𝜗ৎɴᴀɴᴀ𝜗ৎ

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You sat in your bedroom, clothes scattered all around your bed and floor with a full face of makeup. It was already seven thirty pm and you still had no idea what to wear. You knew you wanted something classic, yet none of your clothes seemed to look right.

You tried on a black mini dress. At first, it seemed like a great option. You had paired it with black heels, but when you looked in the mirror, it all felt too plain. Then, a dark purple dress. It looked over the top. Too much for a simple dinner. You even tried on those jeans you knew Hollis liked, and paired them with a corset top. None of it seemed to fit right. Eventually, you settled on a black skirt and a matching black top. Not too casual, not too over the top.

You told yourself it was just dinner, nothing to be nervous about. Still, you couldn’t stop the nerves from settling in your stomach.

Your hands shake slightly as you adjust the hem of your skirt one final time. You were finally seeing him after weeks of silence, weeks spent convincing yourself that the last night you shared was finally the end. After weeks of growing closer to the one person Hollis explicitly didn't want you to.

Now he was coming back. One part of you hoped he was coming back for good. The other told you this was the exact cycle you had stopped yourself from repeating.

The ring on your phone pulls you out of your thoughts. It was Hollis, texting to let you know he was outside. You quickly grab your purse and keys, checking yourself in the mirror for one last time before you hurry out of your apartment.

Once you're outside, you see his black Mercedes waiting for you. It all takes you back to when you first started seeing him over a year ago. Somehow, you still feel the same way you did when he asked you on your first date. Nervous, giddy, nauseous and excited all at once.

He slides out of the car with ease, a bouquet of pink tulips in his hand. He smiles before walking over to the passenger side, holding the door open for you.

"Hi, doll. You look gorgeous." Hollis says, handing you the bouquet. "These are for you. Your favorite."

You smile and take the flowers from his hand. "Thank you, Holli."

He lets you climb into the passenger seat before he walks back to the driver's seat. Inside, the car smells like him. Like his woody cologne he always wears. You smile at the familiar scent.

The drive to the restaurant was peaceful. His hand rested on your thigh like it always did when you two drove anywhere. Without much thinking, you placed yours over it, letting your fingers slip between his. It was scary how fast everything went back to normal.

The restaurant was quiet when you arrived. The inside was dimly lit with only a few other tables occupied.

Hollis had chosen one of the places the two of you used to visit all the time. It instantly brought you back to the past. To the times when all of it was simple. To the times when you still fully believed Hollis was your endgame.

Dinner passed more easily than you imagined it. At first the conversation stayed casual. He asked you about work and you asked him about his music. He told you some recent stories about Nate and Roman and you laughed along, pretending like hearing Roman's name didn't bother you in the slightest. Hollis didn't seem to notice the way you flinched when he mentioned him.

By the time both of your plates were empty, all your nervousness seemed to fade into familiarity. His hand found yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as though the last few weeks never happened. As though there wasn't silence waiting to be addressed.

"You ready to go?" He asks, his voice soft and firm. You only nod.

You know the conversation is bound to happen soon, but neither of you bring it up just yet. Not until you reach his place.

The door to Hollis's apartment clicked shut behind you and suddenly, all the nerves came running straight back to you. The ease you found during dinner was nowhere to be seen.

His apartment still looked exactly the same as it did that night, only slightly tidier. He seemed to plan everything out perfectly.

It should have felt comforting. Instead, it all made your stomach tighten. It made you feel nauseous.

Hollis placed his keys on the counter and turned towards you. "Do you want something to drink, baby?"

The nickname made you cringe internally. You haven't heard him say it for a while. You forgot how much influence he held over you.

You shake your head no and moved to the living room, leaving your heels by the door. Hollis followed, turning on the light in the room.

You sat down and he followed, but neither of you moved further. The silence stretched between you for a moment before Hollis finally spoke.

"We should probably talk, right?"

"Yeah, I think we should." You answer almost immediately.

He turns his body to you, looking at you in the eyes. "God, I thought about what I wanted to say to you probably a hundred times."

That brings a soft smile to your face. You turn so you can fully face him, your fingers intertwining with his. "So have I." You admit.

"I've just... I've been so stupid." He starts off. "That night... I didn't see it then, but I see it now. I was way too protective. I should have told you who Roman was. I shouldn't have reacted that way."

You nod, but the mention of Roman makes your stomach twist in a not so pleasant way.

"I'm sorry for how I acted. I've been thinking about it since you left me that night." He continues, his voice wavering slightly.

He sounded genuine. At least you desperately wanted to believe he was.

"Tell me what I need to do to get you back. I miss you. I miss us. I miss what we had."

"You made me feel insane for being upset." You say quietly. "Like I was asking for too much just because I wanted you to talk to me."

"I know." He says, his grip tightening around your fingers.

"And every time I tried to talk to you, you pushed me away."

"I know. I know and I hate myself for it." He mumbles through his teeth. "Tell me what I have to do to make this right. I miss you so much, I don't want that night to be the last thing between us."

You scoot closer to him, resting your hand across his cheek. He looks up at you, and you can tell he's really trying to apologize.

You offer him a small smile and he smiles back. "Hollis, listen to me."

He nods, squeezing your hand in confirmation.

"That night was something I'll never forgive you for. You made me feel stupid and used." You start off and you can tell that's not what he was hoping to hear.

"Baby-" He mumbles and you cut him off.

"No, let me finish." You say and he nods. "I don't think I can forgive you, but I'm willing to try. I want to try. But, this time, I want you to try too."

Hollis stared at you for a moment before nodding. "I will."

