It was certainly the first time that you’d ever experienced something so… indulgent. Luxurious, for it’s own sake. You’d laughed at the idea at first, but now that he had you immersed in a tub full of bubbles that smelled like vanilla and roses, you couldn’t remember why. Maybe it was how shamelessly romantic it all was, from the night out on the town to the bed covered in rose petals and the hundreds of little candles flickering light against your naked skin as he held you tight enough to bruise, grasping you close with a heady sort of desperation. He held you that way because he knew that he couldn’t keep you, and you knew that he knew it and he knew that you knew that he knew it, and you knew that it hurt him but you couldn’t do anything about it. You couldn’t give him what he wanted any more than you could forget the only person who had ever been trusted with your heart, or the way that she used it to hurt you.
His wet and soapy arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you closer against his chest, and you obliged by leaning your head back onto his shoulder. You could feel droplets of water trickling out of his hair and landing in yours, and you thought that perhaps this was the most relaxed you’d ever been in your entire life.
Then he pressed his lips to your ear and uttered three words that changed everything.
You couldn’t even bring yourself to look him in the eyes while you gathered up your clothes and pulled them on without bothering to dry yourself off first. You were angry that he had so easily undone everything that was fun and easy about the last two years, that he had potentially ruined a good thing. He knew that you couldn’t do a real relationship, that you didn’t do love. He knew it and still he decided that it was a good idea to tell you that he loved you and it pissed you right off because you’d always been upfront about your intentions, and now he’d forced you to hurt him.
You didn’t look back once as you fled the room, shutting the door quietly behind you.