#love letters

He decides against sending another message, convinced it will only annoy you more. Oliver also manages to convince himself that, despite there not being any indication of it, you are definitely being passive-aggressive and he has to make it up to you somehow. Preferably by the end of the night. He likes you and doesn’t want to fuck up the first exclusive relationship he’s had in years, he has to do this right. You’re good to him, you’re his girlfriend, it’s only normal to be upset about him preferring to go out with his teammates rather than spending time with you.

You smile when Oliver sends you the first picture, the table of an exlusive restaurant crammed with turbulent athletes, Aryu promptly offering a V sign. You react with a red heart and put your phone aside, engrossed in the show you’re watching sprawled on your couch.

The second picture he sends is a selfie of him and Sendo but you only see it at the end of the episode, almost an hour later. You react with another heart, or so you think: you end up tapping on the thumbs up emoji instead but there is no real way for you to notice because Oliver just keeps texting and sending pictures for the entire evening.

Oliver: still with the boys [IMG_76439]

Oliver: we’re still here

Oliver: they want to go for drinks now

Oliver: this place is nice, nothing special

Oliver: it’s just us [IMG_29364]

Oliver: will leave in a bit!

Oliver: niko got pretty wasted, had to drag him home first [IMG_28165]

Oliver: I’m home now :) goodnight ♡

When you see the texts, a weird feeling settles in your gut for a moment. Something feels off but you can’t quite place your finger on it. Oliver texts you during the day or when he’s travelling, sometimes he’s very detailed about what he’s doing too. That is not unusual. But it’s very unlike him to send you so many updates, with so many pictures.

You find it a little odd but, again, your relationship is still quite new and maybe there are sides of him you have yet to uncover. Perhaps he was excited about dinner, maybe a little tipsy too, which makes you smile.

The next morning, Oliver is at your door right as you’re brewing yourself coffee. He’s holding two paper bags and is grinning so wide, proud of the surprised smile you’re greeting him with.

“What are you doing here?”, you ask as he gets inside, kicks his shoes off by the doorstep.

“Thought we could have breakfast together”, he pecks your lips once, one hand gently cradling your cheek, “so I can apologize for last night”.

You’re too distracted for a second, his lips moving on yours and your arms around his neck. When you pull away, your thoughts are still floating in that sweet haze he evokes so you are unable to immediately grasp the meaning of such sentence.

Oliver doesn’t waste any time: in a moment he’s in your kitchen setting the table, hands moving on their own accord as he fishes out plates and cups and glasses from your cupboard. He’s already memorized where everything is, which makes you want to kiss him again, right by the coffee machine.

“I have coffee, blueberry waffles and-”

“Wait”, you finally snap out of your daze and let out an airy chuckle, “you’re apologizing? What for?”.

Oliver continues with his ministrations, the bags on your table being emptied with steady precision.

“For going out with the boys”, he shrugs, “I should’ve cancelled”.

You tilt your head to the side.

“Why, did something happen?”.

“I wasn’t with you”, he meets your confused gaze for a second.

“Yeah, but”, you offer an uncertain smile, “you were with your friends. Why are you apologizing?”.

The table is set so Oliver doesn’t have any more tasks to keep himself busy at hand. He looks at you, attentively searches for something across your features. Relief floods his chest when he realizes you’re being serious.

“You’re not upset”, he says and it’s not a question. You truly aren’t. Chances are you weren’t being sarcastic either.

“I’m not upset”, you repeat carefully, “did I say something-”

“No”, he’s quick to interrupt, “no, you didn’t. I’m sorry, I’m an idiot”.

In fact, he feels like the biggest idiot on earth. Even as you chuckle, he can see it, the wariness he prompted. Oliver kisses you again, reminds himself that there’s a reason why he wanted to be in an exclusive relationship after so much time. You’re not a ghost from his past, you’re you. He doesn’t want to ruin the one good thing he’s had going on in years and, most importantly, he doesn’t want you to notice. Inquire. You’re too caring for your own good and he’s too embarrassed to let you take care of him the way he knows you’d want to.  

You gently brush his bangs away from his forehead as you sit next to him and share breakfast. He relishes in how oblivious you are to his thoughts, hopes he’ll be able to shield this one relationship from them.

“I really like you, Aiku Oliver”, you say, quiet, adoring, and his heart melts like liquid gold in his chest. He wants to enjoy this feeling completely, he wants to deserve it.

“I think I like you more”, Oliver grins, pinches one of your cheeks and you slap his hand away with a groan. Your kitchen is nothing special and yet he’s never felt such warmth in his own apartment. He wonders how you can make any place feel like home, how you manage to summon that dangerous spark that lights up every room you step foot into and if it’s not too early for him to be already falling so hard.

If he ends up hitting the ground, it may hurt worse than the last time.

The first, actual evidence that something you can’t quite understand has indeed been simmering beneath the surface, comes with a phone call.

Oliver has been quite observant of the ‘no need to update me when you’re out’ suggestion. It has been a constant and it was beginning to drive you insane: whenever he was somewhere you were not, he kept sending you texts and pictures the entire time, something that quite soon stopped being cute and started feeling off instead.

You politely explained that you didn’t need that: not when he was with his family, not when he was with his friends, not when he was working. Of course you still want to text him during the day but you want texts, not constant proof of where he is and who he is with.

You think his reputation might have something to do with it. It’s no secret that the name Aiku has been associated with the very worst playboy scandals all over trashy magazines and social media, for years. The media has never been kind to him: heartbreaker Aiku, playboliver, bad boy Aiku who’s constantly at it again. The soccer player who plays them all. One is never enough for Aiku.

He knows, as you know, they have not been entirely wrong. But the minute you started dating him, the day you decided to be in a relationship with each other, all that should’ve stopped being important. Oliver doesn’t have to prove he’s not all that, you don’t need him to. That’s what you hope he’d understand: you simply wouldn’t be his girlfriend if you didn’t trust him.

The argument seemed to convince him, although at times he still slips, especially when he isn’t home by the time he told you he would be or something unexpected he feels the need to update you on happens. The main problem is that he occasionally gets upset if you don’t update him the same: why didn’t you tell him you’re not home yet? Why didn’t he know other friends, who happen to be all guys, would be joining your brunch? You have been too quiet, is something wrong? Maybe he should come with you. Maybe you should’ve told him.

