#mencken

Pulling himself out of bed and trudging across the city for a psychologist appointment was one of the last ways Roman wanted to spend his Saturday. He had been forced to see a therapist ever since the incident in Türkiye, where the company enforced a three session therapy program to tick a box in ensuring their employees were 'well looked after'. Reluctant at first, Roman discovered he actually liked therapy, so he continued seeing Dr. Al-Qasem sporadically.

"How was Italy? You postponed the past two sessions, I feel like I haven't seen you in months," the doctor laughed, leaning back in his chair and crossing one of his legs over the other.

Roman shook his head at the doctor in front of him, pulling his legs up to rest on the couch he was perched on. "Italy? It was fucked up. But holidays with my family are always fucked up."

"Even when you travel to such nice places?"

"I mean, yeah the places themselves are fucking, nice, and away from all the normos or whatever but the reason we take them is what makes them shit," Roman shrugged.

"The reasons your family go on vacation? Like what?"

"Uh... Fuck, well..." he trailed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to gather his thoughts. "The latest one, Italy? Only happened because Dad wanted to butter us all up to get one of us to take the blame for all his fuck ups. Completely nuked Ken and was ready to send him off to prison. Before that we went to Scotland just to watch everyone suck Dad's dick and crown him the king of douchebags.”

"What about when you were kids? Did you travel when you were younger?" Al-Qasem asks.

"Yeah but it was the same I guess. I was too young to know why he picked certain countries over others but as an adult all the fuckin’ dots connect now. Bali, Morocco, Vatican City, Maldives... None of them have an extradition treaty with the United States y'see," Roman chuckled whilst tapping his finger against the side of his head.

"It sounds like your father chose those specific destinations as a form of protection against being faced with the repercussions of his own wrong doing," the doctor hummed.

"Yeah I mean- Sometimes... Holidays were just a way for him to cover up whatever bullshit we'd gotten ourselves into. His fault or ours. It wasn't always business like, ometimes it was personal. I remember he cheated on Mom a bunch and by the time I was like, fourteen, she threatened to leave him. So we all ended up flying to Paris instead."

Dr. Al Qasem nodded slowly and jotted a few notes down on the notepad in front him, his words scribbly and illegible like so many doctors' handwriting. "So vacations were used as a figurative band-aid... Either way, it seems like the escapism of a well time holiday worked with Logan's desire to avoid conflict."

"Dad? Avoiding conflict? Oh no, he loves conflict. If he's not hurling insults at you, he's swinging his fucking fist," Roman joked with a hollow laugh echoing from his chest.

But the doctor did not laugh.

"Let me rephrase. He avoids resolving conflict in a healthy manner. Your recent trip to Europe, you said he was putting your brother’s head on a metaphorical spike, yes? To avoid taking the blame for his own actions. Your trip to Paris as a teenager? He was avoiding the moment your mother would leave him, instead convincing her to stay in a toxic marriage under the guise of a lavish romantic holiday.”

Roman shrugged and picked at his cuticles.

“You're not dissimilar to your father in that aspect too, Roman. You can be quite avoidant. You use sarcasm to avoid touchy topics or to mask your own insecurities. You also avoid taking responsibility for your mistakes… Remember what happened in Japan?"

"Of course I fucking remember Japan, I literally blew shit up in a fucking, catastrophic explosion. Look Doc, can we talk about something like, not about my Dad for once?"

Dr. Al-Qasem had the art of 'golden silence' down pat, he simply stayed in his seat watching Roman fill his own silence with more words as he avoided taking about the main root of his trauma; his father. He rarely needed to prompt him into conversation because Roman so desperately avoided sitting with his own thoughts.

"I had my dick sucked in Italy... So write that down in your little notebook and put it on the record that I'm not a total fucking cuck.”

“Ah… ‘Florida’ I presume?” His psychologist asks with a knowing smile. Roman had mentioned you a fair few times before.

"Yep… We’re friends who like, do fellatio now or whatever," Roman said, emphasising the word fellatio with an overly pompous intonation.

"Why do you seem so uncertain about your relationship with her? From everything you've told me she seems quite healthy for you," the doctor pointed.

"Healthy? Fuck no," Roman laughed, amused at the very thought of someone thinking you were psychologically healthy. Roman thought you were just as fucked up as he was, you just masked it better than he did. "I mean, she used to fuck around with Kendall so it basically means I'm just a rebound... Like the shitty consolation prize when you don't win the teddy bear at the carnival," Roman huffs.

"So your thinking is, if you don't win, you lose," the doctor deducts from Roman's rambling.

"Obviously."

"And the opposite of win, is lose right?"

Roman groans, "Doc, I think we've both passed kindergarten to know that the opposite of hot is cold, and the opposite of up is down. What’s your point here?"

"Flip it around on its head. You think you've lost against your brother, but have you ever stopped to think that Kendall was the one who lost her to you?"

"I don't fucking know man. Maybe we all lose. That's what life is all about right? Everyone spends their days wanting to win since we're so scared of losing but jokes on us ‘cos we all end up dead in the ground one day.”

