Im Ascending

And because i will be DAMNED TO HELL FOREVER if i let all of that work stay covered for eternity; the shirtless version

The party’s already out of control.

Some kid launches himself off the beer pong table and completely eats shit. Enjin watches him crash; and August’s the only one cheering and hyping him up for making a fool of himself.

He looks over at Gris, sprawled next to him on the couch, still working on the same drink he’s had since the party started. They watch the house unravel in real time.

“Swear they’re gonna get the cops called,” Gris says.

Enjin shakes his head. “We’ve got an hour till we get busted.”

Someone’s yelling from the bathroom about a person passed out—possibly dead? Possibly needing narcan?

Gris gives him a look.

Enjin exhales. “Okay. Forty-five minutes.”

The bass rattles the walls like the house might give up, and someone stumbles past the couch sloshing beer onto the floor. Enjin shifts his feet to avoid it—then freezes.

“Hold up.”

You’re by the kitchen, caught in the spill of cheap LED lights. You tilt your head, hair slipping over one shoulder as you laugh at table flip boy curled up and crying on the ground. Glitter clings to your hair and skin, the rhinestones on your top catch every flicker of color the lights give. Low-rise jeans, bare collarbones, glossy lips. 

Enjins sold.

He nudges Gris with his knee. “Who is that?”

Gris follows his line of sight and squints. “Her? Oh—yeah… She’s in my eight a.m.”

He watches you move and sparkle, letting out a low whistle under his breath. “Jesus.”

“Don’t.”

“She’s hot.”

Your head tips back as you drink, throat working, gloss shining with liquor on your lips. He doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s staring. “I’m gonna go talk to her.”

Gris laughs, patting his back. “You have fun with that.” Enjin stands, sitting his drink down and rolling his shoulders like this is just another Friday night—because it is. “C’mon. I’ve pulled harder.”

“Yeah, man. I’m sure.”

He doesn’t hear him. He’s already weaving through the crowd, confidence locked in, 100% convinced this is about to be another easy as hell win.

He stops in front of you with a smooth smile.

“Hey, mama.”

You snap your head around. Oh great, of course—it’s that guy. Campus womanizer. Certified asshole. Enjin.

It’s hard not to know who he is. His name floats through the ladies on campus like a bright red and flashing warning label—passed around in group chats, whispered in bathrooms, dropped mid-story with a don’t do it! More girls than you can count have slept with him, and none of them came out unscathed. Even fewer have anything nice to say after.

He’s basically the face of his—unfortunately this frat—even without an exec title. They know exactly who they’re selling to: hot chicks and underclassmen guys desperate to rush whatever looks coolest. 

Either you wanna fuck him, or you wanna be him. Doesn’t matter the gender, he has sex appeal that applies to all. How inclusive of him!

And yeah. As much as you hate it, you can see why. Blonde hair always pushed back and messy like he just ran a hand through it, piercings, tattoos wrapping his arms and disappearing under his shirt like there’s plenty more you’re not seeing (there is, you’ve seen more than enough of his shirtless gym photos). Sharp but pretty eyes, and a face that hits before you can stop yourself.

But you’ve heard enough. The stories about the mixed signals, no text backs, the way he treats attention like a game and women like placeholders. That alone is enough to have you back away and run for the hills.

You’re not stupid.

Your response to his unwelcome presence is immediate. “What.”

He squares his shoulders like he’s warming up for a mating dance, and his grin turns lazy. “Damn that’s cold. I was just saying hey.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” You roll your eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Feisty—thats my bad. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Still isn’t leaving. How nice! You have the ever so unfortunate pleasure of being tonight’s diamond.

You down whatever’s left in your drink and drop it to the floor, where it joins the sticky corral of crushed cans. You look back at him, eyebrow raised—you done yet? Apparently not, since he takes this as encouragement. Enjin leans against the wall, crossing his arms and trying to flex his biceps. Ugh.

He leans in, “You always this mean, or am I just lucky?”

“Lucky.” 

“See, I like a girl with attitude.”

“That’s nice dude,” You glance past him, scanning for your friends. “But I don’t think I remember asking.” Something shifts in his expression—interest firing up, big ego kicking in. He steps a little closer, lowering his voice like that’s supposed to work. “Lemme get you another drink.”

“And let you spike it? That’s gonna be a hard pass.”

He laughs at that one. “Aw, c’mon, pretty girl. You really think I’m like that?”

You just tap a finger to your chin, fake it for a second like you’re weighing the evidence—then shrug. You spin on your heel to leave.

He goes to call out after you. “Yo, wait a sec—“

You glance back over your shoulder, flash him a quick smile—

Then flip him off and keep walking.

Enjin turns to look at the couch where Gris is posted up, who’s mid-laugh and already coughing into his fist like he knew exactly how that was gonna go. Enjin laughs with him, dropping back down next to him and sprawling out like he didn’t just eat shit with you five seconds ago. Arms tuck behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself.

“You look real proud for a guy who just got curved,” Gris passes him his drink back. He takes it and chugs like it’s water. “Nah. She’ll crack.”

“You hear yourself?”

Enjin just grins, tipping his head back against the couch and settling in again. 

Most girls laugh at his corny jokes, or soften when he smiles and leans in with low lidded eyes. He is the king of seduction after all. Or at least pause long enough to let him work. You, however, didn't hesitate. Didn’t even give him a single second to adjust, and zero to work with. Just flipped him off and disappeared back into the crowd like he was nothing.

But he has the determination of a soldier and the ego of a dirtbag. Which suddenly makes him want you so bad it’s almost funny.

He reaches up, pulls the cig from behind his ear, and sparks it like the night’s still going exactly according to plan. Takes a slow drag, eyes drifting back across the room to where you’re now dancing with your friends.

You’re not checking to see if he’s watching, and you certainly don’t care if he is.

Enjin hums. He’s already thinking ahead—running into you on campus, catching you between classes, seeing if you’re just as feisty sober. He doesn’t need it to happen tonight. He’s patient when he wants to be.

And now? He really wants to be.

Gris shakes his head. “You’re gonna get punched one of these days.”

He exhales the smoke, smiling. “Worth it.”

~

The universe is bored and decided to mess with you.

Because somehow, some way, you didn’t just end up in a class with one of his friends—you landed two. Which means divine intervention is clearly not on your side. If anything, whatever higher power is running this place has favorites, and Enjin is one of them. Man, how come he’s the blessed one?

You walk out of class with Semiu—your lab partner—to a sight that immediately spikes your blood pressure. 

Enjin, leaning against the wall outside.

Of course.

He straightens when he sees you, grin kicking up a notch, eyes dragging over you like he chooses not to be subtle. 

There she is!

Luck really does love him!

“You didn’t tell me you had the hottest girl on campus as your lab partner,” he says, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “What’s that about? Holding out on me?” 

Semiu deadpans, “Try focusing on why you’re here.”

“You owe me lunch. Last time I checked, I saved your ass—”

She cuts him off with a raised hand. “Unfortunately. But I know damn well your phone works, so use it to text me next time.”

Enjin's attention slides right back to you, though to be fair it never really left. He walks backward for a step just to keep you in his line of sight. “So,” he looks you up and down again, “is flipping people off for fun something you always do, or is that activity special and reserved for little ol’ me?”

You don’t answer, and that only makes him smile wider.

“Oh, come on,” he teases. “You can’t act like we weren’t having a moment.”

“I think you’re schizo.” Your voice is flat. God, does he know how to shut up?

“I call it like I feel it, sweet girl. Eye contact, hand gestures—you can’t deny we have some mad energy.”

Semiu cuts him off again. “You done? We’ve got plans.” Enjin’s eyes flick between the two of you, and something clicks into place. He has to stop himself from smiling too hard. No way. This is easier than anything he’d planned to find you again.

“Oh,” he says, slow and amused. “I see.” You don’t like that tone. At all.

“So this is girl time?” You don’t even get to blink before he’s beside you, completely uninvited. “I can crash. I’m free.”

“No,” you snap immediately.

“Relax, mama.” His hands slide into the pocket of his hoodie. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask.” 

“Where we headed?” he asks, already strolling lazily at your side.

What Enjin doesn’t expect is the library.

You and Semiu slide straight into work mode, laptops out and talking over each other about a lab report about biology or something.

Yeah, alright. Fine. He can do a library, he’s not above it. And if sitting around for an hour while you drone on about science means getting into your pants, then whatever. He’s done worse for less.

A man's gotta do what he’s gotta do.

