Relapse

You're counting down the minutes until you can leave this godforsaken party when you see her across the crowded living room, and your blood turns to ice water in your veins.

Momo.

She's laughing at something one of the frat boys is saying, head thrown back in that uninhibited way that used to make your chest tight with want. Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder, longer than it was when you were together eight months ago, and she's wearing a black dress that clings to every curve you remember mapping with your hands and tongue.

You duck behind a group of drunk sorority girls, hoping she hasn't spotted you, but you know it's futile. Momo has always had a sixth sense when it came to finding you in crowds, like some kind of predatory instinct that drew her straight to her prey.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Mina: Hope you're having fun at the party, baby! Don't drink too much. Love you ❤️

The guilt hits you immediately, sharp and acidic in your throat. Sweet, perfect Mina who trusts you completely, who probably spent tonight curled up with a book and chamomile tea, who has never given you a single reason to doubt her loyalty or love. Mina with her gentle touches and soft kisses, who makes love to you like you're something precious and fragile.

Mina who has no idea that your ex-girlfriend is currently scanning the room like a shark that's scented blood in the water.

You type back quickly: Miss you. Coming home soon.

It's not technically a lie. You are planning to leave soon, to go back to your shared apartment where Mina will be waiting in one of your old t-shirts, probably already half-asleep but willing to curl into your arms and listen to you complain about how much you hate these parties.

"Found you."

The voice comes from directly behind you, low and honeyed with that slight accent that used to drive you crazy. You don't need to turn around to know she's close enough that you can smell her perfume, something dark and expensive that Mina would never wear.

"Momo." You turn slowly, like she's a wild animal that might bolt if you move too quickly. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Liar." She steps closer, and you're trapped between her and the wall, the space between you crackling with the same electricity that used to make it impossible to keep your hands off each other. "You knew Pi Kappa was having their end-of-semester party. You know I never miss Pi Kappa parties."

She's right, of course. Some masochistic part of you probably hoped she'd be here, even as the rational part of your brain screamed warnings about playing with fire.

"I was just leaving actually," you say, but you don't move away from the wall.

"Were you?" Her eyes rake over you appraisingly, taking in your carefully chosen outfit that you definitely didn't pick with her in mind. "That's a shame. The party's just getting started."

She's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, can count the individual lashes that frame them. Close enough that when she reaches up to straighten your collar, her fingers brush against your throat and send electricity shooting straight to your cock.

"Momo, we can't." The words come out weaker than you intended.

"Can't what?" she asks innocently, but her hand is still on your chest, thumb tracing patterns through the fabric of your shirt. "Can't talk to each other? Can't be civilized adults who happen to be at the same party?"

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" She tilts her head, studying you with those predatory eyes. "Because all I see is my ex-boyfriend looking very tense and unhappy at a party that's supposed to be fun. Maybe I should help you relax."

Her hand slides down your chest, fingers splaying across your ribs, and you have to bite back a groan. This is exactly what she used to do when you were together, this careful manipulation disguised as innocent concern. The difference is that back then, you didn't have anything to feel guilty about.

"I have a girlfriend, Momo."

"I know." Her smile is sharp as a blade. "Sweet little Mina with her cardigans and her poetry books. Very... wholesome."

The way she says 'wholesome' makes it sound like a terminal illness, and you feel anger flare in your chest alongside the unwanted arousal.

"Don't talk about her like that."

"Like what? I think it's cute." Her hand moves lower, fingertips grazing your belt buckle. "Very safe. Very... predictable."

"There's nothing wrong with predictable."

"Of course not," she agrees easily. "Some people like vanilla. Some people are satisfied with missionary twice a week and soft kisses goodnight."

Her words hit their target with surgical precision. Your sex life with Mina is gentle, loving, comfortable. Everything that your relationship with Momo wasn't. Where Mina whispers sweet nothings and touches you like you might break, Momo used to bite your shoulders and rake her nails down your back until you bled.

"That's not..." you start, but she's already moving away, having apparently lost interest in the conversation.

"I'm going to get another drink," she announces. "You should stay. Have some fun for once."

You watch her walk away, the sway of her hips in that black dress hypnotic and infuriating. Several guys turn to check her out as she passes, and you feel a familiar stab of possessiveness that has no right to exist.

You should leave. Should go home to Mina and forget you ever saw Momo tonight. Should delete her number from your phone again and block her on every social media platform.

Instead, you find yourself following her to the kitchen.

She's leaning against the counter mixing herself something complicated involving three different types of alcohol when you approach. The kitchen is slightly less crowded than the living room, but there are still enough people around that you have to stand close to be heard over the music.

"Having fun yet?" she asks without looking up from her drink.

"Not particularly."

"That's because you're trying too hard to be good." She finally meets your eyes, and the look she gives you is pure temptation. "Remember when you used to know how to have fun? When you weren't so worried about being perfect all the time?"

"I was different then."

"You were yourself then." She takes a sip of her drink, tongue darting out to catch a drop that clings to her lower lip. "Now you're just... Mina's boyfriend."

The casual dismissal of your identity stings more than it should. "There's nothing wrong with being someone's boyfriend."

"Of course not. But you used to be so much more than that." She sets down her drink and steps closer, voice dropping to that purr that used to make your knees weak. "You used to be passionate. Reckless. You used to fuck me against this same kitchen counter at parties like this while people were trying to get drinks."

The memory hits you like a physical blow. Three years ago, Momo's dress pushed up around her waist, her legs wrapped around you while you pounded into her desperate and wild, not caring who might walk in. The way she'd bitten down on your shoulder to muffle her screams, the way her nails had left crescents in your back that took weeks to fade.

"That was different," you manage.

"Was it? Or were you just honest about what you wanted then?"

Her hand finds your arm, fingers tracing up to your shoulder in a touch that's barely there but burns like fire. You should pull away, should put physical distance between you and temptation, but your body has other ideas.

"I know what you're doing," you say, but it comes out breathless.

"What am I doing?" She steps even closer, close enough that her breasts brush against your chest when she breathes. "I'm just talking to an old friend."

"We were never friends, Momo."