"You know, most of us in this world crave the very thing we fear," Dr. Al-Qasem probes.

"Craving fear? That’s such cliche therapist bullshit… If I'm craving a salad for lunch it's not because the lettuce is scary, it’s ’cos I want to eat a fucking salad." Roman scrutinised.

"I'm talking about things bigger than salad, Roman. Like affection. Your upbringing has taught you that opening yourself up to love only welcomes pain. And because you weren't shown consistent healthy love, and often had to fight in order to receive it, you think that you’re therefore not worthy of love."

"You do have to earn love though, you don't walk around having everyone fall in love with you the second they see you. That's what dating is. Seeing if they can earn your love and if you can earn theirs back, duh."

Despite Roman having to pay someone to 'therapise' him, he was progressing, even if he didn't realise it. It wasn't even speaking about his thoughts that helped, it was the fact that Dr. Al-Qasem actually listened to him. Yes, sometimes the doctor's 'cliche' hypothesis made Roman want to shove a pen into his jugular and bleed out on the streets of Manhattan, but more often than not he seemed to validate Roman's feelings rather than contradict them.

And that was a rare find for Roman.

He was always seen as the weakest dog of the family, Logan had said it himself. You send the weakest one away so that everyone knows the hierarchy. Kendall was the strongest, the one to follow in his fathers footsteps and take the family reigns. Shiv was his only daughter, precious and delicate. The one to be protected and sheltered from the male dominated world in which she was forced to grow up in. Which left little old Roman; his father’s greatest disappointment.

Whether it be from his family, his colleagues, or the minimum wage writers slandering his name in tabloids, Roman found he never had the winning hand. If his life was a game of poker, Logan was the dealer, continually handing his son the worst cards of the pack.

It was impossible to win against him, and it hurt.

Pain was his family's sign of love, because receiving pain often coalesced with receiving attention. It wasn't until someone outside of their family raised concerns that he remembered not everyone lived the same way he and his siblings did. Being hurt was so normal for the Roy family. Roman was sure it was the sixth language of love.

"Back to this woman, ‘Florida’... When you engaged in oral sex, what was the dynamic like between the two of you?" The doctor asks.

"Uh, hot? Pornographic? I don't fucking know, it was- It was just a normal fucking blowjob, I don't know."

"There's a well known quote that says, everything in life is about sex, except for sex. Sex is about power... Now some believe that the quote infers that sex is everyone's priority and everything we do whether it be our careers, our goals, our appearances, et cetera, we only do to get laid. Others believe that it's meant in a way that links humanity to our Neanderthal roots that mating with a partner is a basic survival instinct. We see it with animals, sex is a competition amongst males to impregnate the superior female. Me personally, I like to think that sex, when we're all naked and stripped bare, is where we challenge our own power within ourselves.”

"So you're telling me that I can be my own therapist just by having sex? Then why am I paying you to be here when I could pay a prostitute half as much for a way better time."

"How are you finding the exercises I gave you regarding power and control?" His psychologist asked looking at his computer and scrolling back to find notes from their previous consultations.

"You know, they're uh, they're good," Roman shrugged, obviously lying about the extent of his own self-development.

"You can't change if you don't make a conscious effort to change Roman."

"I make an effort... Just like, not a lot."

Roman, during every waking moment of his day, desperately needed to be in control of his situations. It was a compulsive need to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing, doing a good job. Not being a moron. Yes, it was quite a toxic state of mind for someone to be in, but he didn't know any different. It was a coping mechanism, a safety precaution, a sense of security.

Whether it be sending unwarranted photos of his genitalia to Gerri, counting every calorie that he consumed throughout the day or his obsession with working out with a personal trainer multiple times a week, Roman craved structure. He simply needed it to survive. If he hadn't filled his days with a tightly packed agenda, it meant he had free time to let his dark thoughts ruminate in his mind and that was the last thing he (or anyone else) wanted.

"Well Roman, as much as I love our chats, that's our time for today. I'll see you in next month. And I urge you to try and relinquish control from time to time, like we discussed previously.”

"Eh, maybe," Roman said waving his arm up as he left the office. He often said things about how therapy was stupid and he was never coming back, but he always did.

Later that night Roman arrived to Kendall's 40th birthday the same time that Shiv did, joining her in the lobby as they made their way towards the security screening point. Bothered by the request to hand in their jackets before walking through metal detectors, Roman told the guard to fuck off when they asked to take his phone. The jacket thing was fine, Shiv had planned on leaving hers at the coat check anyway but she agreed with Roman that there was no chance in hell she was handing over her phone.

"This is disgustingly Kendall..." Shiv muttered as they were directed towards a large inflatable tunnel, reading the overhead sign that said Notorious Ken, Prepare to Die.

"Congratulations, you've just been born into the world of Kendall Roy," a petite woman wearing a vintage 1950's nurse costume chirped as she greeted them.