Not to mention you’re a nice view. You look different now—even better, somehow. At the party everything on you was glitter and sparkles (which is hot, don’t get him wrong), but this is quieter. Your hair’s tucked behind your ear while you focus on your laptop, the glow from the screen and the library lights catching your face in a way the frat’s dim lighting never did. Sweater, sweatpants, bare minimum effort—and still, it’s working on him.

Shit, he thinks. She’s actually really pretty.

Though he prides himself on his conditional patience, he can’t help but get bored—shifting in his chair and asking you questions every ten minutes.

“So what’s your major?”

One word.

“Got a boyfriend?”

A look that could kill.

“What do you do for fun?”

A shrug.

He even throws out the good ol’ fashioned, “Come here often?” like it might land this time. It doesn’t.

He sighs, taps his fingers on the table, and continues to watch you—and it’s really starting to piss you off.

“You don’t have to be here,” you point towards the door. “Exits that way.”

Enjin just grins, leaning back like he’s perfectly comfortable right where he is now that you’ve properly acknowledged him. “Nah,” he says. “I’m good.”

“I’m done anyway,” Semiu snaps her laptop shut. “We can finish this after lecture on Thursday.” She points at Enjin. “Where you will not be.”

He leans toward you, grin already loading. “Wherever she is, I am.” You physically recoil. “Ew. Gross. Back up.”

Semiu slings her bag over her shoulder. “Be careful,” she says. “It’s cold out tonight.”

“Thanks. I will.” You smile at her.

Enjin watches you stand, eyes narrowing just a bit. “You walking?” Your smile falls, turning into a scoff. “No. I’m teleporting.”

Semiu doesn’t even wait for a response—just gives you a look that says good luck and disappears toward the elevator. Internally, you’re begging her to come back. How did she pack up that fast? Is teleporting actually real? Can she teach you, so you can avoid him?

“I can drive you.” His voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Your head snaps over to him. “Hell no.”

“C’mon,” Enjin is already grabbing his keys off the table. “It’s late. I don’t want you walking.”

“That’s not your problem.”

“It is now, it’s dark.”

“Still no.”

“And it’s late—and getting colder.”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“I’ll learn.”

You stop walking just to glare at him. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugs, almost sheepish, but not really. “Because I don’t want anything bad happening to you.”

“Try again.”

“Okay, because I like you?”

“Wrong answer.”

“I’m serious—I’ll take you home, I can behave.”

“I said no—” You push the door open and the cold hits immediately, straight through your clothes. You stop short, breath catching, instantly regretting everything.

Enjin steps out behind you, hoodie already half-off, holding it out like he planned the weather himself. You stare ahead for a long second, jaw tight. Then you exhale.

“You can drive me.”

He nods. “Called it.”

“Enjin, say one more word and I’m walking.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He mimes zipping his lips, then opens the passenger door and makes a whole production of ushering you in like he’s a chauffeur. “So,” He’s behind the wheel, hands planted like he’s about to take off, “where to?”

You stare out the windshield. “Pull out and turn left. I’ll tell you.”

“Can I get your address?”

You laugh once. “Fuck no.”

He takes that in stride. Lets you pick the music—because he knows girls like that, likes watching them scroll and decide. You cue something up.

It makes him pause.

“…I haven’t met anyone else who listens to this guy.”

You look at him, actually surprised. Not what you pegged him for. Against your will, a smile slips out. The first one directed towards him. “Really? He’s one of my favorites.”

“That so?” he says, keeping his eyes on the road like he promised, but failing to hide the way he lights up just a little at your pretty smile. A few minutes later, “Stop here.”

He hits the brakes. “What?”

“I’ll get out here.”

He looks around, whistles. “Damn. Big house.” You’re already opening the door. “No. I live down the street.” Something flashes across his face—pure panic. Did he mess up? Say something wrong? He tried so hard to be on his best behavior. It’s so obvious it makes you laugh.

“Dude,” you're laughing now (but only at his expense), “your face. I just said I’m walking, not calling you a slur.”

He blinks. “But—why?”

“I told you I wasn’t giving you my address.”

“Babe, it’s cold.”

“It’s less than a block.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, contemplating. “Can I get repayment for driving you?”

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t realize this was transactional.”

“Either I drop you in your driveway and walk you to your door like a gentleman—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—or,” he continues smoothly, “you repay me.”

“God, you men. Fine. What do you want?”

His grin is all teeth and confidence. “A date.”

You scoff. “Absolutely the hell not.”

“Then get back in,” he says, nodding toward the street. “Which one’s your place?”

You stare at him, exhausted. Four hours. That’s all it took for him to completely derail your night. And still—there is no universe where he learns where you sleep.

You drag your hands down your face. “When and where?”

He hands you his phone, contacts app already open. “Don’t worry your pretty head. That’s for me to figure out, and you to show up for.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

You slam the door shut before he can say anything else.

~

First of all: giving him your number was a terrible idea. A catastrophic one. You should’ve gotten a burner phone. Or a fake number. Anything.

For someone with an aggressively busy social life, Enjin somehow has an insane amount of time to blow up your phone. You don’t even know how one man has this much to say, but apparently texting you about every thought that crosses his mind is now a daily ritual. Nonstop.

No matter how many times you leave him on read, he just keeps on going.

A picture of food he swears you’d like—sent.

Updates about his class—sent. 

Something dumb one of his frat brothers said—sent. 

A sunset photo with almost as pretty as you ;)—unfortunately, sent.

You don’t respond. You don’t encourage it. And you are not asking for updates.

Doesn’t matter.

Because if there’s one thing Enjin has, it’s determination.

Second: Okay, listen, you really didn’t have high hopes for this date.

Like—come on. He’s a slutty frat boy. How inspired could this possibly be? You were fully braced for the worst: an invite over for “a movie” (sure), you showing up to him shirtless in gray sweats, maybe a blunt passed over before he scrolls Netflix for thirty seconds and picks the first thing that pops up.

Twenty minutes in—if you’re being generous—the movie’s forgotten. So are the sweats.

You tell yourself all of this while getting ready, mostly as preparation. He didn’t even give you a dress code. Didn’t give you anything, actually. No hints. No context. Just a time. Meeting him at eight o’clock on the sidewalk down the block from your place.

That’s it.

So when he shows up fully clothed—properly clothed—and borderline dressed nice while holding actual flowers?

You just stand there for a second, genuinely appalled. You certainly didn’t expect a well-thought-out plan.

But Enjin didn’t plan on half-assing this.

If he was gonna win you over, he was gonna do it right. You’re stubborn. You might even hate his guts a little. But you’re also a woman—and women love effort, whether they want to or not.

So he actually cleans up. Red sweater—the expensive one by his standards. Black slacks. Boots. His nice pair, not the ones that’ve seen too many party floors. He checks his reflection twice before leaving, grabs flowers on the way because yeah, duh.

He takes you to this hole-in-the-wall place first—one you’ve never heard of, which already earns him a point (good start!). You end up in the back corner, tucked into a booth against a wall that’s been completely claimed by past customers—layers of Sharpie notes, doodles, dates, half-legible confessions. The two of you try to decode the inside jokes scattered about. The food’s good and the live band’s low and warm.

You really enjoy it.

You even kind of enjoy him.

When he’s not being a flirtatious menace, he’s… Fine? Funny, even. He gets a few real laughs out of you, and you don’t immediately try to take them back. If even Semiu can stand being friends with him, then maybe—in some distant, alternate reality—you could see yourself tolerating him too.

Maybe.

He asks about you. Starts with the surface stuff—where you’re from, why you picked this school—and the follow-ups too. He listens when you answer, and doesn’t interrupt. When you talk about your friends, your family, the things you really care about, he stays with it.

You’re animated now—hands moving as you talk, eyes lighting up as you don’t think for once to guard every word against him. He sits back and lets you keep going—he really wants you to keep going.

Enjin’s still doing everything he can not to spook you, you’re still a feral cat and he’s trying not to get bit (not like he’d mind it though, he’s a freak like that).

He ends the night by taking you to a park with benches lined up along the edge, overlooking the city. You step up to the railing and stop short.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “I’ve never seen it like this before. It’s so big!”

The city stretches out in front of you, lights blinking and glowing, your hair whipping around in the wind. You start pointing things out without even thinking—random buildings, little landmarks you recognize. The night you and your friends got so drunk you tried convincing strangers at Taco Bell that the earth was flat. The building with the mural where you knew the artists, so they let you paint a couple flowers along the edge.

“Those flowers were yours?” he asks.

You nod, grinning wide. “Yup. All me.”

“That explains why they looked a little messed up.”

You smack his shoulder, laughing. He doesn’t mind your sass and annoyance, but he likes this version of you a lot—the bright one, the storyteller, the you when you’re letting your guard down.