"I need you to talk to me." You continued. "Even when you're angry. Even if the conversation is uncomfortable. You can't disappear on me every time it gets difficult and then come back when it suits you."

"I won't."

"And you can't make me feel guilty for caring about you."

His expression softened immediately. "You're right. I'll communicate. I'll stop shutting you out when it gets difficult. I'll do whatever it takes."

You searched his face for any sign to prove to you that he didn't mean it. When you found none, you smiled.

"I'm serious. I'll be different this time." He added.

You squeeze his hand again and exhale softly. "Not everything's gonna be back to normal tonight."

"I know, baby." He smiles.

"We start over. Slowly this time."

Hollis nods, bringing your hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss against your knuckles. "As slow as you need it to be."

You choose to believe him despite the voice in your head telling you not to.

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You recognized Roman's car before you've even seen it. The distinct sound of it's engine was now almost engraved into your brain from all the times he's picked you up and drove you home. You don't think you've even used your car once since you two started hanging out.

Once he's parked, he lets you know with a quiet honk. You smile and walk towards the car, only to be met with the sound of loud music and a smiling Roman in the driver's seat.

"Hey gorgeous." Roman says as you sit down into the passenger seat.

"Roman, it's too early for this." You immediately shut him down.

He's been calling you gorgeous ever since that night. It always brings a smile to your face and butterflies in your stomach. It's annoying, the way only one word can make you feel like that.

He smiles at that and reverses his car, backing out of your apartment's parking lot. Once he's back on the road, he turns the music down and switches his gaze to you.

"Alright, navigate me please. I have no idea where Vic lives." Roman says, a soft chuckle leaving his mouth.

"Right." You start. "Just go straight and then take the first left turn." You continue explaining.

Roman nods, starting the engine again. The drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable. While he's focused on the road, you're resting your head on the window, humming to whatever song the radio was playing.

You take your phone out, texting Vic a quick 'there soon, come outside' before turning your attention back to Roman. He was still focused on the road, his head swaying to the rhythm of the song. You only stare at him. At the way his hair falls over his shoulders so effortlessly. The way his hand shifts the gear. The way he's so effortless and relaxed, yet somehow still guarded and mysterious makes a smile break out on your face.

He quickly glances at you and immediately smiles. His smile is different, though. You can feel he's about to say something entirely stupid.

"There something on my face?" He asks and you immediately roll your eyes. "You keep staring at me."

You shake your head and look away. "God forbid a girl admires her friend."

He chuckles, refocusing back to the road as he turns left as you instructed. "Where to now?"

"Just go straight. She should be outside."

He nods and continues driving down the street, slowing down a bit so he could spot her. After about three minutes, he spots Vic's blonde hair. He parks right in front of her and she jumps into his backseat.

The car is silent for about 30 seconds before Vic starts. "So..." She glances at him through the rearview mirror. "You're the Roman I've been hearing so much about?"

You groan, but Roman only laughs and plays along. "Depends on who's asking."

"Oh, only her best friend." Vic continues, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Roman lets out another laugh, shaking his head, and you can’t help but smile. Watching the two of them click so effortlessly makes something warm settle in your chest.

"And? Am I passing?" Roman continues the banter.

"The jury's still out. Better behave, though." She responds back instantly.

The conversation drifts effortlessly after that. Vic pokes fun at Roman’s music taste, Roman fires back by making fun of the the shirt she's wearing and before long the two of them are laughing like they’ve known each other their entire lives.

After about 15 minutes, Roman's car comes to a stop in front of a random diner. He parks not too far away from the entrance.

You're immediately relieved to see that there's also seating outside, since the morning has been pretty sunny.

Once the three of you step out of the car, Roman instinctively falls into step beside you as you make your way toward the diner. He reaches the door first and holds it open without a second thought and waits for you and Vic to walk through before following behind.

You don’t even notice it but Vic does.

Inside, Roman lets you order first. Afterwards when the three of you find a seat outside, he slides into the seat opposite of you without either of you having to think about it.

When your drinks arrive, Roman excuses himself to the bathroom and the second he’s out of earshot, Vic slowly turns toward you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Oh don’t start.” You sigh, already knowing exactly where this is going.

“I’m just saying…” She drags out, leaning her elbows onto the table. “You two have a very… established routine.”

You frown. “What?”

“He walks beside you and he held the door.” She points out. “He let you order first.”

You only roll your eyes at her. “He’s polite.”

“He literally looked at you before deciding where to sit.”

"Okay now you’re making things up.”

Vic laughs at that. "I promise I’m not.”

You shake your head, reaching for your drink. “We’re just friends.”

Vic raises an eyebrow. “Right..." She stops for a moment. "So why does he act like your boyfriend?”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “He does not.”

“He absolutely does.” She nudges your side.

“He is literally just being nice.”

Vic smiles over the rim of her cup. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Just at that moment, Roman walks back to the table, sliding into his seat. Vic only giggles beside you as she watches him.

"What's so funny?" He asks, looking at the both of you.

"Oh, nothing. Don't you worry about it." She replies.

After that, the three of you fall back into conversation. You talk about everything and nothing all at once. From childhood memories with Vic to the story of how Roman broke his foot while skateboarding and trying to impress a girl.

The waitress refills your coffees twice before any of you even notice the time passing. You can’t remember the last time spending time with someone felt this easy. The conversation never stalls. Somehow no one has to force it.

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You had always held the theory that Gunner was born with clenched fists and a furrowed brow, ready to fight the world before he even knew how to speak.