Despite Kendall not being born in the 50's, Roman asked the paid actor if by saying they were being born into his brothers world it meant that they had ventured through their mothers vagina. The actor of course was taken aback and unsure how to answer, especially when Roman took it upon himself to step in and out of the tunnel repeatedly whilst explaining that he was penetrating his own mother and that he was sure Kendall hadn't gotten permission to do so.

"Is it too late for Ken to get a refund for all this so we can pretend it never happened?" Shiv scoffed as they looked around at the debauchery.

"Is it too late for him to be aborted?" Roman mutters under his breath as he grimaced at a nearby art installation of a giant baby nursery.

You had drifted away from the Roy sibling chaos throughout the night before it consumed you too much. Besides the fact that everyone was commenting negatively about Kendall’s insane birthday spectacle, the main reason Shiv and Roman were here in the first place was to try and strike up a conversation with Lukas Matsson, the CEO and founder of GoJo. It’s all anyone was talking about tonight, whether it was passing comments whilst you were snorting cocaine off Greg’s phone screen in the compliment tunnel or dancing with Willa and Connor in the mosh pit.

It was fucking suffocating.

Swallowed up by neon corridors, dizzy from the smell of artisanal weed and drunk from glass after glass of Dom Perignon, you ventured through the extravagance to find a quieter place to sit down and take a breather. Kendall’s party was less of a birthday celebration and more of a theme park meets childhood trauma vibe. Hauntingly fun.

You hold up your arm to show the security guard your waistband before heading up the winding spiral staircase of Kendall’s ‘treehouse’. Faux wood beams line the top balcony of the event space and earthy scented incense burning in the air. The deep house set from the DJ set downstairs still carried through upstairs but the 528hz high vibrational frequency playing through the speakers overpowered the heavy bass for the most part.

A woman dressed in a white kaftan with a septum piercing and Sanskrit tattoo down her sternum offers you a single page cocktail list, curated specifically for the exclusive area. You pick the drink that sounded the least pretentious and she bows at you before disappearing to the bar after you sit down on one of the plush velvet lounges.

The stranger next you leans over slightly and clears his throat. “If you got the milky one I’m sorry to tell you, but it sucks.” He has the faintest trace of an accent you can’t quite pin down at first. Not American, that’s for sure. Something sharper around the edges, European most likely.

“Milk and alcohol isn’t really my thing, especially mixed with coke and cigarettes,” you say shaking your head and turning towards him with a chuckle.

Quite a conventionally attractive man, the tall blonde stares at you with eyes so piercing, you wonder if he’s wearing fake contact lenses. Even in the dimly lit space you can tell how blue they are. Compared to most of the other people at the party, he’s dressed pretty casually you notice. Plain t-shirt, no logos, no flashy watch or accessories that scream ‘I’m rich but want to seem grounded’. The ambiguity makes him more interesting though. You catch the casual way he leans back, how effortlessly he cradles his drink and vape in one hand and how his eyes track you without the slightest hint of trying too hard. He’s enigmatic in a way that doesn’t feel performative, which is rare in a room like this.

Relatively quickly, the flowy hostess comes back over to you and crouches down beside the lounge with her serving tray. “Your ‘Mama’s Apple Pie’, angel.”

She gives you a well rehearsed smile, pulling the glass cloche from the tray to reveal your cocktail underneath a plume of vapour. “Smoked with Oak chips and clove, and garnished with Sri Lankan cinnamon for the most immersive flavour profile. Namaste, Om Swastiastu.”

You look at the drink on the table on front of you and let out a bemused chuckle at how goddamn performative yet contradictory it was, “All that for some fucking apple juice and Hennessy? Jesus.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, rolling his eyes at the bartender’s theatrics before glancing back on you. Then, flat and unbothered, he says, “This is a weird fucking party.” No smile, no softened tone, just an intensely blunt delivery that made you slightly uncomfortable.

There’s no rush in him, no performative energy like everyone else flitting around the party trying to be seen. He’s just… There. Grounded, unimpressed, impartial to his surroundings. He looks like he could be sitting in an airport lounge, totally detached but somehow still the most magnetic presence in the room.

“It kind of feels like we’re on an acid trip during one of Ken’s therapy sessions. Like, there’s no way Caroline Collingwood has ever baked an apple pie in her life,” you joke, sipping your drink. It tasted nice of course, but not because of the burnt bits of tree or whatever the fuck the hippy lady said was added to it. It was simply just high quality alcohol.

“LSD would be pretty sweet right now,” he shrugs, sprawling across the seat like tall men always seem to do, with their long limbs stretched out and their body language loose. He looks like someone who doesn’t mind being noticed but doesn’t need or want to work for it either. He simply does not give a single fuck about well, anything it seems.

He glances over at you with an unnervingly focused intensity, like he’s trying to read the wiring behind your mental coding. “What are you?”

“What am I?” You echo, furrowing your brows because honestly, it’s a pretty weird question.

He gestures vaguely with his drink, like he’s trying to clarify without breaking eye contact. “Yeah, like your job. What do you do?”

“I’m in media,” you say nonchalantly, not needing to explain any further as small talk.