You quiet down after a while, eyes fixed on the skyline. The wind hums, the city moves, and for once the silence isn’t pointed. It’s not you ignoring him or him pushing for more.

“I’m guessing you like the view?”

He’s still looking out at the city, not at you—and you take the chance to look at him instead. His face is softer like this. Calm and stripped of the usual arrogance. It suits him much better.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

You wonder just how many girls he’s taken on dates like this, or even brought them here. How many of them ever made it past a night like this—past the charm, the effort, and the gestures. How many even got a date in the first place?

A shiver runs down your spine at the thought.

“Cold?” Enjin can already see the goosebumps on your skin, the way you clench your jaw just enough to keep your teeth from chattering. You shrug. “Eh. A bit.”

He doesn’t have anything extra to give you this time, so instead he slips an arm around your shoulders. It’s a move he’s pulled countless times, but you perfectly fit against him. You’re all nice and soft.

Normally, this is where he’d start drawing lazy circles on your shoulder, then letting his hand trail down your back, settling at your waist. He’d brush your hair away from your neck, lean in close, murmur something low and suggestive—Wanna get out of here?—and that would be that.

But he doesn’t do any of it. Part of him knows it wouldn’t work on you anyway—he’d just earn a fist to the jaw. But more than that, he doesn’t really want to. He likes this. The quiet. The city humming below. The way you’re warm under his arm.

You don’t push him away either, which surprises him. You stiffen for a second, just barely, then relax—leaning into him the smallest amount. His body heat cuts through the cold, and you take it without comment. You’ll take what you can get. And he smells good—spicy cologne, clean laundry, the faint lingering trace of cigarettes.

He drives you home and you stop him at the same spot as before—though not without some whining on his end.

“Thanks for tonight,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow and laugh. “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?”

“I’m just glad you actually showed up instead of ghosting my ass.”

“I tried to.”

Enjin leans forward across the console, pushing his luck now that you’re already halfway out the door, hand on the handle. “So,” his voice is hopeful and obnoxious, “do I get a goodnight kiss?”

There it is. The arrogance, right on cue.

You scoff. “C’mon, Enjin. You were so well-behaved tonight, too.”

“Hey,” he says, grinning, “I can be a good dog. So where’s my treat?”

“You’re so gross.”

“Please, ma?” A dramatic pout. “Just one kiss. Short n’ sweet.”

“No.”

He sighs, finally leaning back in his seat. “I’ll get you next time.”

“There will be no next time,” you’re already shutting the door. “I don’t owe you anymore.”

“Next time!” he calls through the glass, voice muffled.

You walk away shaking your head—and you hate that you’re smiling.

~

A giant, obnoxiously loud, extravagant bouquet is waiting on your desk at 7:50 a.m.

It is far too early for this shit. Be so for real.

Tied to it with a ribbon is a note:

Could next time be today after your classes? —Enjin ♡

You feel someone looking at you. Well, a lot of people are. Gris is fully side-eyeing you from his seat, and you immediately glare at him. He winces, flashing you an apologetic smile.

You and Gris have followed each other since freshman year. You’ve seen the party photos—Enjin throwing up fours, Gris holding up beers. Both of their pages are basically a highlight reel of the two of them. Same energy, same circles—except Gris lacks the aggressive arrogance and proud douchebag streak that Enjin wears like a badge of honor.

You know who put the bouquet there.

Pulling out your phone, you snap a photo.

You:wtf is this

He responds immediately.

asshole :/you like them?

You:no! everyone in my class is staring at me now

pretty sure they think my mom died or something

You:oh great i think my professor is about to give me her condolences

i’m going to need them after dealing with your bitchass

You:also how am i supposed to carry these to the rest of my classes today

asshole :/i’ll come get them after your class then

i’ll give them back when i see you later

You:do not come to my class. i will carry them.

also i’m not hanging out with you later

You:enjin DO NOT COME TO MY CLASS

asshole :/<3

Much to your dismay, he’s waiting outside at 9:45 on the dot.

He’s leaning against the wall with Gris, mid-conversation. You take this as an opportunity to try and speed-walk past them, ducking your head like that might help.

It does not. Not when you’re holding a bouquet roughly three times the size of your head. You’re impossible to miss—and Enjin is downright delighted watching you try.

Just as you almost slip by, he reaches out and grabs your sleeve, tugging you back. You stumble straight into his side, and he’s quick to loop an arm around your shoulders.

You reflexively hunch in on yourself, attempting to hide behind the flowers. Because really—what’s worse? Being seen as Enjin’s girl of the month (which was already far longer than what any other girl got), or getting stared at like you’re auditioning for a botanical garden exhibit? 100% both at once.

Enjin can feel the heat coming off you, pure irritation bundled under his arm. A sane person might back off—

But he’s not sane. What was it he thought again? Oh yeah—he’s a freak like that.

“Gris,” he says, gesturing to you like he’s presenting a prize, “have I introduced you to this sexy lady?”

“I think you’re forgetting we just walked out of the same class.” Gris nods at you, polite smile in place. “But hey.”

“Lucky motherfucker, wish I got to see this pretty face first thing every morning—”

You shove the bouquet straight up into his face. He chokes, coughing and sputtering as petals go everywhere. He snatches the flowers from you before you can do it again, then smoothly pivots the two of you away from Gris, already steering you down the hall.

You’re groaning and whining trapped in Enjins grasp. “I’ve got class in like fifteen minutes. Can you please let go?”

He doesn’t. Instead, the two of you fall into another one of many quick back-and-forths—him trying to angle for when he can see you again, you shutting it down every time. Tonight? No. Tomorrow? No. He’s annoyingly amused by all of it.

“What about Friday?” he asks, finally. “You gonna be at the party?”

“In your dreams, lover boy.”

Enjin smirks like he’s heard something else entirely. “Oh,” he adds, holding the bouquet out toward you. “When should I give you these?”

You glance at the flowers—crushed, bent, a little worse for wear thanks to being shoved into his face. “Never. They’re mangled.”

He sighs dramatically, plucking a single flower from the bunch and holding it out. “Fine. Just one.”

“You’re impossible.”

But you snatch it from his hand anyways and finally shake his arm off, shooting him a warning look as you break away toward your building.

~

For the first time in his life, Enjin is bored at a party.

He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while August yells next to him about some cheap starter clothing line he’s been working on. Whoever he’s talking to looks trapped, nodding along like they’re waiting for an exit that isn’t coming.

Follo—nice kid, Gris’s little—stands on his other side gripping his beer so hard his knuckles are going white. Still learning how these things work. Gris isn’t even here. Off being responsible, staying in to work on a project. Lame.

Normally, this wouldn’t bother him. He’s a social butterfly—could talk up a wall if he felt like it. Parties usually entertain him.

So why is he so bored out of his goddamn mind?

He downs another drink, chases it with a cigarette.

“I thought you couldn’t smoke inside the house—” Follo starts. Enjin claps a hand on his shoulder. “Right. You can’t smoke inside the house. But this is my house.”

Follo opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.

Then—finally—a blonde wedges herself between him and August like she’s been waiting for the opening. If he looks down he’s seeing straight down her shirt—her lashes bat up at him like she knows the script. He knows it just as well. 

Enjin smirks as she presses in close. He doesn’t say a word—just slides an arm around her hip, pulls her in and turns them so she’s backed against the counter and there's no room left for Christ. She laughs, breathy, tilting her head and leaning into him. Mid-motion—his eyes drift.

Past her shoulder, out the kitchen window and to the back patio.

You.

The blonde keeps smiling up at him, oblivious and waiting. Clearly expecting him to either fuck her there or at least take her upstairs. He does neither.

Instead, he pulls away just as quickly as he pulled her in, leaving her standing there high n’ dry. 

You’re standing by yourself on the patio, blunt balanced between two fingers in one hand, drink in the other. Your friends have fully abandoned you. Girl code was apparently optional tonight—how dare they leave you alone at a frat where you’re very aware you’re being actively hunted by your biggest problem.

You hear him before you see him.

“Am I dreaming, or is that really you?”

Dammit.

He strolls up and you’re caught off guard by the look on his face. He looks genuinely happy. Like seeing you here just fixed something that’d been off all night.

It surprises him too. The fact that he’s excited just to see you—no alternative motives with an endgame in mind. That’s new.

You look insane. Hair done, eyes smoked out, shirt doing very little to help his focus, bangles clinking every time you lift your wrist for a hit or a sip. He’s pretty sure you’re the most attractive person here. Maybe the most attractive person he’s ever seen (which is saying something, he’s seen a lot of girls).