Your earliest memories with him are stained with dirt on your knees and the smell of rust from the park swings. If someone pushed him, you would stand in front of him, small but fierce, yelling until the other kids backed down. And if some bigger kid tried to mess with you, Gunner didn't yell; he simply threw himself at them with a blind fury that scared everyone except you. You looked out for each other. You were two halves of the same shield against the rest of the world.

For years, you were the only person on the planet who knew his soft side. The Gunner who would rest his head on your shoulder in silence and let you play with his hair when things at his house became unbearable.

𓆩𓆪

The streetlamp lights flickered with an electric buzz that had already become part of the background noise of your lives. Gunner’s beat-up car engine rattled softly as it cooled down under the night sky, but neither of you had any intention of getting off the hood.

You shared a pair of worn-out earphones. The cord hung between you, swaying slightly whenever either of you moved. You sat cross-legged with your back pressed against the windshield, feeling the cold metal of the car through your clothes, while Gunner loosely drummed his fingers on his knees to the beat of the music.

For a moment, everything felt the way it always did. The same boy you had shared scraped knees and whispered secrets with was sitting right next to you. But the atmosphere felt different tonight, charged with a strange tension between the two of you that made the air feel heavier. Every time your shoulders accidentally brushed, a sharp shiver ran down your spine.

Suddenly, the song changed on the player. Gunner stopped moving his fingers. He stayed still for a second and then turned to look at you.

In the dim light, his dark eyes shone with a new intensity, one you had never seen in all the years you had known each other. His brow wasn’t furrowed, and his fists weren’t clenched for a fight. He looked strangely helpless, almost exposed.

"Y/n," he said, and his voice sounded lower than usual, barely competing with the whisper of the music in your ear.

"What's wrong?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual, even though your heart had already begun to race in your chest.

Gunner reached out his hand and, with a slowness that didn't match his usual clumsiness, intertwined his fingers with yours. His palm was warm and a bit rough. He looked at your joined hands for a moment before locking his eyes onto yours again.

"I was thinking... that I don't know how to do this anymore," he confessed, letting out a short, nervous laugh that took you by surprise. "I don't remember what it's like to live without loving you. Not like this."

Your heart stopped for a millisecond. You knew exactly what he meant, because you had been carrying that same weight in your chest for months, holding back the urge to cross the invisible line separating you.

"Gunner..." you started to say, but he moved a little closer, closing the distance on the hood of the car until you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"I'm serious. I'm sick of pretending we're just the same old friends," he continued, his gaze dropping for a second to your lips before returning to your eyes with an almost desperate urgency. "You're the only person who matters to me, Y/n. The only one. If you're not here, I have nothing."

When his lips finally found yours, the outside world seemed to turn off completely. It was a slow kiss, clumsy at first from years of restraint, but it quickly filled with a deep sense of relief. It tasted like the night, like youth, and like a silent promise that, from that moment on, it would be the two of you against everything else. In that instant, with his hands cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing he had ever touched, you allowed yourself to believe that everything was going to be okay.

Your friends hugged you excitedly when they found out: "Finally, Y/n. He is crazy about you. You're the only person capable of calming him down. If anyone can make him grow up, it's you." And at first, everything seemed to prove them right.

The first few months were a perfect bubble. You remember whole afternoons driving aimlessly, singing songs at the top of your lungs with the windows down, or him taking you to your favorite fast-food place just because you had a bad day. Gunner looked at you as if you were the only bright thing in his dark world. He made you feel invincible; he made you believe that love truly had the power to change someone.

Until the small details started to ruin the view.

It was a transition so subtle that at first you blamed yourself for being "dramatic." It started with insignificant promises he forgot, calls he never returned, and that strange ability of his to camouflage the truth with a charming smile. Gunner was a pretty liar.

It all began one Friday afternoon at the movie theater. You had been planning the date all week. Gunner was holding the giant bucket of popcorn while you waited in the concession line, laughing at a joke you had told him. But when it was their turn, his attention completely drifted to the girl serving them.

It wasn't obvious, and that was the worst part. It was the way his voice dropped a tone, becoming huskier, more magnetic. It was the smirk he gave her while ordering the drinks, maintaining a steady, deliberate gaze that made the employee instantly blush as she handed him the change. Gunner even took an extra second to thank her, subtly brushing his fingers against hers as he took the cups.

You felt a cold knot in your stomach. You were right next to him, holding his arm, and to him, it felt like you had become invisible for a minute.

You didn't say anything in the hallway, but the tension walked with you. Once inside the theater, with the lights already low and the movie trailers flashing on the giant screen, you turned to him in the dim light.

"What was that out there?" you asked in a whisper, trying to keep your voice steady.

Gunner settled into his seat, turning to you with an expression of absolute confusion that almost looked genuine.

"What's that, beautiful?"

"With the popcorn girl," you snapped, looking him dead in the eye. "You were flirting with her right in front of my face, Gunner."

He let out a soft, low chuckle, as if you had said something cute, and shook his head while placing the drinks in the cup holders. "Flirting? Of course not, babe. I was just being nice," he said, and his voice sounded so damn sincere that for a split second you doubted your own eyes. "Come on, you know I only have eyes for you. Don't be silly."

Before you could argue back, before you could tell him you weren't crazy, Gunner leaned in toward you. He cut the physical distance and, with that innate ability he had to disarm you, gently took you by the back of the neck.

He left a slow, warm kiss on your cheek, right at the edge of your jawline, and then slid his lips down your neck in a soft caress that sent chills down your skin. The scent of his cologne flooded your senses. It was his way of fixing things: numbing your doubts with physical affection, using his charm as an eraser for his mistakes.