It’s vague enough to satisfy most people, especially in a room where titles get tossed around like confetti. Waystar is technically your world, but you don’t broadcast it here. Why would you? You’re not interested in proving anything to Kendall’s circus of acquaintances.

He doesn’t react immediately. His eyes just narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure out what ‘media’ actually means. Corporate drone? Social media influencer? An actress trying to play it cool? He tilts his head, that same faint grin playing at the corner of his mouth, like he’s amused and curious at the same time.

“At Waystar?” he repeats, voice flat but curious, trying to parse the vague details.

You nod, more to confirm than to explain. “ATN.”

He laughs, low and amused, shaking his head slightly. “Right, right. So you’re one of those kill the woke, not the unborn foetus types?”

You laugh at how blunt he is in a way you’re not used to in the States, how his Scandinavian directness cuts through the usual over polished small talk at these types of debauched events.

“Wooow… Is that what you think of Americans?”

He lets a small smile form, not smug but faintly amused at how you’re not offended, and shrugs. “Yeah, basically. ATN sure does align itself that way. Super American.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “So ‘media’… Traditional broadcast and print, or something less prehistoric?”

“Digital,” you say, shaking your head at the thought of even getting into old school media, teetering on the verge of obsolescence. “I’m all for tech and women killing unborn babies if they want to,” you add to his dark, quick bite of a joke.

His fingers drum lazily against his drink, eyes scanning you like he’s now recalculating his previous assumptions. “So did Logan Roy send you here to try and uh, suck my dick for a meeting like the others or are you cool?” he asks, his grin widening just slightly.

“It’s a Saturday night dude, I’m off the clock.” You laugh, though the curiosity starts to bleed through. “What about you? What do you do?”

He tilts his head with a sense of skepticism. Wondering if you were playing dumb or genuinely had no idea who he was. But you didn’t.

“I’m in tech.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, like he’s savoring this moment as much as his alcohol. “App developer bullshit. Code, programming...”

“Ah gotcha… So you’re like, a boring nerd then,” you taunt back.

He gives you a calculating half grin that seems to widen whenever someone surprises him. Leaning over slightly, he pulls a tiny ziploc bag from his back pocket and tosses it gently towards you with zero discretion or secrecy. “Boring people don’t share their fun pills.”

You laugh, picking up the bag of pills and flicking it gently against your other hand, “Well, well, well… What do we have here, hm?”

“Ecstasy,” he answers flatly, watching you tip two pills into your palm before holding your hand out towards him. He picks both of them up and tosses them into his mouth like tic tacs, washing them down with his drink.

“I like your style…” you trail, realising only now that neither of you had introduced yourselves properly.

“Lukas,” he says, sticking out his hand.

You go to return his hand shake, now connecting the dots between this strange enigmatic man and the elusive Lukas Matsson everyone had been talking about. You offer him your name in return with a laugh as you pop two more of the caps into your mouth too. He repeats it back to you with a wicked grin and lifts your hand to his lips to jokingly kiss your knuckles.

“You’re cool,” he says before leaning back, unnaturally relaxed to the point where you couldn’t tell if he was flirting with you or just this way normally. You can’t seem to wrap your head around the way he seems to amuse himself, and create these little one sided games without needing to dominate people. It’s unnerving and magnetic at the same time, like watching someone balance on a knife’s edge and knowing they wouldn’t fall even if the world tilted.

“Thanks,” you grin.

He shrugs. “Don’t mention it.”

Around you, the party continues its chaotic symphony of Roy family chaos, curated experiences, and neon absurdity. But Lukas sits there like he doesn’t need to participate in the spectacle to exist comfortably in it. Yet somehow the realisation of who he really is, the eccentric billionaire of one of the world’s leading content streamers, makes the tension between you feel a little more electric.

The effects of the molly start to hit you slowly, subtle at first but enough to make the cushions feel a little softer, the neon lights glow a little more, and the chatter from the rest of the party a little fuzzier at the edges. Your thoughts are a touch lighter, a bit more fluid, like someone loosened the screws on the world just slightly.

Roman appears at the top of the treehouse with that effortless swagger he always carries, somehow being able to breeze past security after Kendall had told them strictly to ban his siblings. Of course the concept of rules doesn’t apply to Roman. They never do. His eyes lock onto you, then Lukas, zeroing in with that familiar mix of curiosity and competitive energy which already makes you want to groan preemptively.

“Lukas! Hey man, what’s up?” Roman says, sliding into the space with a casual bro-handshake. He plops down on a little velvet stool across from you both, legs sprawled like he owns the air around him. “Sup Florida,” he adds, smirking at you with that infuriatingly familiar nickname once he clocks you sitting awfully close to the Swedish billionaire.

You sigh and shake your head with a laugh, “Hey Rome.” Admittedly, the drugs kicking in make it easier to let the irritation float by, barely.

Lukas doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even visibly react beyond the faintest raise of his eyebrow. He’s still calm, still measured, still watching you with that intensity that makes Roman’s presence feel sort of like background noise. Impressive.