“You’re dreaming,” your voice is better music than the DJ could ever play. “And you’re gonna be late for class. Wakey wakey!”

Enjin laughs, leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. “You look really good, babe.”

You freeze—just for a literal milisecond—and he takes advantage of the moment to laugh and swipe the blunt from your fingers. He takes a drag while you smack his arm and snap something at him, already annoyed.

When he pulls it away, he notices the lipstick mark on the paper.

That’s hot.

“Y’know,” he teases, “that was kind of an indirect kiss.” You scoff and laugh at the same time. “What are you, twelve?”

“Close enough.”

You wince, playful. “I don’t know if this’ll work then. I don’t really fuck with younger guys.”

Now, he’s talked to you enough—against your will, unfortunately—to know exactly how much he can push. He lifts an arm, resting it against the railing behind you, close enough that his side brushes yours. “Really? And what’s this?”

You pause, mouth opening, closing—coming up empty.

That hesitation only makes him bolder. Your smartass mouth has finally run out of ammo.

He leans in, close enough that you can smell the weed and alcohol on his breath, the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, his cologne you’ve come to enjoy underneath it all.

“I’m grown,” he murmurs. “So you gonna fuck with me?”

He’s so close now it’s dizzying.

The seltzers you slammed earlier thrum in your head, tangled with the high and how close he is—how hot he suddenly feels. Was he always like this? Your gaze drops to the soft skin where his neck meets his shoulder, the ink that decorates it. 

Enjin is insufferable. The campus fuckboy. But dear god in the heavens above did he so look good. He thinks you look better.

You swallow. “Do you wanna dance?”

The smile that spreads across his face is slow and satisfied.

He’s won.

Grabbing his hand and dragging him inside, you bring him straight into the heat of it—bodies packed tight, bass rattling ribs, air thick with sweat and smoke. You pass the blonde who was all over him earlier—she’s already moved on, grinding on someone else in the corner.

You let go of his hand without looking back and slip into the center of the crowd, hips rolling naturally with the beat. The open back of your top calls his name, and his gaze drags down the length of you without shame.

Fuck.

You don’t look back—just lift one hand and curl a finger, commanding.

He’s on you immediately.

You keep your back to him as he closes the distance, chest to spine, hips fitting into yours. One of his hands settles at your waist—the other slides lower, rougher, fingers digging in.

Reaching back, you scrape your nails down the buzzed undercut at his nape. You feel him shiver behind you, sucking in a sharp breath like you punched it out of him.

Slowly, you guide him down until his mouth is near your neck. Breathing you in, his lips barely brush your skin—a ghost of a touch that sends heat straight through you. You move together and it’s downright filthy, bodies slick with sweat and hips grinding to a song neither of you are really paying attention to. His grip tightens, then loosens, like he’s trying to keep some sort of control not to fuck you right there on the middle of the floor.

He’s a known vice, but with the way you’ve got him hypnotized with the scent of your perfume alone combined with your body against his—he’s almost convinced the tables have turned.

Maybe you’d won.

You’re fully aware this is a decision you’re going to regret in the morning—when the hangxiety hits like a truck and your head feels like it’s splitting in two. But right now you’re not exactly thinking straight, and honestly? If sleeping with him means he’ll finally leave you alone—maybe even walk away satisfied with getting some of the best dick on campus—then you’ll deal with the consequences later.

Neither of you is sure how long you’ve been dancing—minutes, hours, something in between—but eventually whatever restraint you had left in you finally snaps. You turn to face him, giving him that look. The one he’s seen plenty of times before. But seeing it on your face hits different. Way different. It looks unreal on you.

Sliding one hand up his chest, you feel the heat there alongside his racing heart—while the other wraps around his bicep, solid muscle flexing under your grip. The sensation sends something hot straight through you, pooling low in between your thighs and making your mouth water.

You hook a finger into the chain at his neck and tug him down just enough to meet your eyes.

“Do you want your kiss?”

You don’t even get a chance to blink before you’re in a dark hallway, away from everything else. The only things around are the dim lights and a few unlucky stragglers slumped over on the floor—people who didn’t quite make it to the bathroom before the night caught up to them.

Enjin gives you no time to think before he slams you into the wall, his mouth crashing into yours with a low groan. The kiss is messy and hungry—all teeth and tongue, no patience at all. He’s vocal and grabby—hands everywhere, panting into your mouth as he grabs at whatever he can reach.

He never stops moving against you, grinding in desperation for more friction, and you whine into the kiss, instinctively chasing his hips to match him.

One of his hands slips under your shirt, groping your tit, while the other tangles in your hair—yanking your head to the side so he can drag his mouth down your neck with hot, wet, open mouth kisses.

You gasp at the contact, breath stuttering, and before you can stop yourself you whine his name out loud.

The sound of it makes his heart kick up hard. He wants to hear you say his name again—wants it repeated, pulled out of you like a mantra. It’s one of the best sounds he’s ever heard.

The way you’re pressed beneath him, fingers fisted in his shirt. The feel of your lips, the taste of you—it’s nothing like anything he’s known or felt before. He’s solely thinking about the nearest room he can get you into to fuck you dumb—when a thought cuts through everything else.

Not like this.

It stops him short. Makes the devil on his shoulder—the one that’s always winning—start shouting obscenities in protest.

Not like this. He doesn’t want it to happen this way.

And he doesn’t know why. This is what he’s wanted from the start, isn’t it? So why does it suddenly feel wrong to take it like this?

He pulls back and really looks at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy, breath still uneven. You already look fucked out and so beautiful it hurts his heart and his dick

“The bathroom’s over there,” you pant, barely getting the words out.

He averts his eyes. “No.”

“Okay… isn’t there a bedroom upstairs—”

“Not gonna happen.”

Your brow furrows. “Aren’t you gonna fuck me?”

His answer is already written all over his face, and it makes your heart sink. Panic creeps in fast and unwarranted. What did you do to make the campus hooker of all people stop short? He’d sleep with anyone with a pussy—so what about you made him hesitate?

He finally looks back over, and the sight of your face hits him square in the chest. You look crushed. Like a kicked puppy. When you mumble, “Did I do something wrong?” it’s quiet enough to almost break him.

“Oh my god, no.” He shakes his head hard. “No—the opposite, actually. Fuck, ma, please don’t look at me like that.” He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply through his teeth, like he’s trying to get control of something that’s already spiraling.

“This isn’t a you thing, you didn’t mess anything up.”

You’re still watching him, trying to decode what changed.

He exhales. “I’m just not doing it here. That’s all.”

Enjin’s eyes flick over your face like he’s checking something—making sure you’re okay, or at least not hurt.

“I’m not backing out,” he adds quickly, like he doesn’t want you filling in the silence yourself. “I just—” He stops, jaw tightening, then shrugs. “This isn’t how I wanna do it.”

He kisses you again—slower this time, and gentle. Your mouths fit together stupidly well, the same way you felt tucked under his arm.

You pull away first.

He licks his lips, like he’s trying to hang onto the taste of you. “You good?” he asks.

You nod, hands dropping from his shirt as you give him space. He steps back fully, then smooths your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “Want me to walk you home?”

You shake your head, say you’ll call a friend. The answer shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t smack him the way it does. Where did that come from? You’re just some chick.

You turn to leave. Make it a few steps before he speaks again.

“Hey.”

You pause, look back at him. “I’ll text you,” he promises. “Okay?”

You nod once and disappear back into the crowd.

And suddenly—even with bodies everywhere, music shaking the floor and the house still alive as ever —everything feels empty without you standing there.

He doesn’t text right away. Tries not to think about it. He doesn’t usually do stuff like that, texts back and everything.

Later that night, once he’s home and the adrenaline’s finally worn off, he gives in.

asshole :/you get home alright?

Read 3:47 a.m.

~

Enjin’s a chronic ghoster. It’s one of his specialities, a defining trait that comes with his package (in every way that matters). He’s never really seen the point in keeping up conversation once he gets what he wants. Everyone knows how it works. If a girl expects more, that’s on her.

What he’s not used to is being ghosted.

Text after text goes out to you, all of them met with nothing. At some point you either turned your read receipts off or stopped opening his messages altogether. At first, he’s offended. Like… What? This is his move. He’s the one who disappears. Not the other way around.

But it doesn’t sit right with him. Because before—even when you were displeased with his existence—you’d still send something back. A snarky remark, a dry response. Now it’s radio silence. That’s when it starts to get uncomfortable.

He tells himself you’re probably pissed he didn’t sleep with you. People don’t love getting turned down, especially when they didn’t see it coming. And yeah, it probably doesn’t help that a guy with his background suddenly decided to stop things.