It starts irritating you. Which irritates him. You really like Oliver a lot and you desperately want to make things work but so long as there’s something you don’t comprehend fully, it’s just not going to be easy. You needed an excuse that would give you the chance to start the conversation in the first place for quite some time and the call you receive late at night on a Saturday might just be it.

“Hey?”.

“Something happened”, Oliver’s voice comes out uncharacteristically high pitched, urgent, “I want you to hear it from me first”.

You straighten up on the couch, suddenly alert.

“What happened? Are you okay?”.

“I’m fine. It’s just”, you hear him take a deep breath, the distant banging of the music in the background, “just promise you’ll believe me”.

You can’t relax your shoulders, anxiety threatening to clutch your chest in a cold grip. You have a feeling about where this is going but you remind yourself of the faith you place in him.

“Okay”, you murmur.

“We were at the club, doing our own thing in the vip lounge, and then the guys let in a group of girls. This one girl… I told her I wasn’t interested, I told her I have a girlfriend but she was just all over me, you know? And then she tried to kiss me and of course I didn’t let her, I gently pushed her away and left to call you, but…”.

“But?”.

“But if someone took pictures or a video and leaked them online, I just know it’s going to look fucking bad. She was laughing, her arms were around my neck and my hands on her shoulders-”

“Okay”, you say, sternly, “I believe you”.

“I’m sorry. I swear this is all there is to it, nothing happened, you can ask any of the boys”.

“Oliver, I said I believe you”.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel relieved. He feels incredulous, almost like you’re making fun of him.

“What, you’re not pissed? Not even this pisses you off?”.

“What do you mean?”.

“Are you the perfect girl or something? How are you so unbothered all the fucking time?”.

You almost laugh, in utter disbelief.

“What do you want from me, Oliver?”.

“I want you to have a normal reaction for once!”.

“Well, I am pissed! Is that what you want to hear? I hate all these strangers that make you uncomfortable, get in your personal space and think they own you just because you play for a soccer team, I hate how you always somehow end up being the bad guy and yeah, maybe I am pissed that a woman tried to make out with my boyfriend while I wasn’t there! I’m jealous and I’m pissed, alright? I’d kick her in the face if I could. Are you happy now? Is my reaction normal enough?”.

The line is silent for a while but you know he’s still there. Frankly, this is what upsets you the most: the claim he wants to have over your emotions, your reactions. You can always tell when he’s surprised and you wouldn’t let it get to you if it wasn’t for the way Oliver then looks at you. Dubious, not entirely convinced, always expecting something different to follow. It hurts, it leaves a sour taste in your mouth that you always swallow down because it’s clear by now that he doesn’t know how to be in a proper relationship. You’re just going to have to find out if you are simply not compatible or whether the problem lies in something else, something different he never wants to openly talk about.

“I don’t want to be unfair to you”, you speak quietly once more, “but you are being unfair to me”.

It’s late, you’re upset and you can’t really bring yourself to say what you really want to. Maybe you should start a relationship with someone who doesn’t trust you, since this is clearly what you’re chasing. 

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry”, he whispers more to himself than to you, “can I come over?”.

“I don’t think-”

“Please, I’ll apologize and leave. I just want to see you”.

You exhale slowly, the exhaustion that comes with not knowing how to fix whatever is broken within the man you’re falling in love with makes your limbs feel heavy. He whispers your name again and you don’t have it in your heart to deny him, because it’s Oliver and because you want to understand. If he’ll allow you, you want to help. And if he won’t, it will mean that you’re not the right choice for him. A pity, because by now you’re pretty confident he is your person.

The night is a whirlwind of apologies, sincere eyes and broken voices. He’s not drunk but definitely tipsy, confused by what he said and why he said it, the moment you open the door you find yourself in his arms and he whispers his apology into your shoulder over and over and over. He says he doesn’t know what came over him and while you don’t quite believe that, you decide it’s a conversation for the morning.

You don’t let him leave, instead you hug him back and hope your hushed reassurances will be enough to soothe his perturbation. Oliver lets you drag him into the bathroom, where the spare toothbrush you were hoping to whip out for a happier occasion is. He lets you undress him and drinks the water you bring him and crawls into your bed, where he keeps you pressed against his chest. You card your fingers through his hair as he breathes you in and keeps whispering his apology, lips brushing against your collarbone. You slip into a restless slumber, agitated by dreams that wake you multiple times.

Oliver wakes up as the sun rises, body controlled by habits that are years old and whose familiarity he welcomes. The ceiling of your bedroom stares back at him and he takes a few minutes to let the comfort of the steady murmur of your soft snores trickle down his spine. He’s scared more than he is worried. You’re resolute, way more than he is: if you already decided you want to end things, Oliver knows he won’t be able to change your mind. Why would you change your mind? He’s been an asshole. His phone has already been blowing up with texts from his friends, sisters, PR team, so he doesn’t really need to guess whether something regarding the previous night has been leaked or not. He really is the worst possible choice for a boyfriend, he thinks with a sour smile as he tiredly rubs his eyes.   

“Hi”, you whisper as you hug him from the back an hour later, right as he is brewing coffee in your kitchen.

“Hi”, he says back, leaning into your embrace. You press a kiss to his shoulder blade and he can feel the way his heart kicks at his ribs.

“You’re a kicker, you know?”.

Oliver allows himself a dry chuckle.

“I’m a soccer player”.

You hum and he turns around to find that familiar, sarcastic glint in your eyes he’s learned to love so much.

“Maybe leave my legs alone and stick to the ball?”.

“I only do it when I’m nervous”.

With a sigh, you accept the cup of coffee he hands you.

“Right. Well, let’s just get this over with, shall we?”, when you meet his gaze, Oliver’s expression is almost carved in stone, “please tell me what’s wrong”.

He blinks, surprised.

“What do you mean?”.

“I want to know what’s wrong”, you articulate the words slowly but confidently, “talk to me”.

Oliver puts his own mug back on the counter, runs a hand through his hair to conceal the way it’s quivering.

“I don’t understand. Talk to you about what?”.

“Oliver…”.

“What?”.

You frown.

“About why you think I’m always assuming the worst. About why you justify yourself over and over again, why you spend a night out with your friends updating me. About why I’m apparently at fault for not thinking you would cheat on me. Who made you do all this and why are you still doing it with me?”.

