Leia’s POV
I hate that I want it. That I want him. That I keep crawling back for more psychological torture like some kind of emotional masochist with a PhD in self-destruction.
I'm doing everything right, or at least performing a convincing impression of someone who has their shit together.
Joined a study group where everyone pretends to care about macroeconomics while secretly scrolling through social media.
Smile when people say my name, even though it feels borrowed—like I'm wearing someone else's identity until the real me decides to show up from whatever psychological vacation she's been taking.
I answer messages, laugh at jokes that land with the comedic timing of a dead fish, raise my hand in class like I actually give a fuck about supply and demand curves.
Like I'm not slowly disintegrating into component parts of anxiety and want.
Tyler's gone quiet now. Shrunk into academic obscurity like he never existed, which I tell myself is good.
Means I'm safe from his aggressively wholesome attempts at normal college romance.
But here's the brutal truth: he never touched me the way I wanted anyway. Never made me feel anything except hollow.
Ezra did. Ezra makes my pulse stutter when I'm alone, makes my entire nervous system light up like a Christmas tree when no one's watching.
I try not to think about him.
My dorm looks identical to how I left it—same textbooks, same fairy lights Chloe insisted on, same general aesthetic of "functional depression meets Pinterest board."
But it doesn't feel like mine anymore. The walls seem to breathe with me, like they're eavesdropping on my internal monologue and taking notes for some cosmic report card on my psychological decline.
I keep the blinds closed, lights blazing, laptop camera covered with electrical tape even though I know it's basically performance art at this point.
It's not about stopping him—we both know that ship sailed, crashed, and sank to the bottom of the ocean along with my dignity.
It's about pretending I haven't already mentally signed the surrender documents.
I go through the motions like I'm starring in a one-woman show called "Normal College Student Has Normal College Experience."
Smile, respond to texts, study, perform basic human functions. But the cracks are showing, and I catch glimpses of them in random reflections—library windows, bathroom mirrors, my laptop screen when it goes dark.
Tight jaw. Stiff shoulders. Eyes that scan rooms like I'm expecting an ambush or hoping for one, and honestly, the distinction is becoming academic.
I look like someone waiting to be caught. Like my body wants to be found.
And the worst part? It does.
I leave places quickly now, walking with a fake purpose like I have somewhere important to be, as if physical distance could somehow create emotional distance.
I tell myself I won't be that girl—the one who gets turned on by psychological warfare, who gets wet from memories she swore she buried in the deepest corners of her subconscious.
I try to believe my own bullshit. But when night comes, the lights stay on, earbuds go in, volume cranked high enough to cause permanent hearing damage.
It's not for comfort. It's just noise—something to drown out the silence that already knows exactly what I'm thinking before I think it.
Then my music cuts out. Left ear first, then right, like someone's systematically dismantling my audio defenses. Static follows—sharp, brief, impossibly deliberate.
Then: nothing. On my phone screen, one file appears. Untitled.
I stare at it without moving, barely breathing, like maybe if I stay perfectly still, reality will politely pretend this isn't happening.
Then I yank the earbuds out and slam the phone into my desk drawer like that'll solve anything.
It doesn't.
By 2:17 AM, I've lost whatever pathetic battle I was pretending to fight. I open the drawer, unlock the phone, put on my earbuds and press play.
Because apparently I'm exactly as weak as he always knew I was.
His voice spills out, rough, breathless, low. My name groaned like it hurts.
“Leia…” Then the sound, wet, rhythmic, the slide of skin on skin. The soft slap of his fist stroking his cock to the thought of me.
My thighs press together, tight. My hand moves between them before I even think. I’m already soaked, my body never lies. I slip two fingers between my folds, shivering when I feel just how wet I am. My hips lift to meet the pressure, greedy for it.
I picture his hand at my throat, the alley, that moment he took without asking, and how badly I wanted him to, like he owns me.
“You want me to see, firefly,” his voice says.
A shudder rolls through me, I moan quietly, then louder when my fingers circle harder, my clit pulses. I picture his eyes on me, watching from the dark.
I know he’s there. My breath hitches, and my mouth opens. “Ezra,” I gasp. “Fuck…”
I choke myself with one hand. Fingers gripping tight like he did. Like I’m recreating the way his control sank into me.
My other hand moves faster, wetter. The sound obscene, slick, messy. Just like I know he’d want it. I whimper. “Harder… please…”
My legs tremble, my back arches, and I fall over the edge, fast, violent.
I come with a sob, a stuttering moan, soaking my own hand as I writhe against the sheets. I don’t stop the file. His voice keeps going, still whispering, still in control.
Ezra: “Good girl. I know exactly how to break you.”
Tears burn hot as my hand stays between my legs, the aftershocks still pulsing through me. I’m leaking, breathless, and I hate how right it feels. I stare at the ceiling, blinking hard, trying to pull myself back.
But all I can feel is him, his voice, his weight, the mark he left behind.
I don’t know who I am anymore, but I know who I belong to. And I think he always did too.