Cassie’s POV

It was the first week of junior year. I’d stayed late in the art room, painting like my life depended on it, just to avoid going home. My fingers were stained with reds and blues, the only kind of chaos I felt safe creating.

I thought I was alone—until I felt his presence before I even heard him.

Jessie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that same smug expression painted across his face. “Didn’t take you for the tortured artist type.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he crossed the room slowly, like a lion cornering his prey, and stopped behind me. Close enough for his voice to run along my spine when he spoke again, softer this time.

“You paint like you're bleeding.”

I swallowed hard. “What do you want, Jessie?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached out, swiped his thumb through the streak of crimson on the canvas, and smeared it across the edge—marking it. Marking me.

“I don’t know yet,” he murmured. “But I think I want to break you open and see what’s underneath.”

I hated him that day. Truly, deeply hated him.

And maybe… that was the beginning of everything.

---

Present Day

I flinch as the memory fades, as reality claws me back to the present.

Jessie’s standing in front of me now, still shirtless, still smug, and still somehow the only person in the world I simultaneously want to slap and pull closer.

“I don’t need your rules,” I snap, dragging the sheets up over my chest like a shield, even though it’s far too late for modesty. “And I’m not yours. No matter how many times you say it.”

His jaw tightens. “No, Cassie. You just came for me like you’ve been starving for it, but sure, pretend you don’t feel anything. That’s cute.”

I glare, my heart pounding. “Last night was a mistake. It was the alcohol, the moment, the—”

He cuts me off, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You were sober by the time you begged me to touch you.”

I feel my face heat, shame twisting in my gut, but I don’t look away. I won’t.

“Doesn’t change anything,” I bite back. “You think you can play this little game—punishing me, rewarding me, whatever the hell this is—but I’m not some toy you get to keep in your bed when it suits you.”

Jessie leans down, close enough to feel his breath against my cheek. “Then stop coming back to me. Stop letting me touch you. Stop wanting me.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because I can’t. I won’t say the one truth that would shatter all my walls.

That I want him so badly it makes me sick.

So instead I turn away and mutter, “You don’t own me.”

He just smirks, his voice low, dangerous. “No, but you already gave yourself to me, Cassie. You just don’t know it yet.”

And I hate that he might be right.

--

I don’t know what finally clicks.

Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, that almost—like he wants to devour me and console me all at once. Like he’s more confused than I am, but too damn proud to admit it.

Maybe it’s the echo of that flashback still burning behind my eyes—his thumb in my paint, the way he wanted to tear me open and read the pages inside me like he had any right.

Whatever it is, I pull the sheet tighter around myself and swing my legs off the bed.

“Where are you going?” he asks, not angry. Not yet.

I don’t look at him. “Home.”

He steps forward. “Cass—”

“No.” I turn, fire rising behind my ribs. “Don’t say my name like it means something.”

He freezes.

I reach for my dress from the night before—crumpled and reeking of alcohol and regret—and force myself into it. It clings to my skin, a physical reminder of just how messy things have become. Of how much I let him in. Again.

He watches me like he wants to stop me but doesn’t know how. Like he’s testing whether I’ll actually walk out, or fold like I usually do.

I lift my chin.

“I’m not a possession, Jessie. Not a pawn, not a plaything, and definitely not yours. You don’t get to break me just because you’re bored.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something almost wounded—but I don’t give myself the chance to figure it out.

I grab my shoes, ignore the pounding in my head, and head for the door.

“Cassie—”

“I mean it,” I say without turning back. “Next time you want someone to bully into your bed, find someone who doesn’t know what you are underneath all that pretty poison.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

And still, even with the door closing behind me, I feel him—burning under my skin like a brand I can’t wash off.

But for once, I’m the one walking away.

And a part of me hates myself for it.