Oliver doesn’t appreciate the feeling of being seen so clearly because it is unbearably similar to the feeling of being cornered. It makes him vulnerable and shifts his role from someone who is perfectly capable of taking care of those around him to someone who needs to be taken care of. You are too good at seeing him and if he was a good boyfriend, a normal one, he’d be happy about it. He’d feel comforted by the feeling.

But he’s not a good boyfriend.

“Jesus”, he lets out a bitter laugh, “what’s this, an interrogation? Didn’t notice you were so goddamn bothered by everything I did”.

“I just want to understand”, you push, “to help”.

“There’s nothing to understand and I don’t need your help”.

“So you’d just rather keep hurting me instead?”.

He smiles.

“I’m hurting you? I spend all my fucking time doting on you. I tell you everything. I give you everything”.

You try to not let his words sting but it’s difficult to feel in control of your emotions when the man standing in front of you suddenly feels like a stranger.

“You hurt me by not talking to me. You hurt me last night, Oliver”.

“Oh, fuck off”, he groans, “I apologized a million times. I’m the one being ripped to shreds online, you’re safe”.

“I don’t want that!”, you raise your voice, “shit, I don’t want your apologies and I don’t care about the fucking gossip! I want to know why you can’t handle that I trust you, I want to know what-”, when you take a step forward with the intention of taking his face in your hands, the sudden movement prompts something that stops you dead in your tracks. Oliver is gripping your kitchen counter, knuckles white.

In disbelief, you try your best to soften your tone as you take a step back.

“Did you just flinch?”.

“What? No”, he says, a deep crimson hue spreading slowly over his cheeks and neck.

“You did”, you murmur, “did you think I was going to-”

“Enough”, Oliver speaks in a way he’s never spoken to you. It’s imperative, final, a booming tone that doesn’t allow objections. “This is bullshit, I’m done”.

Petrified, you watch him storm out of your kitchen, the quiet of the early morning stained by how loudly he slams the front door on his way out of your apartment. Of your life too, probably.

Ironically, the detail you remember most clearly about that morning is his cold cup of coffee abandoned on the counter. You didn’t touch that mug until two days later, comforted by the one thing that still proved that Oliver had been there at all. You aren’t left with much else.

Days pass, then a week does, almost two. He doesn’t text, doesn’t call, and you don’t either because somehow you decide it’s best to give him space if that’s what he needs. By day 10 you realize that if he’s truly done, you’re gonna have to be too. And the very least such hurt deserves is a clear, respectful, mature breakup. You can’t fight for someone who doesn’t want to be seen.

You would’ve held his hand and walked with him on a difficult but shared path that could heal whatever wound is still infected. You were willing to ache as much as necessary in the process, well prepared to face bared teeth and brandished claws, but if Oliver doesn’t want you to, if he isn’t prepared to maim himself by exposing the rot and then sever it with your help, there is no reason for your relationship to exist in the first place. Not if he likes you, not if you may already be in love with him. You will face this hurt on your own and always hope he will heal from his own, perhaps with someone better than you by his side.

You politely ask your friends and family to stop bringing him up, you’re not sure how final the breakup is yet (quite final, it’s just that they don’t need to know so soon) and wish to clarify things before initiating a sob fest over it. They’ve been more subtle with their care. You have so much homemade food in your fridge despite not having cooked a single thing in ten days, your best friend brought you a million face masks and a basket filled with snacks, your mom sent you pretty, colorful flowers just because you love them. You can’t wait for your apartment to feel less dull, for the ghost who lives there to come alive again.

On day 10, you almost get kicked out of the training facility on the other side of town. Niko doesn’t hear you when you call for him and security definitely doesn’t believe you when you swear you’ve been there before. To watch your boyfriend train.

You have to pretend the knot in your stomach doesn’t damn nearly make you throw up when Oliver suddenly shows up right at the entrance, seemingly surprised to see you.

“It’s fine, she’s with me”, he dismisses the security guy with no particular inflection in his voice, but you know him too well. He’s not happy you’re there. Becoming an inconvenience sure has been easy.

“What are you doing here?”, he hates himself for sounding like a father scolding his unruly child and you try your best to keep your unbothered facade up.

“Wanted to talk”.

“I’m kinda busy”.

“I’ll wait”.

“I just got here”.

“I’ll wait”, you say again, adjusting the bag on your shoulder.

Oliver looks at you with something difficult to interpret in his expression. You don’t really care that he’s bothered by your presence, soon enough it’s not going to be a problem at all.

“As you wish”, he shrugs before jogging back to where his teammates are, on the pitch. Sendo waves at you and you offer a smile, waving back.

You sit there for so much time your legs start cramping, tired eyes concealed by the biggest pair of sunglasses you own. Your back hurts and you can’t remember the last time you had a full, restful night’s sleep, yet your heart still races as you watch him do what he does best.

“Glad you’re here”, the low, sudden voice makes you jump as you take notice that someone is now sitting next to you, “he’s been playing like shit”.

You’re still quite startled but welcome his comment with a light, nervous chuckle.

“Yeah?”.

His keen, crimson eyes never spare his opponents and they certainly don’t spare you. He’s far too intelligent to fall for your dumb act.

“It’s none of my business”, he clarifies, “but I hope you two can sort it out”.

For some reason, his unexpected kindness brings tears to your already puffy eyes. You take a moment to collect yourself, clear your throat, and miss the way his gaze further softens.

“Thank you, Shoei”, you say and it’s the most sincere you’ve sounded in over a week. He gives you a dry nod and you smile.

“How come you’re benched?”.

“Sprained my ankle. Told those fuckers I can still play but they won’t let me”.

You click your tongue.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rest”.

“I need to play”.

“Do you have someone who can help you cook proper meals? We live pretty close to each other, I can-”

He raises a hand and the words die in your throat right away.

“I’m fine. Take care of yourself first”.

You huff out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m fine too”.

“Sure you are”, he grunts, “and your man didn’t just miss his fourth chance to score in a row”.

“Be nice to him”, you warn, eyes following the players running on the pitch once more. He scoffs pretty loudly but decides against saying anything.

You’re still thinking about Baro’s quiet care, unexpected but not really surprising, when Oliver finds you at the end of his training. You’re outside the facility, leaning against the wall and looking up to take in the delicate violet, orange hues the sun has painted the sky in.

“Hey”, he sounds softer now but there’s still a sharp edge to his voice, “sorry, that took a while”.

