You like numbers. Numbers are good, because they're so simple. They always behave, and do what they're supposed to.

Seven, for example. The hour in the morning where you have to leave her warmth and return to your own bed.

Four. The number of kisses she puts on texts to her boyfriend. (You receive three).

She wears two bangles on one skinny arm every day. And the probability of you ever saying no to her is zero.

Unfortunately, there's a lot about midnight girl that can't be put into numbers. How it feels to fuck her, for instance. Other things you can't quantify about her include how nice her hair smells, the way you love it when she's cold and wants your hoodie, and that sexy wink she gives you (when no one else is looking).

You're together again.

Together being used in the loosest sense of the term, of course. You've got your sunshine (of course you love her). Midnight girl has him, and he's definitely too unimaginative to appreciate her properly.

So together means late night knocks on your door, and early morning departures. Together means living off pro-plus and cheap energy drinks, because you stay up all night, watching the sunrise and talking about your childhoods. Together means balling up every last scrap of guilt and burying it as deep as you can inside you.

Because it won't (can't) stop now.

No matter how many times she cries and demands redemption you can't give her. No matter how many times you get angry and call her a slag.

Once you've finished being a complete dick you'll feel guilty (and the irony would be funny in any other situation). Apologies, sex and the continuation of this bad habit ensue.

Your ego really likes the idea that she's the slag. With her short dresses, those long thin legs- it's enough to tempt any man. Surely?

Deep down, you're aware that you're both the same, and the only consolation you can think of is that if you're headed for hell, she'll be there to keep you company, with a flick of that hair and a cheeky smile that makes your stomach twist.

You're not sure if she's yours or not, not anymore because once she told you she was, and unsure what to say about that you ignored it. Now you determinedly don't talk about things like that and instead concentrate on more superficial things, like who's better at noughts & crosses (her), and when your next orgasm is going to be.

It's a funny game of give&take, you think sometimes. But thinking still isn't one of your favourite things.

Then someone catches you red-handed, and the game changes again.

It had become too easy to be careless, to enter her room without checking who was around. To stay on a morning, and wander to breakfast together like you were some sort of real couple.

Being found out is a shock and she doesn't come to you for a long while. You assume she's crying and she hates to do that around you. You do some sums. It calms you down.

Eventually she makes an appearance. She has been crying, but you only know this because she's got more makeup on than usual.

What's going to happen?

You can't answer and that's the worst thing yet because what kind of boy are you if you can't solve girls' problems?

You're like spies now. You take no chances and you both know your relationships are at stake but you still don't (can't) stop, you still don't (can't) look her in her dark eyes and say no.

Once you worried that she was yours. Now you're far more concerned that the problem is that you are hers.

A/N: So, this WAS a one shot, but I'm now thinking some sort of four part ficlet. r&r and I'll love you forever 3