"I love you," he whispered in your ear, his warm breath brushing your skin before he went back to his seat and fixed his eyes on the screen, as if nothing had happened.

You froze in your seat as the movie music began to play. The warmth of his lips was still trapped on your skin, but for the first time, it didn't make you feel loved. It made you feel stupid.

You looked at his profile in the darkness of the theater, watching him eat popcorn with total peace of mind, and a bitter truth began to force its way into your mind: Gunner wasn't going to change. He was just learning how to lie better.

𓆩𓆪

The thick, hot air of the party clung to your skin, mixed with the thumping music that made the floor vibrate beneath your feet. Gunner had left you alone for a moment to go to the bathroom, warning you with his eyes not to move from the corner of the bar.

Not even two minutes had passed when a guy from school approached you. The conversation was casual, barely an exchange of words audible over the noise, but the situation changed when he, in an all-too-familiar gesture, reached out his arm and put a hand on your shoulder to lean in and speak into your ear.

You didn't have time to pull away. You didn't have time at all.

A shadow crossed the strobe light and, before you could process it, the guy went flying backward, crashing into a low table. Gunner had thrown himself onto him with animal fury, fists clenched and teeth gritted, landing a clean blow to his jaw. The crash of shattering glasses unleashed screams all around you. Gunner braced himself to strike again, his eyes completely wild.

"Gunner, stop! Enough!" you screamed, getting in the middle and pushing him back by his chest.

It was like flipping a switch. At the touch of your hands, the savage rigidity of his muscles yielded slightly. He looked at you, panting, and the haze of violence in his eyes cleared just enough for him to recognize you. Without waiting for the other guy's friends to react or for security to catch them, you grabbed his hand firmly and dragged him toward the exit, pushing your way through the stunned crowd.

The car ride was a dead silence, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing and your hands gripping the steering wheel with anger. When you finally parked in front of your house, you turned off the engine and flooded the cabin with a suffocating stillness.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped, turning to face him in his seat. The adrenaline from the party had turned into pure frustration. "He was just talking to me. You can't go through life demolishing anyone who comes near me, Gunner! This is sick."

He didn't yell at you. Instead of defending himself or getting angry, he shrank into his seat, pulling his knees up to the dashboard.

"He was touching you," he muttered, and his voice, which ten minutes ago was a threat, now sounded broken, strangely small.

"It was a shoulder, Gunner! A damn shoulder! You embarrass me when you get like this, you scare me," you let out, your voice trembling with anger.

That was when you saw the glint of tears in his eyes. In the dim light of the car, tears began to stream down his cheeks, thick and fast, while his bottom lip trembled. He covered his face with his hands, letting out a muffled sob that filled the space between you.

"I'm sorry, seriously, I'm sorry..." he sobbed, sinking deeper into the seat, looking so helpless it was ridiculous after the scene at the party. "I just can't help it, Y/n. I feel like I'm going to lose you. Everyone wants to take away the only good thing I have. If you leave, I'll die, I swear. I don't know what to do with myself when you're not around."

You stood frozen, your words dying in your throat. You watched him cry with that childlike desperation, and the familiar weight settled back into your chest. He was an ugly crier, but a pretty liar; he was using his tears as a perfect shield so you would forget the blood on his knuckles and end up, once again, holding him to calm him down.

The anger burning in your chest evaporated in a second, replaced by that well-known wave of guilt he knew how to trigger so well. Seeing him like this, so broken and vulnerable in the passenger seat, completely dismantled your defenses.

You let out a long sigh and leaned toward him, closing the distance.

"Hey... look at me," you whispered, running a soft hand over his wet cheek to brush the hair away from his forehead.

Gunner lowered his hands slowly, revealing his reddened eyes shining with tears. He had the look of a little boy who had just been scolded for breaking his favorite toy, scared and desperately seeking your approval.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you," you said in a sweet voice, caressing his jaw with your thumb. "It's just that I get scared for you, Gunner. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. But I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm here. I'm always here."

Hearing your words, relief transformed his face. He leaned into your touch as if your hand were his only refuge in the world. He slid across the seat until he rested his head on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck while his arms wrapped around your waist with an almost possessive strength.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, mommy," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, seeking that absolute protection that only you gave him. "Don't leave me alone. Don't let them drive me crazy."

Feeling his warm breath against your neck and the weight of his body seeking you out softened you completely. In that moment, the toxicity of the party was forgotten. You let yourself be wrapped in the illusion that you were his salvation, his anchor. You hugged him back tightly, kissing the crown of his head and letting that sweet, bittersweet warmth fill your chest, convincing yourself once again that as long as he was in your arms, you could protect him from everything. Even from himself.

𓆩𓆪

The moonlight barely peeked through the slats of the blinds, drawing silver lines across the messy sheets of your bed. It was past midnight, and the silence of your room was broken only by the hiss of the alcohol-soaked cotton on Gunner's skin and the sound of his breathing, which was gradually calming down.

He had arrived an hour ago, tapping on your window with bloody knuckles and the same stray-dog look he used every time he destroyed something.

"I'm almost done," you murmured, concentrating on the cut on his lip. Your fingers moved with almost surgical precision, a routine you knew by heart.

"I missed you today," he said, his voice husky. He was staring at you with that total devotion that always managed to make you forget your anger. "Seriously. All day I was thinking about how I wanted to be here, with you. With no one else."

You gave him a soft smile, wanting to believe him. Wanting to convince yourself that the suspicions that had been lingering in your mind all week were just your own paranoia. You finished cleaning the wound, set the first-aid kit aside, and almost immediately, Gunner grabbed your waist to pull you toward him.

