I didn’t leave to get revenge. Not really.

I left because I was suffocating. Because every word he threw at me sounded like one reproach too many. Because he no longer saw the woman I am—just a version of me that suited him better.

I slammed the door behind me. I wore a black dress, tight, soft, no underwear. It was a coincidence… or maybe a premonition. My heels struck the pavement with silent fury. I needed to breathe. To feel wanted. Free. Alive.

The bar was dim, smoky, tucked into the street like a secret. I slipped inside like diving into cold water—to wake myself up. I ordered a gin, fingers still trembling. And then… I saw him.

Him.

Alone at the bar. Tall, solid, sharp jaw, dark eyes that didn’t flirt—they devoured. He looked at me like a man who already knew. Knew what I needed. Knew what I was.

He walked over. No words. Just presence. Heat. I looked him in the eye, leaned in, and whispered: "Come with me."

A few streets away, tucked into a shadowed alley, I stopped. He pressed against me, hands firm on my hips. But I turned the moment around—gently pushed him against the wall. My fingers moved down, certain, hungry.

I undid his belt and lowered his pants.

Then I dropped to my knees.

I wrapped my lips around him slowly, deliberately. Felt him grow harder with every inch. His hand tangled in my hair, not forcing—just there. I loved it. I loved the way he tasted, the way his body tensed, how he tried to hold back. My tongue danced over him, my lips tight and eager.

His breath hitched. I felt him near the edge.

And then I stopped.

I stood up, face flushed, my hands pressed to his chest, my eyes locked on his. "Now fuck me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He spun me around, pulled up my black dress, and entered me in one deep, savage thrust. My back hit the stone wall, my palms flat against the rough surface, my cheek against the cold while my belly burned.

He fucked me hard, his hands gripping my hips, my moans echoing in the empty alley. I was soaking, open, aching. Every thrust ripped a louder cry from my throat. I wasn’t thinking anymore. Not about him. Not about myself. Just this—raw, immediate pleasure.

I came hard, my body convulsing, legs trembling. He followed right after, breathless, shaking, silent.

We didn’t speak.

There was nothing to say.

I walked home alone, black dress wrinkled, thighs still wet.