Still… it feels like more than that.

If he’s being honest—just a little—it didn’t look great. And if he wants you talking to him again (which, begrudgingly, he does), he should maybe clear the air. Say something that isn’t a joke or a half-assed text.

Problem is, that would mean admitting he hesitated—and even if he’s not fully sure why, he knows that’s not something he’s good at explaining.

But to his own surprise, he misses you bad.

So instead of overthinking it—or owning up to anything—he goes with what he knows.

The second lecture ends, Gris is already at your seat while you’re packing up.

“Listen,” he grimaces like this is physically painful for him, “can you just text him back?”

You snort. “What’s he got on you?”

He exhales through his nose and pauses, clearly choosing his battles.

“I don’t wanna do this any more than you wanna talk to him,” he admits. “But I’d really like him off my ass sooner rather than later.”

“Oh good,” you stand abruptly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “At least he’s on someone’s ass.”

You start to put your earbuds in. Gris gently catches your wrist before you can. “When it comes to women, Enjin’s a piece of shit. And yeah—I know you’re embarrassed. Anyone would be.”

You click your tongue.

“But,” he continues, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Not with a girl.” He shrugs. “I’m not saying it means anything, and I’m definitely not trying to hype him up—but he’s been real worked up. And I’m tired of listening to him bitch every time you leave him on delivered.”

You stare at him for a second.

“…You’re really selling this,” you deadpan.

“Just—think about it?”

Later that night, you’re home, staring at your phone and your thumb hovers over his contact. The last thing he sent was from last night—a photo of him at some chapter meeting, looking exhausted and another message complaining about them still trying to rope him onto exec next semester.

It’s not one of his usual selfies. He’s just got droopy eyes and messy hair, tie loosened with the top buttons undone. You can see the dip between his throat and collarbones.

Which is unfortunate.

Because now you’re thinking about the party. About having your mouth right there. About the way his lips felt against your own neck, his hands hot and insistent on your skin.

You groan, toss your phone onto the couch, grab the nearest throw pillow and scream into it. 

Earlier, you’d screenshotted the text and sent it to Semiu—because if you’re gonna spiral, you might as well involve Enjin’s own people. She replies almost immediately.

coolest lab partner

weird he sent that and not a dick pic

You ask what she means.

She sends back a shrug emoji. Great!

So he bailed on sleeping with you and—according to both of his best friends—is now acting differently with you than he does with other girls. Which means what, exactly?

This whole thing is just straight offensive. He crawled six feet up your ass trying to charm his way into your bed, only to bail the second things got close. After you let him get close, no less. Dropped the bitch act, let your guard down—and apparently that was the dealbreaker. Maybe the rumors are true and he really can’t stand needy women.

Except—he did say another time. He rainchecked your hookup.

Who does that? Certainly not men like him.

And yet here you are, staring at your phone, wondering when the hell that became your problem.

You’re still annoyed, still stewing—but at this point you’re out of pride to lose. You open his messages again and, after a long pause, react to the photo with a thumbs down.

You don’t even get a full minute before your phone starts ringing.

Asshole :/

The audacity! You answer anyway.

“She speaks!” Enjin’s joyful voice comes through the phone.

“Say shit like that and I’m hanging up.”

He draws out a dramatic, wounded, “Nooo—I didn’t mean it like that! Don’t go, I missed hearing your pretty voice.” You scoff. “Why did you call?”

“Because you texted me and confirmed you don’t hate me.”

“I sent you a thumbs down.”

“Hey,” he says, voices echoing faintly in the background, “after days of nothing? I’ll take it.” You turn the volume up and sink back into the couch. “You sound busy.”

“Nah. Never too busy for you, mama.” A pause, some shuffling. “Just got a few guys over.” Someone shouts something unintelligible. Then Gris, unmistakable even through the muffling—

“He’s got his girl on the phone.”

Enjin doesn’t correct him. “I’ll be right back,” he tells them. More movement, then a door closes, and it’s quieter now.

“Hey,” his voice is softer this time. You tilt your head to stare at the ceiling. “Hi.”

“Am I allowed to say I’m sorry?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

He exhales a small laugh. “I dunno.”

Silence stretches. Then, “I’m sorry.”

You sort through the million things you could say. You land on one. “For what?”

“The other night.”

“What about it?” you say. “Nothing happened.”

“C’mon,” he replies gently. “Let me make it up to you.”

You hum, noncommittal. Actually fucking me this time would be a good place to start.

“Let me see you again, baby. Please?” His voice is hopeful. “I’ll be good, promise. I’ll take you anywhere—your pick.”

You sigh. “Do you do this with all the girls you fuck up with,” you ask, turning his own words back on him, “or am I just special?”

Silence. Special isn’t a word he uses.

“…Special.”

~

You let him see you again.

A lot, actually. More than you meant to.

You can’t deny you started enjoying his presence, mostly because it became clear his advances weren’t leading anywhere any time soon. It stopped feeling like he was hovering around just to get something out of you. Sometimes it actually felt like he just liked just being around you.

He took you out constantly—places you already loved, places you’d never heard of. He even let you plan things sometimes: random craft afternoons at the park, wandering the mall for no reason. Before long, it became routine for him to grab you after class and drag you off to lunch, or sit with you while you studied (even if you bitched about it the first few times).

What started as him trying to win your attention back slowly turned into the two of you just finding excuses to spend time together. Sometimes that meant going out, sometimes it meant doing absolutely nothing—just sitting in his car at night, passing a joint back and forth while music played low through the speakers as you talked about anything and everything.

"Do you think dihydrogen monoxide should be allowed into the water supply?"

“What the hell are you saying to me right now—”

Enjin, surprisingly, was capable of being decent. His presence started to feel like it was somewhere between homeboy and something far too similar to boyfriend.

You knew better than to ask questions, though. Honestly, you weren’t even sure you wanted the answer. You were hanging out all the time, hovering somewhere between friendship and something more, and the space in between felt way too uncertain to risk asking the worst question.

What are we?

The first time he kissed you again after the party happened late one night at his place (you still never let him come to yours).

He’d somehow convinced you to bake with him, which felt far too domestic for whatever the two of you were doing. You’d rolled your eyes, complained about it the entire drive over, but still showed up. By then, he’d officially worked his way onto your good side, and it was getting harder to say no—especially when he asked the way he did, all soft smiles and pleases.

Your shared playlist hummed quietly through the speaker in his kitchen while you stood side by side mixing cookie dough, arguing over measurements you weren’t really following anyway. At some point, without warning, he grabbed your hands and pulled you into the middle of the floor.

“Hey!” you laughed, nearly losing your balance as he started swaying you to the music. “I don’t really think this kind of dancing goes with a Journey song.”

He spun you around. “Trust me, you can dance to anything if you try hard enough.” 

You giggled harder, flour dusting both of your clothes, and when he dipped you—overdramatic, barely coordinated—you reached up and wiped the streak of flour off his cheek with your thumb. It was painfully cliché.

You looked up at him while smiling wide with bright eyes, and something in his chest tightened in a way he didn’t quite know how to deal with. He found himself thinking, almost absently, that he wanted so many more nights like this—more of the simple, stupid, warm moments that had nothing to do with anything else.

But he was just as afraid of that question as you were.

He lifted you up onto the counter, stepping between your knees, laughing as you tried to shove him away. He kissed you—soft at first, then again, and again, scattered across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—just to hear you laugh louder.

It slowly turned into kissing you hello and kissing you goodbye, picking you up and spinning you around every time he saw you. He was always showing up exactly when you needed him, always ready before you even had to ask. He was at your beck and call.

Favorite soda when he picked you up? Already waiting in the cupholder, along with whatever candy you’d mentioned liking once weeks ago. Sitting through hours of your favorite show just so you could ramble about theories and plotlines—even though it bored him half to death. He’d still sit there, nodding along, way more focused on watching your lips move and the way your face lit up when you got excited than anything happening on the screen. He loved listening to the way your mind worked.

Enjin was almost the polar opposite of the guy he used to be, and the strangest part was that he didn’t even notice it happening. He was so caught up in you that everything else started to feel like background noise. In the few months you’d been hanging out, he had become wrapped around your finger.

You’d been introduced to all his friends—something he never would’ve even considered doing before. Girls usually came and went in a single night, never sticking around long enough for introductions to matter. There was never a reason to blur those lines.

But you were different. You were around all the time now, folded into his circle until it felt like you’d always been there. His friends liked you, you liked them, and before long it didn’t even feel like you were “Enjin’s guest” anymore—you were just part of the group.

Hell, August even put you on the Instagram page for his clothing brand, insisting you were the best model he’d had so far. Enjin had pretended not to care, but he definitely saved the post.