The mood changed in a second. The tension of the night turned into something thick, warm, and urgent. Gunner laid you back on the mattress, climbing on top of you while his hands searched for your skin underneath your t-shirt, desperate, seeking to erase the disaster of his day in your body. His lips moved down your jaw, kissing you with an intensity that left you breathless. You gave yourself to the moment, closing your eyes, seeking that connection that made you feel like everything was worth it.

He dug his hands into your hips, pulling you toward him as he let out a muffled groan against your ear. And then, just as clothes were starting to get in the way and the pace was quickening, the illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Ah... Vanessa..."

The name floated in the bedroom air like a bucket of ice water.

You went completely rigid underneath him. Your eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling. It took Gunner a couple of seconds to realize you had stopped entirely, that your hands were no longer around his neck, but were pushing against his chest with a cold force.

"What?" your voice came out as barely a whisper, empty, devoid of any emotion.

Gunner froze over you. The dim light wasn't enough to hide how the color drained from his face and how his pupils dilated with panic.

"No... no, babe, wait," he stammered, pulling back a bit, his hands shaking. "It wasn't... I didn't mean to say that. I swear I don't know why I said that name. I was thinking about some stupid school thing, seriously, Y/n, look at me."

You sat up in bed, running a hand over your face as your stomach churned with disgust. The puzzle pieces clicked together all at once: the subtle lies, the glances you caught in passing, the gut feeling you always tried to suppress. He was a pretty liar.

"Get out, Gunner," you said, pointing at the window. Your voice was shaking, but not from sadness—from a dull, exhausted fury. "Get the hell out of my house."

Instead of moving, Gunner collapsed. He dropped to his knees on the floor right next to your bed, pressing his hands against your legs as tears began to stream from his eyes at an alarming rate. He started to cry desperately, sobbing so hard his shoulders shook.

"No, please, Y/n, don't do this to me!" he begged, his face drenched and his voice broken, playing the victim entirely. "It was a mistake, I swear on my life. I'm messed up in the head, you know how bad I've been these days. If you leave me now, you're going to destroy me. Don't leave me alone, I can't handle this."

You shifted on the bed to get away from his touch, feeling a mixture of pity and disgust. You stood up, determined to kick him out of your life that very night, tired of carrying the weight of his demons.

"I don't care anymore, Gunner. It's over. I'm not going to keep putting up with this. Leave."

But he didn't leave. Gunner stood up from the floor, his eyes wild with tears, intercepting you before you could reach the door. He grabbed your arms—not with violence, but with a possessive desperation that pinned you in place. He leaned in close, pressing his forehead against yours while his sobs brushed against your skin.

"If you walk out that door, Y/n... I swear I'll hurt myself," he whispered, and his voice no longer sounded broken, but carried a manipulative coldness that froze your blood. "I don't care what happens to me. I'll wreck the car or go find those guys from the pool hall to let them finish me off. You decide. If you leave, it's going to be your fault. Don't leave me alone."

You stood static in his arms, your breath shallow and your eyes fixed on the darkness of the room. The trap had closed perfectly around you. You looked at his face covered in tears and dried blood, feeling the last trace of illusion die inside you, leaving you only with a bittersweet, suffocating emptiness.

After realizing the manipulation Gunner had over you, you began to take steps to gradually distance yourself from him. You forced yourself to follow three simple rules; you believed it wouldn't work because it hurt to have to use them against him, but it was necessary to move forward.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

The phone on your nightstand vibrated for the fourth time in the early hours of the morning. His name flashed on the screen, illuminating the dark walls. You covered your face with your pillow, grit your teeth as the insistent melody tried to break your resolve. You knew exactly what that 3:00 AM call meant: Gunner was alone, probably with broken knuckles again, looking for his lifesaver. But this time you kept your hands still under the sheets. You didn't answer.

Two days later, you heard the familiar knocks on your window pane. When you pulled back the curtain, you saw him down there, his leather jacket soaked by the rain and that helpless look that used to disarm you in a second. He begged you with his eyes to open up. Your entire body screamed at you to give in, to let him in to dry him off and heal him. Instead, you closed the curtain tightly and turned your back to the window. You sat on the floor, hugging your knees, repeating to yourself that if you opened that window, the cycle of manipulation would start all over again.

Now the last rule, which was the hardest; no longer treating him like your friend. Because Gunner wasn't just your toxic boyfriend; he was the boy you had grown up with. When you saw him in the school hallways and he looked at you with sad eyes, trying to approach you "just to talk like the old friends they were," you had to remind yourself that there was no such thing as a friendship with him. If you gave in an inch, you would end up trapped in his web again, waking up the next day in the same bittersweet hell.

You forced yourself to write those three damn rules in your phone notes, reading them like a mantra every morning so you wouldn't fall into his victim traps. You were rebuilding yourself piece by piece, staying afloat on pure willpower.

Until Gunner, used to you always ending up giving in, committed the ultimate mistake that broke the last thread tying you to him.

The ultimate mistake was not subtle, nor did it happen in the shadows where Gunner used to hide his secrets. It happened in plain sight, in the school parking lot, in front of everyone.

You had left the library late, with the three rules repeating in your mind like a dull echo. When you reached the car area, you saw the usual group gathered near Gunner's car. But the atmosphere wasn't the usual; there was an uncomfortable silence, the kind that forms when people see an accident and can't look away.

When you got close enough, you understood everything.

