You know you're being used, but christ it's hard to care whenever she shows up at your door. You know you might be taking advantage when you kiss back, when you grip her neck, and growl into her ear, but christ it's hard to care when she's pressed against you like that. You could be her platonic safe haven, but you're not.
You think that's what Selina's for. What Ivy's for. You aren't her saviour. You're just a booty call when she gets lonely and needs someone to look her in the eyes when they're fucking her, and for her to see love there.
Because you do love her. You've loved her for a while now. That first kiss, so long ago, so shortly after she betrayed you, and you pulled away. Wouldn't talk to her for days, weeks after. But that's when you realised, that you'd had feelings sprouting inside of you. And every time she visits, and every time she doesn't, it grows stronger.
Maybe, you tell yourself in the mornings, when you can watch her sleep, it's because you've never gotten to be the good guy before. Your memory is shot, yes, but you were a villain before this, a madman. You're still not great, just decent, just barely above the baseline for "acceptable". But when you're with her, and you can make her smile over your burnt pancakes (how, in all this time, have you still not learnt to flip them at the right time?), you feel like you might actually be an okay person.
So now she's here again. It's been raining and she's soaking wet, and you have to let her in. You grab a towel for her, and some clean clothes she left here last time (like she were your girlfriend — no, don't, those are dangerous, stupid thoughts).
"Falling out?" you say while you make her lemon tea.
"Big time," she says. "Let's not talk about it."
She never wants to talk about it.
"Did you record my favourite?" she asks.
"You know there's streaming services for that, right?" you say, coming to join her on the sofa. You hate the little burst of happiness you feel when she puts her legs across your lap, makes herself at home.
"Did you record it?"
You roll your eyes and grab the remote. You don't want to say of course, even though of course you recorded it, just in case. Every time she leaves, she says it'll be the last time, she promises, but it never is. You couldn't take it if it was.
You put it on, some dating reality show that you thought was dumb, but that you've become pretty invested in. You once watched it without her, and when you told her, she got really mad. It's our thing, she said. Our. You and her have a thing and it breaks your heart.
"I hate those two," she says, sneering at the TV screen.
"They're my favourite," you say, trying not to blush.
"Of course they are," she says, and rubs her foot against your arm.
"What does that mean?"
"They're all soppy."
You open your mouth to stutter: "I'm not soppy!"
"Oh yeah?" she says, raising an eyebrow in that way she does.
"Yeah!"
"Okay, if that's what you want to believe, who am I to deny you," she says, sticking her tongue out at you.
You scrunch your face up, trying to hide your embarrassment. "You think you know me so well."
"I do, Eddie," she says, her face naked and honest. "You're soppy. It's why I like you."
And you can't help but grin like an idiot, looking at the TV with laser focus hoping she won't notice how happy it's made you, but you know she knows.
When the credits roll, she does that big exaggerated yawn that you like, where she stretches her whole body out like a cat and makes a great big noise.
"I'm tired," she says.
"I guessed," you say.
"Let's go to bed,' she says.
And you don't say anything. You follow her into the bedroom and close the door, your nerves jangling. Sometimes you have sex, and sometimes you don't, but you never initiate. You don't want to risk anything.
But she comes to you, and kisses you against the door, and she tastes exactly like you remember: like bubblegum and something much darker. You think it might be patchouli, but you've never worked it out, not in the year this has been going on.
You walk her backwards to the bed, and you're both so practiced now that it's no time before you're both naked.
"Gotta pay the toll, Eddie," she says, waggling a finger up in your face.
You try to make a face, but your smile doesn't fade. You enjoy it, going down there and tasting her. Nibbling at her, licking, and teasing and hearing her moan above you. Feeling her fingers twist in your hair, and having her grind against your mouth. You never want to leave those moments, where you're entire worldview has shrunk and every sense is filled with her, her, her.
She cums after 10 minutes, and you sigh. It used to be longer, mostly because you were no good and didn't know what she likes.
She pulls you up, and you almost headbutt her as you lose your footing, and she just giggles. Then you're kissing again, full-mouthed and intense, and you take a few moments to get the positioning right before you're inside her. You try to take your time, to appreciate the moment, but you've never been very good at that. Instead your staring in her eyes as you fuck her, looking for every minute twitch of her expression, trying to make sure she's okay and enjoying it. And you always, always try not to think about how you might compare. How this is vanilla, and that's probably not the flavour she prefers.
Afterwards, you lie side by side, and she's stroking your arm.
"Harley," you whisper, because it's dark and you always whisper to her when you're in the dark. "I-"
"I know, Eddie," she says before you can embarrass yourself, like she always does. "Let's go to sleep."
She curls up in your arms so perfectly, like she was made to be there. Her feet her cold, because somehow they always are, and she refuses to let you put your feet near them to warm them up.
"I like them cold," she insists.
You wake up every few hours in the night whenever she's here. Like your brain just wants to check she's still there, that it's all real and you haven't been imagining all these encounters. Because once she's out those doors, this won't be spoken of again.
You sometimes wonder in those sleepless moments what would happen if you met someone else. But then you just roll your eyes. Who would you meet? Who could replace her? You mostly think about that so you don't have to think about what would happen if she stopped coming round.
So you settle back to sleep for another couple of hours.
In the morning, you're awake first, and watch her sleep. She's an inelegant sleeper — mouth open, often drooling, splayed out on the bed like it were hers. Like you wish it were.
She's always cold when she wakes up, so you wrap around her, naked bodies, but there's no sexual energy there, even as your morning erection tries to say otherwise.
You just lie there breathing her scent in while you still can. Then you make her coffee and something to eat — no pancakes this time, you're out of batter, and she pouts. Instead it's toast, and you watch it in front of the TV. You always avoid the news, both of you do, in case his name comes up and breaks the spell.
When you've finished washing up, she's already fully dressed and made up. You blink.
"Going already?" you say, because you can't help yourself.
"Gotta run, Eddie," she says, and comes over to give you a peck on the lips.
"You could stay, you know," you say, you always say. "We could do something."
"Like what?" she replies, she always replies.
"Like, I don't know. Grab lunch. Go…do something."
She just gives you that lopsided smile and shakes her head.
She's half-way to the door before you can catch her for one last kiss.
"This is the last time," she says, like she really means it, like she always does. "Thanks for putting up with me."
You don't say anything, because what is there to say that she doesn't already know?
"See ya, Eddie."
"Bye, Harley."
Then the door is closed and you're alone with yourself again, as always. Now you're back to real life, pretending you're not spending every moment waiting to see her again. Pretending you're not spending your time turning over and over the thought that one day it might really be the last time, and you won't know it until it's too late.