He was constantly on your own mind now, showing up in the smallest moments. When you passed a place the two of you had eaten at, when a song from your shared playlist came on, when you caught yourself reaching for your phone to text him something dumb before you even thought about it. 

One night in particular, you were completely, horrifically shitfaced after going out with your friends. Like—sitting on the curb outside the bar, blinking slow because the world wouldn’t stop spinning, kind of drunk. Your legs were bare, freezing in the night air, feet aching from shoes you’d long since kicked off somewhere, head floating three seconds behind your body.

All you could think about was Enjin. He was always so warm.

You didn’t even remember calling him.

He picked up almost instantly. “To what do I owe the honor of hearing from you, beautiful? Thought you were out tonight.”

“Enjiinn—” you slurred, dragging his name out, swaying slightly where you sat. Hearing his voice somehow made your head feel even fuzzier. “Miss you s’much.”

He paused. “Baby, how drunk are you?”

“Nooo… m’ not drunk.” you said, then immediately giggled. “Well. Maybe a lil’. Tiny bit. Like… microscopic. That’s a big word…”

“Are your friends with you?”

“Yesss… they were… they’re waiting for the Uber…” You turned your head slowly, squinting into the street lights. “Wait. Where did my friends go…?”

“Where are you?”

“Mmm… I dunno…” you hummed, words running together. “Have I ever told you how handsome you are? Like… soo handsome. I’m gonna eat you up.”

He laughed softly. “You can eat me up when I get you. Where are you, ma?”

You blinked hard, trying to focus on the street sign above you. “Think it’s the bar on South Street. Maybe.” A pause. “Maybe not. I dunno. I can’t really… see right now.” You started giggling again, shoulders shaking. “Everything’s blurry.”

He muttered something under his breath, then came back louder. “Stay exactly where you are, okay? Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.”

Not that moving was really an option anyway—you were already half-curled on the curb, phone clutched to your ear. 

Somehow, some way, he found you.

When his car pulled up, you gasped like he just performed a miracle.

“My handsome boy!” you squeal the second he steps out, delight all over your face while worry was written all over his. The compliment makes his cheeks warm despite himself. You were always extra affectionate when you were drunk—clingy and sweet in a way he certainly didn’t think he deserved.

You try to stand so you can run to him, but your knees wobble immediately. You barely make it two steps before you start tipping forward—only for him to catch you, hands landing firmly around your waist.

“You’re so strong,” you murmur, leaning into him without hesitation. “That’s so hot.”

He laughs under his breath, steadying you as he guides you toward the car while you keep rambling nonsense into his shoulder. “You’re like… my knight n’ shining armor. Always saving me.”

“Yeah?” he says, opening the passenger door.

He helps you slide into the seat, making sure your legs are tucked in before stepping back. “Anything for you, princess.”

“I like that. Say it again.”

He leans down, presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head. “My princess.”

You grin, already melting into the seat. “Yeah… that’s gonna do it.”

Unfortunately, Enjin still doesn’t know where you live, so the next best option is bringing you back to his place.

“Why does my apartment look different?” you mumble. “I really gotta fix the feng shui in here…”

He laughs quietly, guiding you down the hall and into his room before handing you one of his shirts and a pair of pajama pants. “Can I trust you to dress yourself?”

“You’re not gonna help me?” Leaning forward, you dip just enough that your dress shifts lower than it should. “I think you’d kill me in the morning if you found out,” he says, unimpressed but definitely not unaffected.

“Mm… but me right now wants you to help me.”

He shakes his head, gently steering you toward the bathroom. “Go get changed. I’ll stand outside the door in case you fall and bust your ass.”

Normally, Enjin would’ve jumped at the opportunity. You did look way too good—would’ve unzipped the back of your dress slow, let his mouth trail down your spine, dropped to his knees before you even realized what was happening—

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales hard, forcing the thought away while he waits outside the door, doing his best to keep it together.

But it takes every ounce of restraint in his body not to lose it at the sight of you in his clothes. Especially with how his shirt hangs off you—way too big, collar slipping just enough to expose your shoulder the tiniest bit.

You flop face-first onto his bed, already half-asleep, and he tries to gently roll you over and tuck you in the right way. He turns to leave—planning to grab a blanket and crash on the couch—when your hand suddenly shoots out and grabs his arm, yanking him down with you.

Damn, he thinks. She’s strong.

“Woah—” is all he manages before you’re climbing over him, straddling his lap. Your lips find his neck, messy and unfocused kisses trailing along his jaw—a guttural groan slips out before he can stop it when your hips grind down against his. His hands instinctively land on your thighs, gripping like he’s trying to hold onto what little self-control he has left.

You whine his name all needy, and he shuts his eyes for a second—because fuck, that sound does something to him.

“Ngh—hey, c’mon now,” he gently tried to guide your face away, hands cupping your cheeks.

You pout. “Please, Enjin… wan’ you so bad…”

Yeah, the feeling’s mutual. But even he’s not enough of an asshole to take advantage of you like this.

“Shh. I know,” he says, pressing his thumb lightly to your lips to quiet you—only for you to lazily suck it into your mouth. His breath catches, hips thrusting up before he can stop himself, and he curses under his breath when you smirk, clearly proud of yourself.

He shakes his head, grabbing your waist instead. “Don’t do this to me. We’re not doing this right now.”

“You don’t like me…”

“You’re dramatic. And drunk.”

You give a sleepy little hmph before collapsing forward, laying across his chest—still very much straddling him. He tries to move you, tries to tuck you back under the covers, but you groan and cling tighter, arms locking around him like a koala.

“You gotta go to bed, ma.”

“I am,” you whisper. “Right here. Womp womp.”

He sighs, giving up, arms settling around you instead. His hand drifts to the back of your head, gently smoothing your hair, and it doesn’t take long before your breathing slows and evens out.

He’s stuck now.

Which means he’s sleeping here too—something he’s never done. Sleeping in the same bed as a girl always felt way too intimate, too personal. Either they left, or he did.

But right now, there’s nowhere else he wants to be anyway.

~

You’d started showing up to almost all of their parties, only skipping when you had academic responsibilities (as Enjin called them) to deal with.

“You gotta stop being so smart,” He would complain, flopping back dramatically whenever you told him you couldn’t come. “I’m gonna be bored without you.”

Things got weirdly dull when you weren’t around. He could hang with the guys, drink, laugh, do the same stuff they always did—but sooner or later he’d catch himself wondering where you were, what you were doing, whether you were already home or still out somewhere.

The guys gave him endless shit for it too—the campus fuckboy suddenly acting whipped over a girl. Most of the time he just laughed and ignored them. But every once in a while it stuck in his head, and Enjin thinking too hard about things was never a good sign.

He’s sat up on the couch playing makeshift poker with a deck of half-bent cards and a pile of spare change in the middle of the table. It kept him busy enough—mostly because the guys around him were getting increasingly pissed every time he won another round.

Follo tossed his cards down. “Nah, that’s insane. Again?” Enjin didn’t even look up, just dragged the winnings toward his pile. “You guys are just predictable.”

“You don’t even know the rules.”

“Neither do you,” He shot back. “So relax.”

Gris leans back in his chair, squinting at the table. “I’m pretty sure we’re playing this wrong.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Enjin shrugs. “Money’s still mine.”

“I swear you count cards or something.”

“If I was counting cards, you’d already be broke.”

Follo groans, digging more coins out of his pocket. “I’m done playing after this hand. You’re hustling us.”

“You volunteered. Don’t blame me cause you keep funding my night.”

Corvus clears his throat beside him. “Pretty sure your lady just walked in.” Enjin’s head snapped up instantly, attention gone from the cards in his hands. “Follo, your wallet just got blessed. I’m done playing.”

Follo let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “I owe her my life.”

You felt Enjin before you even spotted him—the way his presence pulled your attention across the crowded room like a compass. You waved as you walked over. “Hi, guys!”

“The woman of the night has finally arrived,” Gris says, grinning.

“You’re too sweet,” you coo, sliding into the open spot next to Enjin and curling against his side. His arm wrapped around you without hesitation, like it had become second nature. It didn’t go unnoticed—some of the girls lingering nearby shot you nasty looks. They came from knowing they’d never gotten that kind of loving from him. You couldn’t deny the major ego boost it gave you.

There wasn’t a label on whatever this was, but you had something they didn’t: his full, undivided attention. Had him locked down like a dog on a leash, and no title was needed for people to see that.

You nod toward the pile of coins and bills on the table. “So where are you taking me with all these winnings? At least make your gambling addiction useful.”