Gunner was leaning against the hood of his car—the same hood where months ago he had sworn to you that he didn't know how to live without loving you. But this time, his hands weren't on your waist. He had a girl pinned against the metal, his fingers tangled in her hair as he kissed her with a desperate, almost violent intensity. It wasn't an innocent kiss, it wasn't a one-second mistake. It was an absolute betrayal, executed with the same shamelessness with which he always made his disasters.

The world seemed to lose its sound for a moment. You stood frozen a few meters away, books pressed against your chest.

It was a guy from the group who cleared his throat, alerting Gunner. He pulled away from the girl suddenly, turning his head. When his eyes locked onto yours, total panic erased the smugness from his face. Even he, with all his ability to justify the unjustifiable, knew in that millisecond that he had crossed a line from which there is no turning back. He knew it was fucking wrong.

"Y/n..." he let out, taking a step toward you, leaving her behind as if she didn't matter.

Your friends quickly approached, standing by your side, but you stopped them with your hand.

Gunner tried to use his old tactic. His eyes began to fill with tears with that alarming speed you already knew by heart, and he reached his hands out toward you, trembling.

"Baby, please let me explain... I was drunk, I didn't want to, she approached me and you were so distant... I felt alone, Y/n, you were driving me crazy by not answering me," he began to say, his voice broken, trying to turn himself into the victim once again. He even threatened you with his eyes, looking for the fear switch inside you. "If you leave me over this, I swear I'll die, Y/n. I'm not responsible for myself today, I'm going to take off in the car and..."

"Do it," you interrupted him.

Your voice sounded clean, firm, without a single crack. Gunner froze mid-sob, his mouth open, looking at you as if he didn't recognize the person in front of him.

You looked at his knuckles, you looked at his tears, you looked at the car. And for the first time in your life, the weight in your chest didn't appear. The chain had broken.

"Do whatever you want, Gunner. Crash, fight, cry. It's no longer my problem," you said, turning around. "Good luck picking up your own pieces."

You walked toward the parking lot exit without looking back even once.

You were out. And this time, you believed it would be forever.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

Three years are an eternity on the internet, but just enough time for the roles to reverse completely.

Now the world knew him as Nettspend. His stage name was on the lineups of the biggest festivals, his music played in TikTok trends, and that same self-destructive attitude you used to have to heal in secret was now sold as an "underground rockstar aesthetic." For your part, you had channeled all that old pain into rebuilding yourself. You left the tears and the school hallways behind to become a highly sought-after influencer; your face was in fashion campaigns, and your Instagram feed screamed success and absolute indifference.

The reunion was inevitable in the world of fame, and it happened in the VIP area of an exclusive party after an awards show. The place was packed with neon lights, loud music, and cameras. You were reclining on one of the private couches, laughing with your best friend while holding a drink, when the crowd parted.

There he was. Nettspend. He wore his usual chains, his hair messy, and that intense gaze that used to freeze your blood. But you weren't seventeen anymore.

When his eyes locked onto yours, Gunner's air of superiority crumbled in a second. He left his entourage behind and walked straight toward your table, ignoring the flashes.

"Y/n..." he said, and his voice had that same desperate urgency as always, though now he tried to camouflage it with his new famous rapper vibe. "Damn, you look... I can't believe you're here. I've been trying to write to you. I've changed, you know? All this music stuff, I did it thinking of you. I miss you."

You looked down on him, holding your glass with a calmness that seemed to completely throw him off. You gave him a sly, slow smile, loaded with a silent mockery that made him look small despite his millions of listeners.

"Excuse me? Do we know each other?" you let out, raising an eyebrow in total disdain.

"Come on, don't do this," he begged, taking a step forward, instinctively trying to touch your arm, but you took a subtle step back, keeping him at bay. "I know I made mistakes in the past, but things are different now. We can start over. I need you with me, Y/n. Without you, none of this is worth anything."

The old victimhood trap. The same beautiful crybaby as always, just in designer clothes. But this time, the trick didn't work. You were about to turn around and leave him with the words in his mouth.

However, just as you were about to walk away, your friend gently took your arm and leaned into your ear, a spark of pure malice in her eyes.

"Hey... don't leave so fast," she whispered, glancing sideways at Gunner, who was waiting for your answer with a tense face and eyes bright with anxiety. "Look at how he's looking at you. He's eating out of the palm of your hand and he hasn't even realized it. Don't let him go just yet. Lead him on. Make him believe he has a chance, use him for your campaigns, and then... destroy him just like he did to you."

You looked at your friend and then turned your gaze back to Gunner, who was watching you like a dog waiting for a crumb of attention. The warmth of the past was dead, but in its place, a new, cold feeling ignited in your chest. A perfect, calculating smile appeared on your lips.

"Alright," you said, looking him in the eyes as you took a step toward him, adopting your best posture for the cameras. "Let's talk, Gunner."

The atmosphere at the private after-party was a canvas of low lights, vape smoke, and deep bass vibrating through the walls. Everyone in that room was trying to be somebody, but you already were somebody.

You moved through the place with confidence, wearing the designer dress they had sent you that very morning and holding your glass with disinterest. You knew perfectly well that Gunner's eyes followed you wherever you went. You could feel his gaze fixed on your back, burning your skin, while he completely ignored the producers and models trying to catch his attention.

When you approached the bar, it didn't take him even ten seconds to appear by your side, ordering the same thing you were drinking.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said, leaning an elbow on the bar, trying to adopt that detached rapper pose he sold in his videos. But his eyes, fixed on your lips, betrayed how desperate he was for a single look from you.

You turned slowly, giving him a half-smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"I have a couple of campaigns to promote this week, Gunner, it's my job," you replied in a smooth voice, dragging the words out with an exquisite indifference. "Besides, I heard your new album is trending. Congratulations."