“It’s okay, this won’t take long”, your sunglasses are perched on your head now and you’re sure he can see how much of a wreck your face is as you meet his gaze. But the thing is, you can see the exact same devastation blinking back at you. It looks like he’s been getting the same amount of sleep as you the past few days, more or less. You resist the impulse to take his face in your hands and stroke the tired skin under his eyes.

He waits for you to go on and you force yourself to snap out of your stupor.

“If you’re really done, I think I at least deserve a proper breakup. So please, do it right”, you bravely tilt your head further up, gaze focused on the tip of his nose to avoid his eyes. 

Oliver suddenly feels as if the sidewalk is dropping beneath him, it leaves him feeling dizzy and disorientated. One hand rises to idly touch his chest, to double check that you did not just physically kick the wind out of his lungs.

“No”, he says, genuinely surprised, “no, that’s what you think? That I broke up with you?”.

You blink once, twice.

“You said you were done and stormed out of my apartment”.

“Done with the conversation, not you. I was just-”, he struggles to find the right words, “I was really mad, okay? I couldn’t-”

“I haven’t heard from you in ten days, Oliver. You said you were done, slammed my door and disappeared. If this is what you call a relationship, I can’t be the one to be in such a relationship with”. 

You look up at the sky, to conceal the tears clouding your vision once more. He closes the distance between your bodies and gently takes your face in his hands, the movement prompts one traitorous tear to escape your stubborn confinement but his thumb instantly wipes it away.

“No, you’re right”, he murmurs, “you can’t and you shouldn’t”.

“So won’t you please just do it right?”, a broken sob cuts you off and you tremble slightly in his hold, “tell me that it’s over and I’ll leave you be”.

Oliver clicks his tongue before cradling the back of your head and pulling you into the tightest hug he’s ever given, hating himself more than he’s ever done. He only now realizes how his own hurt can end up damaging others and you’re quite literally the one person he wanted to always protect from that. You deserve so much better than him and yet he’s egotistical enough to not want to let you go. If love is selfless, Oliver’s is stubborn.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers into your neck, “I’m so sorry. It’s not over for me, how could it be? But if that’s what you want, I won’t stop you”.

You weakly clutch his shoulders, further pressing his body against yours.

“If I can’t be what you need”, you murmur, “it’s the right thing to do”.

He wants to kick himself in the face. How could he let you think such nonsense? He’s the one who’s been wrong the entire time. He’s been unfair to you and, most importantly, to himself. He always thought the shame embedded in feelings experienced so far back in time would weigh more on any scale, that the choice between letting someone truly see every facet of him and letting them go would be easy. But he’s horrified to find out just how unaware he has been, so engrossed in his denial he completely failed to notice the way you’ve been slipping between his fingers like powdery sand. You, the one person who could still see him for who he really is. The person who has been too busy trying to protect him to protect herself.

“I’ll tell you”, Oliver pulls back but one of his hands is still cradling your cheek. It’s like he’s afraid you’ll somehow disappear into a cloud of dust if he stops touching you. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you still want to hear it”, there’s still hurt in his eyes but it’s the hopeful lilt to his voice that breaks your heart.

You part your lips to say something but he beats you to it.

“No, it’s not just because I don’t want to end this relationship. It’s because I want to tell you”.

It just so happens that Oliver sees you too, just as clearly.

His apartment is conveniently close to the training facility. The penthouse occupies the highest floor of the building: it grants him privacy and unobstructed views of the city below, it’s practical, luxurious, lonely. You haven’t been there in a while and knowing the place does rarely look like he’s living in it at all, the environment tidy and void of any real personalizations, you’re surprised to be met with a slight, foreign mess when you step inside.

It’s nothing major but it’s heavily unlike Oliver. Two empty beer bottles left on the coffee table, the rolled up corner of the carpet, dirty dishes left in sink instead of being moved to the dishwasher, shutters only being half open.

He drops his gym bag to the floor, asks you to sit. You curl up on one of his armchairs, in the same position he once told you it reminded him of a jungle cat. Seemingly comfortable and at ease but also deeply alert.

Oliver, still standing and leaning against a console table, takes a moment to observe you and take in the feeling swarming in his chest. He’s nervous but he’s also so relieved. He didn’t think it would be possible for him to miss someone so much.

“I was in a relationship for a very long time”, he clears his throat, one nail absentmindedly scraping the surface of the table behind him, “it was one of my first real relationships, actually”.

You observe his clear discomfort and can hardly keep yourself from rising from your seat, taking his hand.

“I was deeply in love with her, I think it was the first time I felt anything like that at all. She was my first in more than one way. She set the standard for what was normal and I complied. I thought that’s what relationships must be like, you know?”.

“Like what?”, you ask, quietly. He offers a small, sad smile.

“She’d call it intense. When it was good, it was great, but when it wasn’t…”, he sighs, “we’d fight a lot. She was very jealous, obsessed with the idea that I was going to cheat on her with other women  and men. I was at the beginning of my career so I justified her, told myself maybe I’d feel the same way. I tried really hard to give her what she needed to feel at ease but it was never enough. She didn’t want me to go out if she wasn’t there and if I did, I had to facetime her multiple times despite having my location on”.

You hum, a gentle encouragement for him to go on.

“It didn’t matter if I was with my friends, team or family. She needed to be there too somehow. The craziest thing is she’d get really upset if I didn’t do the same. She said she didn’t feel wanted, cared for, she said she could fuck some guy at the club and I wouldn’t ever even know”.

“What happened if you refused to do what she asked?”.

Oliver pauses for a moment, eyes focused on nothing. 

“She’d cause a scene. We ruined quite a lot of dinners, parties, vacations”, he laughs dryly, “we’d get into these big, explosive fights and she’d yell the worse things. But then she’d apologize and we’d always find our way back to each other. I was in love and thought that was what love was supposed to be like. I didn’t believe anyone who told me I was getting sucked into something harmful”.

When he looks at you and sees the sorrow embedded in your features, he steps closer and offers a hand. You take it right away, interlace your fingers with his and squeeze gently.

“Well, it was shitty. We’d break up, then get back together, then break up again. I did everything I could to make her happy but it was never enough. Took me years to properly cut her off but I guess I still associate being someone’s boyfriend to… all that. I fucked up a few other relationships along the way, I just decided it wasn’t really worth it. Until you”, he crouches down by your feet and brings your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles. You’re frowning, swallowing hard as if trying to get down some bad medicine.