Corvus laughs from the other side. “You should feel honored. You just got prioritized over beer and cigarettes.”

Enjin smirks, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “I was gonna spend it on you anyway.”

You reach up and pinch Enjin’s cheek.

“Careful,” you tease, “your ego’s getting kinda insane tonight.” He grabs your wrist with a grin, but Gris leans forward first. “Wait—where have you been? We thought you dipped.”

“I had to pregame with my friends, y’all start parties way too early.”

“You missed Follo trying to manipulate the DJ. Whole house rioted.”

“Oh my god, not this again.” He groans. “Dude, it was one suggestion.” You perk up immediately. “Wait—what did you play?”

He hesitates like he knows he’s about to get jumped. “…The 1975.”

“Oh my god, yes.”

They all groan in unison. “It was Somebody Else!” He tries to desperately defend himself. “It’s a good song!”

You point at him, nodding. “He’s so right.” Gris shakes his head. “Next thing we know the whole party’s gonna be crying in the kitchen.”

“C’mon, Follo, we’re going back up to the DJ booth,” you say, already starting to sit up. “If I flash him, he’ll play it. Trust.”

August nearly chokes laughing. “Damn straight!”

Before you can get too far, Enjin takes his arm around your waist and pulls you back down against him. “Yeah, no. The entire house does not need to see your tits tonight.”

“You’re so lame—now everyone’s gonna miss out on a banger cause of you.” He just squeezes your waist, sticking a tongue out at you. Across the room, you spot a girl from one of your classes waving you over, already holding up a drink like an invitation.

“Who’s that?” Enjin asks.

“Friend of mine, I’m gonna go say hi and grab a drink—”

As soon as you’re upright, his hands land on your hips, stopping you for a second. He looks up with an exaggerated pout. “Let me come with you.”

“I’m a big girl, I can make it,” you laugh, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be right back, kay’?”

He lets you go, but his eyes stay on you as you cross the room, watching you laugh at something your friend says.

“Didn’t know Enjin was capable of settling down,” a voice says from the wall nearby.

He glances over—one of the regulars who hung around.

“Settling down?” Enjin takes a drag of his cigarette. “We’re not together.”

The guy whistles low. “Damn. That pussy must be crazy then to have you acting like this.” He smirks. “If you’re not together, you mind if I take a shot?”

Something in him goes cold fast.

“Shut the fuck up.”

The guy raises his hands in mock defense, but the smug look stays. “Relax, man. I’m just saying—she’s bad as hell. And if you don’t have a claim—” He continues, staring off at you. “Not to mention, girls who mess with you are always easy.”

Enjin doesn’t even remember standing. One second he’s sitting, the next he’s in the guy’s face.

“Say another fucking word about her.”

Corvus is behind him not even a second later, hand clamping down on his shoulder. “Enjin, you gotta back up, bro.”

He’s seething.

It’s stupid. It shouldn’t bother him this much. Guys say dumb shit at parties all the time. Normally he’d laugh it off, maybe throw something back twice as disrespectful and move on. But the thought of that guy even looking at you like that makes something ugly crawl up his spine. The idea of anyone talking about you like you’re just another name on a list—like the same girls he used to treat that way—makes his stomach churn.

He kind of hates how fast his mind jumps to it. Hates that his first instinct wasn’t to laugh, but to step in front of you like he needed to protect you.

We’re not together.

He shakes Corvus’s hand off, “I’m out.”

Enjin shoves through the crowd, shoulders knocking into people without a single apology as he forces his way outside. The night air hits his face, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cool him off. His head is still racing, thoughts coming in far too fast and far too loud.

What the hell was he doing?

This isn’t who he is. Getting defensive. Getting territorial. Getting pissed over some guy talking about a girl he hasn’t even properly fucked yet. He’s had girls he has slept with treated worse than that and never cared enough to blink.

It pisses him off even more to realize how obvious what the real answer here is.

You’d somehow gotten into his head without him noticing, rewired something that had always been simple and straightforward. For months now he’s been telling himself the same thing—you’re just some girl. Some girl he wanted his dick in, nothing more. That was the plan. That was always the plan. He wasn’t supposed to care about how you felt, or what people said about you, or whether someone else tried to make a move. You were supposed to be another name, another night, another body on his list.

He’s had more than enough chances by now. Plenty. If this were anyone else, it would’ve been over weeks ago. Done. Finished. Forgotten. Point blank. Instead, every time things got close, he’s the one pulling back. Slowing down. Taking his time like he’s got somewhere to be with this.

Enjin’s not even really sure who he’s mad at. It’s not you—you didn’t do anything wrong. But the thought of himself being burned down to—what did that guy call it? Pussy whipped?—makes his blood boil.

The idea of people looking at him like that, like he’s lost something, sets something off in him. 

All of it makes him angry in general—but it makes him angrier on your behalf. Like you’re just some girl who finally did well enough to keep him around. Like you’re some trophy, some body that got lucky.

Like you’re just another name.

Just like you used to be to him.

But you’re not.

“Hey, Enjin.”

He turns from where he’s leaning over the patio railing. The voice belongs—ironically enough—to one of the many girls he’s slept with. What was her name again? Something with an M… maybe.

“Not very nice of you to leave your girl all alone in there.”

He stares at her, jaw tightening. He knows exactly what she’s doing. Fishing. Looking for something she can take back inside and whisper about. Proof that Enjin’s finally locked down—that someone finally got him.

The angel on his shoulder tells him to ignore her. To go back inside, sit on the couch, cool off, maybe go back to playing cards.

The devil—loud and wounded—wins like he always does.

“Not my girl.”

The words feel foreign the second they leave his mouth, same way they did earlier. If you really meant nothing, he wouldn’t be standing out here this pissed off—it feels like his entire mind is split down the middle. One side of him knows better, the other does not.

Her lips curl into a knowing smile. “She’s not?” She steps closer, pressing herself against his arm, confident now. This is all the confirmation she needed. Whatever he says next doesn’t even matter.

She feels wrong against him—too familiar in the worst way. Nothing like you.

From the kitchen window, all you catch is the exchange—too quick—and then her body right up against his. A sight you recognize all too well.

What did he say to her?

The feeling hits you hard, it knocks the air straight out of your lungs. It shouldn’t hurt—this isn’t new. Girls on Enjin’s arm used to be a given. But it’s been so long, and he’s been so yours.

You told yourself not to get your hopes up.

You weren’t stupid.

But what were you supposed to think? For months the campus playboy went practically celibate, going months without touching anyone else. Followed you around like a lost dog, acted like your attention was the only thing he wanted.

That meant something, right? It had to. Except now it feels stupid. Stupid, naive, and straight up embarrassing.

You should’ve known better all along—knowing that someone like him doesn’t change. That no matter how close it felt, you were always going to be nothing more than another girl to a man like Enjin.

You grab the drink you came into the kitchen for and slam it back. Then another. Then one more for good measure.

You push your way onto the dance floor and just move. Move to the rhythm. Focus on the music. Don’t think about what you saw outside. Don’t think about the past few months, about how you let your guard down because he tried—because he kept showing up. Don’t think about how small you suddenly feel, how you trusted him and he took it like a thief.

Take, take, take. That’s all he ever does, isn’t it?

So why did he give you so much in return just to strip it all away?

The bodies around you start to feel too packed in. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the music too loud, the voices louder. You’re dizzy now, unsteady, and everything starts blending together until you can’t tell where one room ends and the next begins.

You stumble back until you hit a wall, the cold of it pressing into your spine as the bass vibrates through the speakers behind it. You try to take deep breaths, force your head to level out.

Blacking out is a mindset. Lock in.

“You good?”

The voice isn’t familiar. Neither is the face attached to it—though you can’t really make him out anyway.

“What?”

“I asked if you were good,” he says, louder this time.

Blinking, you try to focus. Something about him feels off. You can’t place it, but you feel it all the same. “Yeah. I’m fine.” You try to move away, aim for the bathroom or literally anywhere else.

“Woah, where you goin’?” He’s suddenly there, blocking you before your brain can catch up.

“I’m gonna find my friends.”

You move. He moves too.

You glance around for help, for someone—anyone—but you’re met with nothing. You realize you’re alone in that exact same hallway as before.

Fuck.

“Hey, just talk to me for a bit,” he’s leaning in and crowding your space, making it harder to breathe.

“Listen, you gotta leave me alone—” you snap, pushing at him, disgust flashing across your face as you try to get away.

His arm wraps around you from behind, fingers digging into your thighs—and before you can even process it, before you can kick or scream, he’s gone.

Ripped off you.