The use of his real name and the very corporate tone threw him off. Gunner took a step closer to you, breaking the distance, desperately seeking that old spark that used to control him.

"Don't call me that here," he whispered, and for a moment, the Nettspend facade dropped, revealing the boy desperate to have you back. "And don't talk to me like I'm a stranger. I know you changed, Y/N. Everyone on the internet is talking about you, you look incredible, but... it's still me. The one who has known you forever."

If this had happened three years ago, your heart would have melted. Today, you only felt a cold rush of power. You remembered your friend's words: use him.

Instead of walking away like last time, you leaned subtly toward him. Your fingers brushed the fabric of his expensive leather jacket as you got close to his ear, letting your perfume wash over him.

"I don't know who you are anymore, Nett," you whispered to him, using his stage name as a sharp game. "But if you want to remind me... my team needs a face for the cover of the new clothing line next month. We could mutually benefit each other. Or is the great rapper of the moment too busy?"

Gunner caught his breath. His pupils dilated instantly at having you so close, completely trapped in your net. He saw the opportunity to re-enter your life and took it without a second thought, not realizing he was falling straight into your trap.

"I'll do whatever you want," he replied immediately, with an almost pathetic urgency, catching your hand under the bar. "Set the date. I'll be there."

You slipped out of his grip with total naturalness, took one last sip of your drink, and gave a dazzling smile to the cameras that were starting to point at you. The game had begun, and this time, you held the cards.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

The photoshoot for the new clothing line had become the most talked-about event of the week, and you were making sure every second was worth it. The studio was full of photographers, assistants, and blinding lights, but as soon as Gunner walked onto the set, the atmosphere seemed to freeze.

He didn't arrive alone. Behind him, one of his assistants carried a huge arrangement of white orchids and a bag from an exclusive jewelry store that made his intentions clear.

"For you," Gunner said, taking a step forward. He tried to maintain that cold pose in front of the behind-the-scenes cameras, but his eyes shone with the same anxiety as always. "I saw the orchids and thought of you. And the other thing... well, it's just a little something."

You looked at the flowers and the bag with a perfect smile, purely plastic, designed for social media.

"How sweet, Nett. Thank you so much," you said in a clear voice, making sure the crew's microphones caught your corporate thanks. You handed the flowers to your assistant without even smelling them and left the jewelry on a table like it was just another brochure. "The marketing team is going to love the gesture for the campaign content."

Gunner's jaw tightened as he noticed the distance, but he didn't have time to reply because the photographer called them to the set.

That was where the game became blatant.

The theme of the session demanded closeness, and you decided to use every inch to your advantage, pushing the sexual tension to the limit. In the first shot, the photographer asked you to lean against him. You turned slowly, sliding your hands down the chest of his designer jacket until your fingers gently tangled in his chains. You leaned up, staying just millimeters away from his lips.

You could feel Gunner's breath cut short instantly. His hands instinctively went down to your hips, squeezing them with genuine desperation, believing for a second that the distance between the two of you was breaking.

"You're playing with me," he whispered to you in a breath of a voice, his pupils completely dilated, blocking out the noise of the rest of the studio.

You gave him a look loaded with a false promise. You slid a hand up, brushing his jawline with the pads of your fingers, right where you used to heal his wounds. But this time there was no alcohol or pity; only control.

"I'm just doing my job, love," you whispered in his ear, using that last word in a whisper so low and hot that it goosebumped his skin.

Before he could react or try to kiss you, you pulled away with total lightness as soon as the photographer shouted "Cut, excellent shot!". You fixed your hair with absolute calm, turning your back to him to review the photos on the monitor next to the director, leaving him completely turned on, frustrated, and standing in the middle of the set.

Gunner was so blinded by the desire to get you back that he didn't even realize that every caress, every look, and every word in his ear were just part of the script you had written for his downfall. He was falling into the trap with a smile on his face.

An invitation arrived that same night via text message. It wasn't a casual invitation; it was a plea camouflaged as arrogance: "My home studio. Just us. No cameras. Please".

You thought about it while looking at the screen in your hotel suite, swirling your drink. Your friend was right; you had him exactly where you wanted him. Gunner was desperate, swimming in a sea of money and fame but completely empty because he no longer had his lifesaver. You decided to go. But you weren't going to rescue him; you were going to take the reins of the game.

When you arrived at his residence, the place screamed the name Nettspend everywhere: extravagant modern art, platinum records hanging on the walls, and expensive half-finished bottles. But Gunner was waiting for you at the door dressed in a simple black hoodie, looking disarmed the moment he saw you walk in with that imperturbable gaze you had perfected.

"You came," he said, trying to force a smile that froze on his lips when you walked past him without saying hello, letting the scent of your perfume mark the territory.

You walked toward the center of the main living room, taking off your coat with a calculated slowness and leaving it over the back of the sofa. You sat right in the middle of the wide furniture, crossing your legs and resting your arms on the sides.

Gunner stood a few meters away, rubbing his hands nervously against his pants, completely intimidated by your presence. The great Nettspend seemed to have disappeared, leaving only the troubled boy who didn't know what to do so he wouldn't be abandoned.

"Sit down," you said, in a soft but firm voice, pointing to the carpeted floor right in front of you.

He blinked, bewildered for a second.

"On the floor? Y/n, come on, we can sit together on the..."

"Gunner," you interrupted him, lowering the tone of your voice, loading it with an absolute coldness that shut him up instantly. "If you want me to stay, you're going to sit there. You decide."