Roman leans back a little, clearly pleased with himself, like he’s just scored a small personal victory in the endless Roy family chess game. Unbeknownst to you, was that Lukas had already spoken with Roman earlier in the night about setting up a meeting with Logan. So they were semi acquainted.

Roman leans closer to you with a sharp look, catching the subtle glow on your face and the dilation of your pupils. He grabs your jaw and forcibly turns your head to look at him in the eyes. “What’re you on? Gimme some, you fuckin’ bitch,” he says, half joke, half demand.

You giggle, shaking your head. “It’s not my molly,” you reply, the words rolling off your tongue with a subtle playfulness.

Lukas tosses the small bag of pills into Roman’s lap. “Go ahead, pal,” he says casual as ever, as if he’s handing over a pack of chewing gum.

Roman holds them up to inspect them like a fine connoisseur of illicit drugs, while you lean back into the plush cushions. Feeling even squishier than before. You glance between Lukas and Roman, still riding the subtle buzz that’s starting to creep in further. “We took two like… 10 minutes ago?”

Roman gives Lukas a small, approving nod, eyes glinting faintly with amusement. “Perfect timing then,” he says, calm and measured, the kind of person who makes chaos feel like it’s on his schedule rather than the other way around.

Roman doesn’t hesitate. He pops two pills in his mouth and swallows with the self-satisfied grin of someone who’s already picturing the frivolity ahead. He tosses the almost empty bag back to Lukas with a quick, casual thanks.

“Fuck yeah,” he says, voice loud enough to carry over the soft hum of the lounge. “Look at us, huh? Coupla’ cool kids in Ken’s fuckin’ treehouse of horrors doing drugs together without the addict coming in and ruining it.”

Lukas taps his hands lightly against his thighs like he’s suddenly decided he’s bored and wants to leave. His motion was so deliberate, like he was punctuating a thought before speaking.

“I’ll see you guys around, yeah?” he says, his tone almost conversational, but with an unmistakable air of finality. And just like that, he gets up and leaves. No lingering, no grand exit, no dramatic goodbye. He simply walks away, disappearing down the stairs without a proper goodbye.

Your head swivels back to look at Roman, “That’s like… the same Lukas you were talking about, right? The GoJo guy?”

He smirks, clearly proud of himself and gives a confident nod. “Yeah. Ken’s been keeping him hidden up here all night, but I managed to set up a meeting with his guys and our guys for Monday, so…” He slides over onto the lounge next to you. “I’m basically the fucking, king of the world.”

You can’t help but let out a little laugh, shaking your head at his inflated ego. Roman’s excitement is infectious even through the haze of the drugs, and there’s a bizarre kind of charm in how seriously he takes this minor victory over Kendall.

“What’d you guys talk about? Anything juicy?” he asks, practically bouncing with mischief.

You shake your head, still processing the weird intensity of the Swede. “Honestly? No, not really. He kinda just grilled me about what I do for a job, pulled out some pills and then you rocked up. He’s kind of… Really fucking weird?” You admitted with a small laugh, shrugging off the odd vibe lingering from before.

Roman snorts, tossing his head back slightly. “Fuckin’ ay, he is. Europeans… I dunno. Matsson’s like a human VPN,” he says, voice dripping with a mix of amusement and confusion that only Roman can pull off. His shrug is lazy, like it explains everything and nothing at the same time.

You can’t help but smirk at him, the contrast between Lukas’ calm, intense presence and Roman’s loud, chaotic energy making the lounge feel like its own tiny world. A weird little microcosm of the party where you get to observe both extremes at once.

“What,” he scoffs.

You smile cheekily, poking his arm lightly. “I didn’t think you were a drug guy,” you tease, letting the words linger like a playful jab.

He grimaces, pulling his arm back with mock indignation. “What, cos I’m not a junkie like Ken I’m automatically anti-drug? We’ve smoked pot together before dumbass,” he says, voice defensive but with that familiar Roman edge that makes it more funny than serious.

You shake your head, grinning. “Weed doesn’t count,” you reply, letting the chemicals in your veins take hold of your inhibitions as you start to peak.

The world softens around you, edges melting into a warm, vivid haze. Your pupils are so wide they look like saucers catching every glint of light in the lounge; the neon lights, the glimmer of a distant disco ball, the way Roman’s grin stretches across his face as he realises how fucked up you really were. Everything seems both sharper and slower at the same time. Laughter floats longer in the air, the cushions beneath you sink deeper and the buzz threads through your chest like a warm, electric current.

You notice Roman’s Romanisms more intensely than usual, like the way his gestures are so exaggerated yet effortless, how his energy radiates off him like static you can almost feel. His voice has that strange, amplified resonance, where every word lands with extra weight and playfulness. And then there’s Lukas, lingering in your thoughts even though he’s long gone, his intensity replaying in your mind like a slow motion highlight reel.

Roman throws his head back and laughs, that loud, unapologetic sound that bounces off the fake foliage and neon lights. “You’re staring at me, freak,” he chimes, voice full of mock accusation, like he’s both unsettled and secretly enjoying your focused attention.