“Do I remind you of her?”, the question breaks his heart.

“No”, Oliver replies immediately and squeezes your hand harder, “no, not at all”.

You hesitate briefly before asking the next question, the pang in your heart concealed by the calmness of your tone.

“Did she ever hit you?”.

He tenses up again, a boyish smile already tugging at his lips in an attempt at playing off the whole thing as insignificant.

“Nah. Just one or two slaps here and there but she never really hit me, no”.

You shut your eyes for a moment.

“Oliver…”.

“I know it sounds bad but it wasn’t really important. She’d do it out of frustration, when I wouldn’t listen during an argument. Men get slapped, it happens”.

“It shouldn’t happen”, you state vehemently, “and I’m sorry it happened to you. I’m sorry she put you through all that”.

“It’s fine. It’s been years, I should get over it-”

“There’s no set time to get over something like that”, you say because it’s true. It’s hard and it’s shitty and it requires so much emotional work. He has to do it on his own terms.

“Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this”, you inch forward to wipe some wetness from under his eyes, something that surprises him as he blinks and a few more tears fall down his cheeks. Oliver doesn’t remember the last time he cried in front of someone.

“Wow, it feels really weird”, he chokes out a chuckle, “I haven’t talked about this in so long. I feel ridiculous”.

You let yourself slip from the armchair to the floor and wrap him up in a tight hug, one he melts into immediately. He rubs your back and you nuzzle further into the crook of his neck. You both stay like that for a while, nestled in each other’s familiar hold. If the thought of how unfairly the world treats him crossed your mind several times, you realize you’ve never properly reflected on how unfair Oliver can be to himself. How self-destructive. It doesn’t hold any importance, the degree to which he managed to numb himself: he’s still been carrying all this inside him all these years. An ache harbored deep within him, protected by high walls, thick with shame. You hate her for what he did to him, even if it’s not your place. You hate her and you hate that he couldn’t meet someone better, someone he could love and be loved by the right way.

At least a few minutes pass before he timidly speaks again.

“I know you’re not her. I’m sorry”.

You pull back to look at him and Oliver offers a tiny, awkward smile.

“Don’t apologize”, you try to smile too, but it probably comes off a little broken still.

“Don’t tell me what to do”, with a chuckle he gets up from the floor and helps you up too. As he sits in his armchair you’re immediately pulled into his lap, where you try to adjust yourself better in his arms. Oliver only gives you so much room to move, arms secured tightly around you. He lets you take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead, then his eyelids, his cheeks. He feels like there are still shattered pieces of him on the floor where he just crumbled but for the first time, he’s not in any rush to pick them up. If you’re with him, he doesn’t need to be intact. He can hope to be loved exactly for what he is.

“Are you still my boyfriend?”, you ask after a few minutes of silence. He softly bites into your shoulder, where he was resting his chin until a second ago. Your little ow! makes him smile.

“I am”, Oliver says. He wouldn’t know how to be anything else by now, really. “I might not be a perfect one, though”.

You scoff.

“I’m hardly a perfect girlfriend. So, how about we make an agreement?”.

“Like a blood pact?”.

You flick the tip of his nose. He sticks his tongue out but you can feel his hand gently rubbing circles on your back once more.

“Fine, sorry. Go on”.

“Let’s just always talk to each other, yeah?”, you card your fingers through his hair, gently brush some of the strands away from his face, “you can ask me things instead of assuming. I promise to be honest. And if I’m upset about anything, I’ll talk to you too. How does that sound?”.

Oliver turns his head slightly, enough for his lips to press to your forearm.

“It sounds really good”, he murmurs. It sounds like he can almost see what the rest of his life is going to look like already. If love is prudent, Oliver’s is impetuous.

“Thank you”, he breathes and you curl up on his chest, in an armchair that is not meant to accommodate two people at all.

“Don’t”, you whisper, “I’ll be there for you if you’ll want me to. I’m sorry if I pressured-”

“Don’t”, Oliver says back and tilts your head up with the softest grasp of your chin, “I want you there. I want you everywhere really, all the time”.

A mischievous smile tugs at your lips.

“Wow, this took a corny turn”.

He rolls his eyes.

“Sure, go ahead. Ruin the moment. It’s not like I was about to say I really missed you, or anything”.

You laugh into his chest and the sound seeps through the fabric of his shirt, mends another crack he carries in his bones by filling the crevice like honey so sweet.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Aiku Oliver”, you say, head resting right where you can hear the staccato of his heartbeat.

Lungs expand further in his chest cavity as he takes the next breath.

“Devastatingly handsome it is then, I’ll take the compliment. You look really good in that dress, by the way”.

“Don’t”, you scoff, “you’re too hot to be that much of a clichè”.

He hums, amused.

“Not too hot to tell the truth. You know, for someone so wary, it’s surprising you’d let me pick you up at your place”.

“Not her place”, Chisako’s voice startles him and you sigh, turning to the mirror once more: your hair is being exceptionally stubborn.

“Listen… what’s your name again?”, your best friend eyes him up and down, hands on her hips.

“I’m Oliver”, he replies, seemingly amused. You meet his gaze in the mirror once more.

“Listen, Oliver. You do anything to her, anything, and I’ll kill you. Won’t even go through the fuss of pressing charges, you hear me?”.

“That’s sweet”.

She narrows her gaze.

“You think I’m kidding? Hands to yourself and don’t try anything funny”.

“Hey, just a quick reminder, she rented me”.

“You, don’t talk to my friend like that”, you finally whip around, exasperated, “and you, please don’t scare my very expensive date away yet. I still need him”.

With a scoff, Chisako lightly slaps your finger away from her chest.

“Fine. Share your location and call me if you need anything. Keep your phone with you”, you soften when you read the sincere worry swarming in her eyes and smile.

“Deal. Thank you”, with a deep breath, you grab your purse and take an uncertain step back, “do I look okay?”.

“More than okay, you’re…”.

“Beautiful”.

You both look at him, skeptical.

“You don’t have to do that”.

“Do what?”, Oliver chuckles, “let me guess, you think that was also a lie”.

“Hot and smart? You really are the whole package”, with a scoff, you walk past him and toward the front door, where you slip your very pretty, very uncomfortable heels on.