The fear of you leaving, the same fear he had used to chain you in the past, now played against him. Without protesting a single time, Gunner closed the distance and dropped to his knees on the rug, right at your feet. He looked up, his eyes fixed on yours, completely surrendered, desperately seeking a shred of the warmth you used to give him.

You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on your knees, getting down to his level but maintaining the distance. You ran the tips of your fingers through his hair with a tortuous slowness, making him sigh and close his eyes at your touch.

"Look at me," you commanded him in a whisper.

He opened his eyes immediately. They were bright, full of a pathetic anxiety that gave you a rush of pure satisfaction.

"Tell me what it is you wanted to tell me so badly since you came back," you said, sliding your fingers from his hair to his cheek, subtly brushing the lip where he used to have scars.

Gunner swallowed hard, his breath hitched from the closeness and the sexual tension filling the air. The submission on his face was absolute.

"Forgive me," he whispered, and his voice trembled in a way the cameras would never catch. "I swear I regret every single damn day what I did in the parking lot. Vanessa, the lies... everything. I was stupid. I've been alone this whole time, Y/n. Nobody takes care of me like you do, nobody knows me. Please... tell me what I have to do for you to forgive me. I'll do anything."

Seeing the boy who had manipulated you and threatened to destroy himself now reduced to a begging plea on his knees in front of you was an overdose of power. You gave him a slow smile as you withdrew your hand from his face with total disdain, leaving him missing your touch instantly.

"Good boy," you said, leaning back against the sofa cushions again, looking down on him with a cruel indifference. "Maybe I'll start to believe you. But the road to earning back my trust is going to be very long, Gunner. And you're going to have to do exactly everything I say."

Gunner nodded his head immediately, catching your hands desperately and resting his forehead against your knees in a posture of complete surrender.

After a few seconds Gunner looked up, his eyes reflecting a mixture of guilt and an almost religious devotion. Without waiting for a second order, his trembling hands sought the edge of your clothes; you didn't stop him, you let him lift your dress and pull off your panties with a restrained urgency, as if he feared you might disappear if he didn't touch you soon. His fingers brushed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I'll do anything, Y/n... just let me show you how much I need you," he whispered with a broken voice, before bringing his face close to your crotch.

You felt his warm breath against your intimacy, an electrifying contrast to the coldness of your gaze. When his tongue finally brushed your clitoris, you let out an involuntary gasp, allowing your head to fall back as pleasure began to claim your control. Gunner began to work with a desperate devotion, his tongue tracing wet and precise circles over your clitoris while his hands firmly gripped your thighs. You felt every movement of his mouth, the suffocating heat and the rhythmic suction that forced you to arch your back against the sofa. The pleasure was sharp, almost painful because of how intense it was, but you maintained that expression of superiority, watching him from above as your breathing became erratic.

"Don't stop, Gunner... that's it, keep going," you ordered in a slightly raspy voice, enjoying the humiliation into which you had plunged him. He responded with a muffled groan, deepening his contact and using his fingers to open you even wider, seeking to please you in every corner of your anatomy.

You slid your fingers through his hair as you felt his body begin to tense up and his breathing grow heavy from his own arousal.

He let out a desperate moan, trying to lift his head to seek your lips, but you stopped him with an imperative gesture, forcing him to remain down there, submerged in your wetness. "No, not yet. You haven't given me reasons to let you touch me... just stay down there and enjoy what I'm allowing you to have," you added, enjoying seeing his self-control crumble while his member throbbed against his pants, anxious for a relief that you decided when—or if—it would ever come.

While you were enjoying the sweet orgasm you were having against his mouth, he stayed right there, kneeling between your legs, his breath ragged and his eyes completely clouded by the pleasure and devotion of being able to taste you again. He rested his chin on your lap, looking up with the supplicant gaze of someone who has just received a blessing and expects the rest. He was completely turned on, desperate to get his end of the bargain, to feel your hands on him the same way he had just surrendered himself.

"Y/n... please," he whispered, his voice broken, extending a trembling hand toward your hip.

Instead of responding with the warmth he so deeply craved, you fixed your clothes with an infuriating calmness. You looked at his disarmed face and, with a deliberate slowness, lifted your foot. You placed the toe of your boot directly onto the center of his chest.

You didn't do it with violence, but with a soft, firm pressure, pushing him back just enough to force him away from your lap and leave him sitting back on his heels on the floor.

"It's late already, Gunner," you said, checking your phone screen as if you were reading the most important email of your life. "My manager just sent me the schedule for tomorrow. I have a meeting with the brand's investors first thing in the morning and I need to rest."

Gunner froze on the rug, looking at you with dilated pupils and his mouth half-open, barely processing the words through the haze of excitement. Physical frustration began to crash against his face in an almost painful grimace.

"What? No, wait... Y/n, you can't leave me like this," he begged, with a pathetic urgency, looking down at his own pants and then up at you. "Damn, you're going to drive me crazy. Please, just a moment. Let me..."

You stood up, dodging his hands with the elegance of someone avoiding a puddle of water in the street. You draped your coat over your shoulders and turned to look down at him one last time.

Seeing the state you were leaving him in—the great Nettspend, the star of the moment, reduced to a hot, frustrated mess on the floor of his own house—a soft, shameless laugh escaped your lips. It was a clean, cold mockery that echoed off the living room walls.

"Oh, poor baby," you let out, arching an eyebrow in wicked amusement as you walked toward the front door. "But look at yourself, Gunner. You're a big boy. You've managed by yourself before while you were lying to me, haven't you? I'm sure you can do it one more time."