Leaning back into the cushions, you rest your head on the back of the lounge, still looking at him with that soft, teasing gaze. “I’m just looking at you, fuck off,” you say, voice lazy and playful, letting the words stretch just a little. “Can’t I look at people?”

He snorts and shifts slightly to meet your gaze, eyes flicking between a playful challenge and the faint, unmistakable sparkle of his own ego being stroked. In this moment, the absurdity of Kendall’s treehouse, the party, even the pills, it all fades into the distance, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble. The first hints of the MDMA start to curl through Roman, loosening him just enough to feel a little warmer, a little sillier, a little more daring. He smirks at you, his cocky edge still there but softened by the building high.

“Did Matsson try to fuck you before?” He asks out of the blue, playful yet sprinkled with an undertone of jealousy. “I bet he did.”

You grin and lean back into the cushions with a flirty coyness. “Y’know, I’ve never known someone to talk about sex so much without ever doing it,” you justify, edged with curiosity as you let the words hang between you.

There’s a flicker in his eyes when you call him out like that. A mix of embarrassment, pride, and the tiniest spark of acknowledgment that maybe you’ve hit a nerve. “You sound like my therapist.”

You let out a snort, “You? Go to therapy?”

“Yup.”

“Bullshit.”

“I fucking do actually, so eat shit.” He taunts back. “I hadn’t gone in years but after the whole held up at gunpoint fiasco Gerri forced me to have three sessions before I could ‘legally’ come back to work. Which, is total bullshit because I’m always working but me, Laird and Karl all had to tick the fucking box for HR or whatever.”

You try to hold back a laugh because what he’s saying is genuinely serious, but the smile on your face says otherwise.

“Yeah, ha-ha, laugh it up. I’m a fucking snowflake bitch, I’ve heard it all from Pop before so hit me with your best shot.”

You shake your head and stretch your arm out to rest your hand on his knee, “No! No, I’m not laughing at you at all. I’m just picturing you lying on a couch with a shrink in like, total fucking silence refusing to speak about your feelings.”

He recoils and moves his leg away as you touch him, “I did the three sessions and kinda liked being able to pay someone to listen to me complain so I saw him a few more times. I went today as a matter of fact so… Eat shit again. Eat double shit.”

You laugh and curl your legs up on the lounge, wrapping your arms around your shins and resting your cheek on your knee. “I have a therapist too y’know.”

Roman’s grin spreads wider, slow and cocky, the kind that makes you feel like he’s daring the world to question him. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He chuckles, “You’ve got some serious fuckin’ Daddy issues, Florida. Who knows what else is rattling around in that brain of yours. Maybe a tiny circus, some sad clowns and a sex crazed hamster running around a wheel.”

You glance back at him, trying to decipher what his angle is here because Roman being bold doesn’t always mean predictable. He’s smirking, clearly entertained by himself, waiting to see if you’ll bite back. And yeah, maybe it’s the drugs or maybe it’s just Roman being Roman, but there’s a slight edge to it. Like underneath all the jabby bullshit, he’s pushing buttons just to see how far he can go.

“I don’t have daddy issues, fuck you.” You scoff back at him, “You’re the one with parental issues.”

“Well yeah, hence the therapy.”

You’re trying to string together a rebuttal that doesn’t scream ‘obviously’ but your jaw keeps wanting to grind against your teeth and the MDMA has you feeling like every little glance of his is a devious plot to expose you. He clocks it, of course he does. The little twitch of amusement on his face is all the confirmation you need to see that he knows already. He loves this. The poking and prodding, pressing on bruises that aren’t healed yet.

“It’s your taste in men.” He adds casually. “What gives it away.”

Roman says it like he’s talking about the weather, except the weather is whatever sexual history of yours that he happens to know about. He shrugs, takes a swig of his drink and tilts his head toward you. Your brain tries to assemble some kind of defence, but it’s busy replaying every bad decision you’ve ever made with questionable men. Roman is smug enough to fill in the silence for you. His grin widens just enough to confirm he thinks he’s nailed you to the wall with a single, lazy observation.

It’s infuriating, mostly because he’s not wrong. And he knows he’s not wrong. He’s leaning in close now, shoulder pressing against yours, his breath brushing your ear like he’s about to tell you a state secret. Except instead of national security, it’s about how your attraction patterns apparently scream ‘Freudian wet dream’.

“Older guys,” he says, his tone light but loaded. He doesn’t even need to elaborate, you both know it’s true. He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the dance floor downstairs, “Like Ken. Textbook daddy issues. Emotionally unavailable, psychologically fucked up, actual fail-father who struggles to remember the names of his own kids…”

Before you can cut him off, he barrels ahead. “And the countless Wall Street guys who think they’re super fucking important and take Ritalin all day just to look at numbers on a screen. Greg told me the last guy couldn’t get his dick to work from all the steroids,” His lip curls as he says it, pure disdain wrapped in a smirk. “So even the age appropriate guys you fuck end up having the erectile dysfunction of geriatrics.”