Still evidently amused, he opens the door for you and offers his arm to walk you down the stairs of the old apartment complex. Chisako waits on the balcony, arms folded and resting on the black railing. You look up and she waves, making you chuckle.

When Oliver leans forward to open the car door for you, you look at him astonished.

“You came… in a porsche?”.

He grins.

“I mean, you did pay for the whole package”.

Right.

“So, we’re gonna need a story, right? Am I your boyfriend or are we just casually dating?”, the smaller space you’re now sharing is ruthless in making you notice the details you couldn’t catch in your friend’s apartment. The man starting the engine and now sitting dangerously close to you smells unfairly good and the deep rumble of his voice, low, intimate, feels as soft as velvet. It almost resembles the purr of a big cat.

“Boyfriend. We met about two months ago and only recently made it official”.

“Sounds good to me”, he briefly glances at you with a smile, “whose wedding is it, anyway?”.

You grimace.

“An old colleague. She’s never gonna buy this but we can do our best”.

“Are you doubting me or yourself right now?”.

With a snort, you gesture vaguely.

“You’re an incredibly attractive guy who drives a sports car. No one at that wedding is going to believe I could bag that”.

“It’s my job to make sure they do”, Oliver clicks his tongue, “besides, I think I’d have a much harder time charming you. I’m pretty easy to bag”.

His absolutely serious tone makes you melt into a chuckle, which he seems to appreciate. Head slightly turned, you focus on his profile for a brief moment. The bridge of his nose, full lips, long lashes. You wonder if he’s using contacts. He must be, right? There’s no way he’d be blessed with those eyes too, among everything else.

“You’re staring”, he mutters, still focused on the road. The playful lilt of his tone makes you shift in your seat.

“You’re nice to look at”.

He huffs out a sound that sounds like a chuckle, both amused and somehow coy.

“How come you ended up on that website? You don’t seem like the type who’d need to rent a man”.

You stay silent for a few seconds, looking straight ahead while lost in your own thoughts. Truth is, you’re not quite sure yourself. It’s true: you’re definitely not the type and, suddenly, the entirety of the absurd situation weighs heavy on your chest.

You’re in a car, with a man you know nothing about, heading to a wedding party where everyone will be able to call your bluff. And you spent an embarrassing amount of money for this, too.

“I think I’m about to throw up”, you murmur.

“Excuse me?”.

“I’m seriously about to throw up. Oh, no. What was I thinking?”, your hands rise to cover your face, “stop the car, please”.

“We’re on the highway”.

“But I’m about to throw-”

“Please stop talking about throwing up, the thought of someone vomiting triggers my gag reflex”, Oliver sends an alarmed glance your way but you’re refusing to meet his gaze, practically bending over in your own seat, “think of the leather seats”.

“I don’t care about your stupid leather seats!”.

“You were fine ten seconds ago-”

“Oliver”, the way you straight out whine his name all of a sudden tucks the words back into his throat, “I don’t even know you. Oh, god, what if you’re a maniac? What if you try to murder me? I’m in a car with a man I don’t know, I spent so much money only to end up dead in a ditch!”.

“Okay, listen-”

“I’m sorry, I know this is a really weird reaction but I’m freaking out big time, I never did this before-”

“Me neither!”.

Your eyes grow in size and your jaw slacks, panic overcoming your features. Oliver clears his throat.

“I mean, I never had to convince an entire audience at a wedding. My dates were always a walk in the park, an afternoon at the mall, one movie, an ice cream on the way home”, he lies so easily it almost makes him laugh. Either way, Oliver slows down and gently stops the car, parking it on the shoulder of the highway.

“Hey”, he tentatively reaches for your wrist, to gently remove one of your hands from your face, “can you look at me? You said I’m nice to look at, no?”.

“You are. Which would make you the perfect murderer”, you whisper. Still, you comply and find an incredulous smile brightening up his face.

“Jesus. Okay, listen, I promise you can trust me. I won’t hurt you. If you changed your mind I can drive you home right now, or drop you off at the venue and leave”. 

“Really?”.

“Really”.

You inhale a deep breath and relax against your seat underneath the weight of his honest, magnetic gaze.

“I’m sorry. You must think I’m insane”.

“Believe it or not, I’ve met more insane people”, he smiles.

You lower your gaze.

“It’s just… not something I would usually do. I was really tired of being always the lonely one at weddings and social gatherings, I never let the teasing get to me but I guess I started feeling”, you pause to look for the right word, “vulnerable. I don’t have to prove anything but I was just so sick of it. And this particular colleague is insufferable, she’s been with the guy ever since high school and just kept talking my ear off about true love, soulmates, all that bullshit…”, Oliver laughs and you look up from your lap.

“What?”.

“Nothing”, he raises both hands in mock protection, “keep going”.

You glare at him.

“Well, that’s the story. I was exhausted, drank an entire bottle of wine, found the website, booked the most expensive option because I really wanted to rub it in their faces. Then I almost had a panic attack about it, apparently”.

“The most expensive, huh?”, his blatant smugness makes you groan.

“You know you are the most expensive”.

He doesn’t, really. But it’s surely a pleasant learning.

“Right. Well, I’m ready to be your arm candy and piss the bride off if you’ll have me”, Oliver flashes you another smile, “you know, I’m sure she hired a good glam team but I’m willing to bet my date still looks better”.

“You’re such a flirt”, you smile and idly shake your head, “you know what? Fine. What the hell, I deserve a few hours with a hot dude who says I look pretty. Let’s go piss the bride off”.

He starts the engine again with a pleased hum.

“Please pay more attention, I remember saying you look beautiful”.

“Ugh, they really know what they’re doing on that website”, you laugh, sudden and loud and genuine.

Oliver never thought Sendo’s dumb prank was something he’d resent him for. On the contrary, he decided to go with it just one time, for the sake of having a funny story to share one day.

Now, with the vivacious laughter of the (not entirely sane) stranger currently in his car still ringing in his ears, he knows he made the right decision.

Oliver is not prepared for the way you surprise him.

He has witnessed enough unsettling transformations in his life, hell, he still sometimes becomes another person on the field, but the switch you turn on the second you both walk into the reception is… staggering.

No one would be able to tell you had a breakdown in his car just moments prior to walking into the venue. Watching the way you carry yourself, how you talk to everyone, the confidence embedded in every word and movement is mesmerizing. Makes him doubt of his own sanity because what if he imagined you almost throwing up on his expensive seats?

