Don’t Answer That Door

I should’ve ignored the knock.

I should’ve turned off the lights, curled into my blanket, and pretended I didn't heard him knock.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I walked to the door slowly, barefoot, heart clung in my throat.

And when I looked through the peephole, there he was.

That old, sick pull in my chest.

Jason.

The man I swore I’d never let back in.

The one who made me feel desirable and disposable at the same time.

The one who taught me that pain could be suppressed by sexul pleasures.

I stood there frozen, one hand hovering over the doorknob, the other curled into a fist at my side.

He knocked again. Three soft, confident taps.

He always knocked like he knew I’d answer.

I hated that part of me, the part that wanted to.

Just to hear what lie he’d tell me this time. Just to see if he’d still look at me like I was the only thing worth ruining.

I opened the door an inch. Just an inch. The chain still locked.

“Amelia,” he said, voice smooth, low and soft like melted chocolate and bad decisions. “You gonna let me in or make me stand here all night?”

I tilted my head. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Had a feeling you missed me,” he said, eyes dragging down my body like he’d already undressed me with his thoughts.

I didn’t bother hiding the way I crossed my arms over my chest. “You had a feeling wrong.”

Jason leaned against the doorframe like it was a joke. He always made pain look effortless. Like it never touched him the way it touched the rest of us.

“Come on, baby,” he said. “You blocked me. I get it. But we both know I never really go away.”

God. That stupid smirk.

“You posting that video?” I said, voice clipped. “Was that supposed to be your way of saying hi?”

His smile faded—just for a second. “That wasn’t me.”

I raised a brow.

“Swear to God, Amelia. Yeah, I’m an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole.”

I stared at him. Long and hard.

Because the truth was… I didn’t know what kind of asshole he was anymore.

I just knew he was mine for a long time.

Even after he wasn’t.

“Are you done?” I asked, voice flat.

Jason’s smile returned, but there was something darker in it now. “You still bite when you’re scared. That’s what I always liked about you.”

“I’m not scared,” I whispered.

“You should be.”

He said it soft. Almost sweet. Like a compliment disguised as a warning.

My stomach twisted.

I started to close the door.

“Wait—” he said quickly. “I didn’t come to fight. I came to check on you. You look… tired.”

I paused.

That line. That line.

He used it the first night we met. Right before he pulled me into his lap and told me I didn’t need to pretend to be okay.

It worked then.

It almost worked now.

But I wasn’t that girl anymore.

I closed the door another inch. “You don’t get to check on me.”

Jason's expression hardened. Just slightly. “You seeing someone?”

I blinked.

“What?”

He smirked. “That therapist? The one they stuck you with after the scandal?”

I didn’t answer.

“I saw you leaving his office,” he said. “Every week. Same time. Same pouty mouth.”

My heart kicked hard in my chest.

“Is that why you’re suddenly too good to let me in?” Jason asked, voice colder. “Because someone else is keeping you warm now?”

He was trying to get under my skin.

And it was working.

I hated that it was working.

“Go home, Jason.”

“I could make you forget him,” he said, leaning in. “Like I always did.”

The chain shook a little as I slammed the door in his face.

I didn’t wait for him to leave. I didn’t peek through the window.

I locked every bolt and walked straight to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and climbed in fully clothed.

Because I needed the heat to scald something out of me.

The memory.

The ache.

The part of me that still liked being wanted like that—even if it came wrapped in manipulation and deceit.

Later that night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart still racing like the confrontation hadn’t ended.

Jason’s face hovered behind my eyelids.

His voice in my head.

Lane’s voice too—quieter, steadier.

“Addiction is often just an ache for something that feels like power.”

What did Jason make me feel?

Wanted.

Needed.

Destroyed.

He gave me the illusion of power by taking all of it away.

And now… I didn’t know if I missed him, or the part of me that didn’t know any better.

I woke up the next morning to a message from an unknown number.

“He won’t love you when he finds out what you are.”

No name.

No profile picture.

Just a gut-punch of shame disguised as a text.

I dropped the phone.

And this time, I didn’t just feel scared.

I felt watched.