“Fucking Greg…” you mumble to yourself, making a mental note to never talk about your sex life during your routine California Pizza Kitchen nights.

“And don’t think I forgot about the Argestes guy. What was his name? Venus? Venice? Whatever. That dude had ‘dumb money’ written all over him.” Roman shakes his head, mock solemn, before leaning closer with a low chuckle. “Freud would jizz in his pants over you, you’re so predictable.”

The words land heavier than they should because of the drugs and how close he is from cutting you to the bone. He’s grinning, but his eyes linger on you like he’s enjoying cracking you open like this.

“Do you have a fuckin’ spreadsheet of all my one night stands or something?” You snap back.

Your glare only makes him grin harder. “I’m more like a walking Rolodex of everyone’s dirty laundry.”

Which is true, unfortunately. Roman has always been the kind of person who collects secrets like they’re baseball cards. Not because he plans to play them right away but because it thrills him to know he could. A quiet weapon. A loaded chamber. Sometimes it’s for leverage, sometimes it’s just for fun. With you, it’s obviously both. Beneath all the smugness, there’s one layer you can still see through. The one where he’s cataloguing you not just for blackmail worthy ammunition but for something closer to obsession. He knows your type in men, your patterns, your habits. But he also knows you in ways no one else does, addicted to the power of it.

Roman hides behind his glass like he’s being coy, except he’s transparently fishing for your reaction. “And then there’s Mencken…” he adds, like he’s naming the final boss in your personal humiliation saga.

Your head snaps toward him so fast you’re surprised you didn’t give yourself whiplash.

“What did you just say?” You ask, the question slipping out much sharper than you intended, which was exactly the reaction he was aiming for.

He doesn’t even try to hold back the smirk across his face as he sets his drink down, slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring the moment where he, Roman Roy, had finally reached checkmate.

“You spent the night with him at the summit, didn’t you?” He asks though he doesn’t press, not yet. He just leans back, watching your silence like counting seconds on a clock. The drugs blur the edges of everything, but this moment cuts sharp. He knows. And worse, he knows he’s right.

“You’re full of shit.” You laugh, leaning forward to grab your drink and take several gulps. Fuck, did you need it right now.

“Sure,” he says, dragging the word out with relish. “I’m full of shit. Totally. Just making wild accusations about you and a married man who might end up our President. Real Democratic of you, Florida. Way to go sticking to your values.”

The grin he gives you is all teeth, but there’s something sharp in his eyes. Something that says this isn’t just idle teasing. Roman loves poking at weaknesses, sure, but this feels different. This is him laying down a card he knows you don’t want on the table. A card you want destroyed.

The Mencken thing had always been a private little disaster, wrong on every possible level which of course made it all the more addictive. An on and off and on again arrangement woven through late night rendezvous and secret hotel rooms. He was older, married, politically radioactive, and still you’d kept circling back like a moth to a very corrupt flame.

“You were such a bitch to him for like, no reason.” He says, prodding even further. “You’re not that cunty to someone unless you’re hiding something. You were cuntier to him than you were to me and that says a lot.”

You can feel your defenses doing their usual contortions. Part of you wants to flip the table and point out his own mountain of sins to call it even. Another part of you wants to melt into the warmth of the drug and let him pick at the scab until it bleeds out into something honest.

“I went to bed that night, I told you on the phone.”

Roman’s grin spreads slow, like oil seeping across water, all slick confidence and zero mercy. He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, it’s fuel to the fire.

“See, that’s the thing,” he says, voice low, conversational, like he’s just pointing out a stain on your shirt. His eyes flick over your face, cataloguing every twitch and every shift in your jaw like he’s adding footnotes to a case study. “You looked like shit the next day, you hadn’t slept at all.”

You open your mouth to blame a fake hangover but before you can say a single word, he cuts you off. “And you weren’t hungover ‘cos I’ve seen you trashed on a week night and still manage to show up to work in the morning looking like a Stepford wife.”

He’s not just enjoying the idea of it being Mencken who you’d slept with. No, no, he’s enjoying dragging your dirtiest secret into the light and forcing you to feel how transparent you are to him. He doesn’t just know the secrets you hide from the world, he knows you.

Your jaw is so tight it feels like it might snap, the mix of chemical tension and the bitter taste of losing. Roman shifts like he’s settling into his throne, crossing his legs so his ankle is perched on his thigh, hands loose in his lap as if he’s not detonating a psychological grenade. He lets the question roll out smooth, almost lazy, but his eyes never leave your face. “So,” he drawls, “You gonna pretend like it was just a one night stand, or are you gonna admit it wasn’t the first time you’ve slept with him?”

It’s not curiosity anymore, it’s blood sport. He’s not asking because he wants an answer, he’s asking because he already knows and wants to watch you choke on it. His smirk falters but the intensity in his stare doesn’t waver.

“Fine. Fuck you, jealous little fuck,” you scowl, taking a deep breath and flicking your tongue over your teeth before leaning forward. Physically matching his challenging words. “You wanna grill me? Grill me. Open fucking kimono. Take advantage of the molly.”