His thumb idly runs over your knuckles as you introduce him to yet another friend. The boyfriend renting agreement comes with some important rules: the date is to be strictly platonic and there’s a fixed hourly rate which gets higher the more requested a boyfriend is. You briefly discussed some boundaries, to make sure the other is comfortable at all times: Oliver can’t kiss you and you can’t kiss him, but everything else is pretty much allowed. You asked if it was okay for him to hold your hand and he made it pretty clear that it wasn’t a problem, or so the fingers so easily slipping in between yours seemed to suggest. 

You kiss each other’s cheek and rest your heads on each other’s shoulder and your hands are so gentle as they move strands of dark hair away from his eyes. His arm feels solid and comforting around your shoulders, hand warm against the small of your back as he guides you through the garden filled with tables and guests.

Surprising Oliver is not easy but something weird happens when you call him baby for the first time. He wonders how you can make it sound so natural, where you learned to be a liar good enough to have your eyes sparkle like that, on demand. He’s there to have a fun story to share but he’s also supposed to do the work, to do what’s expected of him. Instead, it feels like you’re pulling the strings and all he can do is try to stay afloat within your current.

He surprises you too. When a few guests gather around you two, wonder shimmering in their eyes, friends asking where you even got to meet a pro soccer player, you look at him as shocked and rightfully confused as a fake girlfriend would be.

“She asked if she could get a jersey signed for…”, Oliver searches your gaze in silent demand and you clear your throat, still flabbergasted.

“Kenji”, you offer an easy smile.

The man standing on Oliver’s left, supposedly Kenji himself, gasps.

“Right, Kenji”, Oliver smiles too, “I told her I would only sign it if she went on a date with me”.

“He has that romantic blackmail thing about him, I fell for it instantly”, you ever so slightly narrow your gaze and, in response, he tightens his hold around your waist.

“You’ve been dating him for months and you didn’t think of getting us tickets to some games?”, another one of your old colleagues, Yoshio, pouts.

“You’ve been dating him for months and you didn’t think of getting us the numbers of some pro soccer players?”, your friend Yumi practically shoves Yoshio out of the way and you finally relax, melting into genuine laughter.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Guess we can still make that happen, right, baby?”, there’s a mischievous glint in your eyes when you look at him. He thinks he might get used to being looked at with such daring playfulness.

“Sure. Shuto’s always happy to go on dates-”

“Sendo Shuto?”, Yumi’s eyes get as big as saucers. This time, Oliver laughs with you.

It shouldn’t come as a shock that he’s good at what he does but you still can’t quite believe just how talented he is as a fake boyfriend. You’re aching to ask questions, the entire dinner spent wondering what on earth a famous pro soccer player is even doing on a rent a boyfriend website. Nothing gets past social media these days, wouldn’t that be news eventually? How does he keep it a secret? Is it a second job, a weird fetish?

Akane’s never been particularly traditional from what you can recall but her husband really wanted to incorporate as much traditional customs as possible in their celebration. You sit through course after course of plates and bowls filled with delicious dishes: clear soup with shrimp cake, sashimi, grilled fish glazed with sweet miso, tempura, red rice. All the while Oliver, ankle hooked around yours underneath the table, makes perfect conversation with everyone. He has an answer ready to each question and you pretend to ignore both your colleagues’ and Akane’s bewildered, inquisitorial gazes directed at you from tables away, too busy reciprocating your date’s honeyed praises and smiles.

He gets you alone in between courses, right as everyone is either taking a break or bringing the dancefloor to life before fruit and cake are served. They won’t buy it if we don’t pull away from the crowd for a little bit.

It’s why Oliver currently has you pressed against a retaining wall in a more secluded but still strategically visible part of the garden, body towering over yours and so close you can feel the heat radiating through the fabric of his white shirt.

“A pro soccer player”, you click your tongue, “care to explain?”.

“Relax your shoulders”, he murmurs and smiles, pleased, when you comply right away, “I owe you a date, not explanation”.

You deflate a bit and Oliver curls further over you.

“Fine, keep your secrets”, a pause, “won’t this be a problem if someone takes some pics and leaks them, though?”.

“I stopped caring about that stuff long time ago. But I can have everyone here sign an nda to protect you from it, just say the word”.

You shake your head.

“It’s fine. I’m not really on social media and we’ll split up by tomorrow, anyway”.

“Aw, you’ll break my heart”, one of his hands rises to rest on the side of your neck, thumb softly tracing your jaw, “even after validating how friendly and incredibly charming I am. So cold”.

There’s something about him, a stranger you paid to pretend to be your boyfriend for the sake of not attending yet another wedding alone. It’s odd and has your heart thumping in your chest, something behind your ribs catching fire whenever his fingers graze your skin so intentionally. You wonder if this is really him, if he’s the person you feel so inexplicably drawn to. If there’s a chance of you not being stupid enough to be attracted to a faux boyfriend with a carefully crafted, fictitious personality.

“Make it look like you’re kissing me”, you ignore his teasing for the sake of your sanity and slightly tilt your head up to meet the dangerous glint of mismatched eyes. Oliver lowers his head and tilts it slightly to the side, lips moving against your cheek when he speaks again.

“Put your arms around my neck”, he orders back in a murmur. Your scoff makes him chuckle as he pretends to not notice how you shiver against him.

“This is such a weird side job to have”, your embrace pulls him closer, or maybe it’s the lightest brush of your lips against his chin. When your fingers start carding through the green hair at the base of his nape, he exhales.

“Maybe it’s not a side job. Maybe I’m just here for you, just this once”.

You idly brush your nose against his cheek, a feeling warm and treacherous unfurling in your chest. He pulls back enough to lock your gaze to his once more, still so intense despite being concealed by the partial darkness of this particular corner of the garden. He is so unfairly beautiful. Not far from where you stand, guests are laughing and drinking and dancing, some of them no doubt looking at you two. It’s striking, how little they suddenly matter.

“Maybe that makes me lucky, then”, you whisper, lean into his touch when his other hand cradles your cheek. Oliver gently holds your face in his hands, seemingly conflicted as his gaze falls on your lips. You tilt your head back to give him a better view.

An absurd thought takes shape in a far corner of your mind: will this truly be the one and only time you’ll get to see him? Not that you’d ever be pathetic enough to rent a man from a website multiple times. Let alone the same man. It’s such a weird, ridiculous thing to be disappointed by. You wonder if it’ll rival the disappointment of not being kissed by him.