Enjin’s fist connects with the guy’s nose, blood spraying instantly. The guy barely gets a hit in—just enough to bruise later—before Enjin swings again, clean and brutal, knocking him out cold.

His chest is heaving. He’s seeing red. The same guy from earlier. Talking about you like that. Touching you like that.

Enjin looks down at the body, laughs under his breath and spits. “Damn,” he mutters. “He’s gonna be out for a bit.” Then he turns to you, face wild. “Don’t tell Corvus, okay?”

But the second he really looks at you—your face pale, eyes wide—he stops.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You alright?” He steps toward you, ready to pull you in, to ground you somehow.

You step back.

His brow furrows. Shit. Did he scare you?

“What the fuck is your problem?” you scream.

Confusion flashes across his face. You used to like it when he played knight in shining armor. Being his princess. “Aw, ma’—if I freaked you out, I’m sorry.”

You snort.

“You could’ve just pulled him off. Told him to leave. Not try to kill him.”

He’s used to your jabs, your snark, the looks—but this? The real anger in your eyes? It’s new and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“You didn’t find it hot?” he tries, desperate to crack the tension. A bad joke. A last resort.

“Are you on some shit?” you spit.

Yeah. Didn’t land.

You sigh, rubbing your face. “So did you come find me after you got bored outside?”

He freezes.

Oh. You saw her.

You must’ve left before you saw him push her off. Before he went looking for you. If he’d just stayed by your side, none of this would’ve happened.

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“What is it you wanted, Enjin?”

His face was pure confusion, “What I wanted…?”

“You never slept with me,” you say. “isn’t that your thing? Being the campus hooker?”

“I’m sorry?” he says carefully, biting back everything else.

“No,” you stop him, hand raised. “I’m sorry.”

You swallow hard. You’re not crying. Not here. Not in front of him.

“I’m sorry I thought you could change. Sorry I believed the effort meant something. You’re a really good actor, you know that?”

Your shoulders sag. “That’s on me, Enjin.”

Then, quieter—“But you didn’t deny I was your girl. You let me crash at your place. Hell, you slept in bed with me. We both know you don’t do that.” A broken laugh slips out. “You just beat the shit out of that guy for me.”

You slide down the wall, burying your face in your hands.

“Enjin,” you whisper. “What did you really want?”

“You,” he says.

“What part of me?”

Silence.

“Right.” You stand. “Ice your eye. And your fist.”

“Hey—wait—”

You walk away.

He doesn’t chase you.

What did he want?

You. He wanted you.

At first, he wanted to fuck. That was it. So when did that stop being the point? When did he start caring more about making you smile than getting you into his bed? About listening instead of talking? About spoiling you—about being the first person you talked to in the morning and the last one at night?

Because you’re you. Smart. Kind. Funny. Curious. A mind that never stops moving. Beautiful, sure—devastatingly so—but it was never just that. It was everything underneath that pulled him in, made him want to crawl inside your head and heart and stay there.

It stopped being about wanting you—and became about wanting to be yours.

~

You give him zero openings this time.

Blocked his number. Blocked him on every social media platform you can think of—hell, even Roblox caught a stray. You start leaving classes early or showing up late just to avoid him lingering outside like he used to. You stop going to the places you know he learned by heart, because the last thing you need is running into him somewhere that used to feel safe.

But he sure does try!

At first it’s the usual stuff—having his friends reach out like middlemen because, as far as anyone can tell, you’ve straight-up vanished. They pass along gifts on his behalf. You toss every single one. (Okay—fine. You read the notes first. But they make you cry, so sometimes you set one or two on fire for dramatic closure.)

He even tries to figure out your new schedule, the one you very intentionally built just to dodge him. That doesn’t work either. You’d completely outplayed him, and for once, Enjin doesn’t know what move to make next.

Well… almost!

“August,” Enjin’s dead serious, halfway to begging. “You dropped the clothes off for her to model at her place. I need the address.”

August doesn’t even look up from his cricut. “Nah, man! But hella appreciate the enthusiasm!”

“I’m not joking,” He presses. “This is the love of my life on the line here. Future mother of my children.”

“Thought you hated kids,” Semiu mutters from the corner.

“Mind your damn business.”

August finally swivels around in his chair, eyebrows raised. “The love of your life? That’s insane coming from you!”

“Exactly!” Enjin says, desperate now. “Which is why I need you to drop the address. So I can be a better man and fix things.”

At this point, nothing feels off-limits to him. Morals? Flexible! Boundaries? Super negotiable. If seeing you again means showing up at the one place you never wanted him to know—yeah, he’d do it. He wasn’t above breaking and entering.

You, on the other hand, want nothing to do with him.

The farther away you are, the easier it is to convince yourself this whole situationship was just a waste of time. That sitting around hurting over it would only steal more days off the clock of your life.

Besides—thinking about him still pulls too much out of you. Hurt. Anger. Bitterness. And, annoyingly, yearning.

You miss him like hell. Like a bitch.

And every time you catch yourself spiraling over it, you turn the water cold in the shower and give yourself a look in the mirror like, Get it together girl!

So when he shows up at your door out of nowhere, it takes everything in you not to either strangle him or kiss him stupid.

“You’re actually batshit,” you say flatly, arms crossed, foot tapping. “How did you even get my address?”

“I have my ways.” He tries to smirk, but it barely lasts a second. He looks miserable—exhausted, hollowed out. You glare at him, and he caves almost immediately. “August,” he admits.

You mutter something about having to move now, about getting on Zillow, and start to shut the door in his face. His foot catches it.

“Baby, listen to me.”

“No thanks.” You shove harder, very intentionally trying to crush his toes.

“Hey—ow—can you at least let me apologize?”

“You can take your apology and shove it up your ass.”

You kick his foot out and finally slam the door.

“Will you please be my girlfriend?”

It’s muffled through the wood, but it lands anyway. Clear as day. You freeze as he leans his forehead against the door, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yeah, at first I was just trying to fuck you. I’ll be deadass about that.”

You snort despite yourself.

“But,” he continues, fingers fidgeting with the handle, “I loved you the first night I took you out. When you were staring at the city like it was brand new. You looked so free. And you kept telling me stories about yourself, I just remember thinking I wanted to hear a lot more of that—and that I wanted to be in them”

He lets out a short, embarrassed laugh. “It’s cheesy, I know. But I kept saying no because I didn’t want to sleep with you yet. I didn’t want you to think that was all you ever were to me—didn’t want you thinking that was the only thing I cared about.”

You open the door, and seeing your face almost knocks the wind out of him.

“So I’m sorry,” he says, softer now. “For making you think I hadn’t changed. I’ve wanted to change for you this whole time—it just took me too long to realize. And I didn’t know how to do it without fucking it up.”

“Whatever,” you shrug, eyes averted. “It’s fine. I guess.”

But the smile creeping onto your face gives you away.

“Can I come in?”

“Since you already probably have the longitude and latitude memorized, yeah.”

Enjin’s face breaks out into a wide smile the second you step aside, all teeth and crinkled eyes like he just won the lottery. You barely get the door halfway shut before he’s pulling you into him, arms wrapping tight around your shoulders and waist in a hug.

“Agh—dude, let go, I can’t breathe—”

He only squeezes you tighter, rocking you side to side like you’re something he almost lost (he definitely did). He presses kisses all over the top of your head, your hair, your temple. You shove at his chest half-heartedly, but you’re not really trying that hard.

You missed this. Him.

“Do you accept my apology?” he mumbles into your hair.

“I already said whatever.”

“That’s not forgiveness,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Of course I accept your apology, Enjin. I love you too!’”

“Don’t get greedy.”

He retaliates by kissing all over your face—cheek, jaw, nose—each quick peck followed by a dramatic, “Please?”

You can’t help it. You start laughing, the kind that makes your shoulders shake. “Okay, okay—fine! I accept your apology!”

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Yes, Enjin. I pretty much already was.”

“And an, I love you too?”

“Give me a bit.”

Enjin pauses for half a second like he’s considering arguing—then just shrugs instead.

He leans in again—not rushed, not greedy—just soft and slow, but still like his life depends on it. One hand slides to your waist, the other resting warm at your jaw as he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize it instead of steal it. 

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he murmurs against your lips.

You fist your fingers into his shirt, suddenly very interested in the fabric instead of his face. “So… are you ever gonna have sex with me?”

A grin spreads against your skin.

“Yeah. Eventually.” His mouth drifts from your cheek down to your neck, unhurried. “Think I’m gonna wait till marriage though. Show you I’m really committed.”

You gasp dramatically. “I have to wait till marriage?”

“I can’t believe you’re more upset about waiting to fuck me than me saying I’m gonna marry you.”