Oliver wets his lips, the pink flash of his tongue alluring in a maddening way. Your head spins. You don’t recall ever feeling such unusual torment before.

And then, finally, finally, he leans closer.

“Hey, lovebirds!”, Akane’s cheerful tone makes you both jump and you bring a hand to your chest as Oliver takes a wobbly step back, “we didn’t have the chance to chat, are you having fun?”.

She’s not talking to you at all, attentive gaze set on the man next to you.

“Everything’s perfect, thank you for having us. I wish you both everlasting happiness”, you smile, a little tense.

“Well, I can’t say I wasn’t surprised. One almost wishes he was around for all those office christmas parties, right? Remember how you were always the only one to show up alone?”.

You clear your throat, shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“I remember. Always alone and yet still the funniest person in every room, without fail”, with a wink, you hope to conceal the soreness caused by her ungenerous words.

Akane hums.

“I still wonder why that’s such a great coping mechanism…”

“It proves she doesn’t need a man to have a personality”, Oliver straight out grins, one hand comes to rest on your nape and gives it a gentle squeeze, “it’s what I like about her”.

She raises her brows in interest.

“Well, that’s true. She’s pretty great”.

“Yeah, she is”.

You relax under his touch and a strange thrill comes with it, with knowing he possesses the ability to make you feel at ease. He doesn’t exactly dislike such knowledge.

“I’m glad you have each other now”, Akane’s features soften, “maybe one day I’ll be invited to your wedding!”.

You cough, embarrassed.

“Let’s not go overbo-”

“Maybe!”, Oliver chimes in once again, jovial, “who can tell?”.

It almost makes you choke on air. When you look up at him, Akane’s cheerful laughter echoing in the sweet summer evening air, he’s already looking at you.

As you stumble back to join the other guests, heels sinking in the soft grass, the bride gently grazes your arm with the pads of her fingers before rejoining her husband and their closest friends. You know Akane is not a bad person, her words don’t hold any actual venom despite stinging. In her own way she means well, which is why you are so genuinely happy for her. She got the happy ending she was always destined to have. It’s just that not everyone is as lucky and it’s unfair to expect them to be just because she’s part of the chosen ones.

“Where are you going?”, Oliver hooks a finger in the low square back of your dress to pull you in, the contact setting something similar to a flow of electricity running along your spine.

“To eat cake?”, you easily dissimulate. He keeps his finger there, even when you stop in your tracks.

“Let them”, he winks, “may I have this dance?”.

You stay frozen.

“Did you just casually quote Marie Antoinette to me?”, is all you can come up with because, frankly, the idea of a man who already possesses so many blessings being also able to dance is a little too unfair.  

“Can’t a man be hot and educated?”, he grins, then finally releases the back of your dress by letting the stretch fabric lightly slap against your back, “don’t think you can distract me, let’s go”.

If there’s one learning to be taken from this impossibly strange evening is that, apparently, there is no escaping Oliver Aiku. He even rivals the promise of a rich serving of white chocolate almond cake with raspberry filling.

He pulls you close on the interlocking parquet dance floor rented by the newlyweds, hands splayed big and warm on your hips as your arms, for the second time, find their way to rest around his neck. You do your best to not feel intimidated by the excessively romantic, slow track everyone else is currently dancing to as well.

Then, it’s as if a spell is cast on you. Or rather a curse.

“Who is he?”, the question surprises you and your eyes find his. Oliver is so close and he smells so unethically good.

“Who?”, yet you struggle to keep your focus, attention oscillating between the stranger you’re currently pressed against and a more familiar face your wandering eyes keep searching, dancing not far from you. Something painfully throbs in your chest.

“The man you keep looking at, who is he?”, Oliver asks softly, almost caringly.

“My ex-boyfriend”, the confession isn’t but a low whisper, “I think. I think he’s here with the woman he cheated on me with. Well, one of them, anyway”, your chuckle is bitter. It distorts the joyfulness of the evening, the mere sight of them suddenly staining, polluting every positive feeling you’ve been able to feel until now.

And then Oliver is grasping your chin, tilting his head to effectively block your view of them. You’re forced to look at him and only him, to focus on how his thumb skating over the skin underneath your bottom lip feels.

“How about you keep your eyes on me, then?”, he whispers.

“Sorry”, you stop yourself with a sigh when your gaze slides once more, “I’m sorry. It’s really stupid”.

“What is?”, his gaze, perhaps involuntarily, falls on your lips, “caring? Feeling hurt?”.

“Don’t do that”.

“What?”.

“Don’t… like, I know this is an act. But you don’t have to do that too, pretend to care. You’re a little too good at it and it confuses me”.

Oliver lets go of your chin and offers a faint smile.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you confuse me too”.

You blink a few times, taken aback. He gracefully takes one of your hands from behind his neck and lifts your arm above your head to twirl you. For a moment, his eyes appreciate the airy swirl of the hem of your dress.

“I’m only pretending to be your boyfriend”, everything else feels a little too real, he wants to add. Maybe you’ll read the unsaid in eyes he can’t seem to be able to keep on anything else but you.

“You have a gift”, with a smile, you choose to deflect, “ever thought of giving up the soccer career?”.

“For this, you mean?”, Oliver goes from having his hands on your hips to hooking his arms around your waist, effectively caging you against him. Your forehead grazes his and the wind is swiftly knocked out of your lungs at the sudden proximity.

“Something like that, yeah”, one of your hands toys with his green strands once more, nails lightly scratching the back of his neck. A sound of contentment vibrates low in his throat and it makes you want to pull him close, impossibly closer.

He tilts his head to the side and you feel dizzy because his lips are ever so slightly brushing against yours. Not quite touching them, never kissing them, just there as a faint reminder or rather an intoxicating promise.

“You have to go in about five minutes”, you whisper, perhaps for the sake of feeling more of his mouth so close yet still too far from your own.

“Mm?”, he only manages to let out a confused sound.

You let your nose brush against his own. Playfully, daringly.

“I could only afford a couple hours, not the entire night”.

Oliver welcomes the implications of your admission with a low chuckle.

“And if I stay?”.

“I may be too broke for that”.

He presses a kiss to the very corner of your mouth. Sweet, fleeting. Determined.

“My treat”.