He lets the moment stretch out, painstakingly slow. His ankle is still perched over his leg, foot bouncing with the energy rushing through his blood stream and his hands draped lazily over his leg. The very essence of casual menace. “Aw, look who’s finally come out to play… You gonna be honest?”

“Deathly.”

“Alright,” he continues, rubbing his hands together like a god damn fly, “First question. How many times?”

He doesn’t need to prod any harder yet. He let you pick the battlefield, you gave him the gun and now he’s being patient and letting you take the first shot. He knows he can let the tension do the heavy lifting for him. The drugs make it feel like time has slowed but every beat of his heart echoes through his ears like thunder.

“Eight years. On and off.”

“Nah, you’re screwing with me,” he manages, voice cracking just enough to make it sound like he’s half serious, half incredulous. “You said open fucking kimono, Florida.”

You nudge his leg with your foot, “You asked for the truth and I’m fucking telling you! Next question, go,” you say bluntly, though Roman can see the fire behind your false nonchalance, the part of you daring him to dig deeper.

He nods slowly as he processes the Pandora’s box he was so desperate to open. Though it’s tempered with a sense of something akin to respect. Or shock. Maybe both. He leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Eight fucking years?! Wait- So you were what, like 22 the first time?” He asks before furrowing his brows and looking back up at you. “Jesus… Jeryd’s a fucking cradle snatcher… How many times are we talking here?”

You look away as you try to think and recall your memories, “I dunno… Ten times, twenty maybe? Usually whenever I visited DC for the Fourth and he was in town for work.”

Roman chuckles, “Does his wife know he’s been dick deep in young pussy all these years?”

You shake your head and take another sip of your drink, “Sara cheats on him just as much, trust me.”

Every sigh, every shrug, every defensive tilt of his head is stemmed from jealousy and it’s blatantly obvious to you now. You lean forward with an amused grin, “What gave it away? Seriously.”

“The second he ordered you that weirdly specific drink at the bar,” Roman shrugs.

You sigh, “Espresso martini to wake me up, tequila to get me drunker than vodka. It’s like, my go to work cocktail when I don’t need to act sober.”

“Hm. Good to know.”

The MDMA makes your chest hum, your skin electric, and it feels like the room has shrunk to just the two of you. The tension between you isn’t just playful teasing anymore. It’s taut, charged, borderline combustible.

Roman leans in again, enough to let you feel the heat of the moment and the discovery of this little scandal of yours. He doesn’t need to say anything more. Neither do you. You’re letting the tension simmer to a dangerous boil, knowing full well how jealous he really was. Jealous that Mencken fucked you before he had and jealous that you had gotten Mencken in your back pocket first.

The moment your lips crash into his, Roman stiffens for a split second like he wasn’t expecting you to actually go there. The smirk he had seconds ago melts into passion as his hand shoots up to your jaw, his thumb settling beneath your cheekbone whilst he kisses you back with a force long overdue. It’s messy, desperate, partly fuelled by the drugs but mostly from everything you’ve both left unsaid. There’s no pretending anymore, no shield of sarcasm to hide behind. Just months of pent up tension breaking loose like a flood.

Roman’s hand slips further, dragging over your hip as his fingers pressing into your thigh with purpose. He’s not subtle, not pretending to be either. He’s daring you to push him away, daring you to stop him, but the hunger in the way his body moves against yours makes it clear he knows you won’t. This isn’t just kissing anymore, it’s Roman finally cashing in on every sideways glance, every sarcastic jab that carried an undercurrent of want. And he’s making damn sure you feel it.

It’s a constant shift of push and pull, dominance and submission, give and take. Neither of you are willing to let the other take control, but through it all, there’s an undeniable energy buzzing in the space between you. The thrill of knowing you’ve hooked up with Mencken, the jealousy Roman can’t quite hide, and the very clear message he’s trying to send — that he’ll do everything to prove he’s the only one who really gets under your skin.

You pull away slightly, your voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. “How far is your place from here?”

“Ten minutes,” he repeats, his eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes then back again, like he’s trying to gauge if you’re serious or just dangling the question to fuck with him.

“Can you even last that long?” You taunt.

Before you can register what’s happening, you’re pulling him off the lounge and making a beeline for the treehouse staircase. The Roy’s always had a driver on stand by so the convenience of having a car waiting out the front couldn’t be more perfectly timed.

“My place, Deniz. And fast,” He barks quickly once you both slip into the backseat. “I don’t care how many laws you break, I’ll pay the fines.”

The usual ten minute ride was cut down to five, running every red light and swerving between lanes. At this time of night you were lucky the roads were pretty barren but the speed just added to the urgency and desperation you and Roman felt.

Roman practically clawed at the door handle before the car even stopped, muttering a breathless ‘finally’ like he’d been trapped in there for hours instead of a few minutes.

Pulling you through the lobby, Roman jabs the elevator button repeatedly, his finger pushing it again and again as if sheer force would make it appear faster. The MDMA glow has him twitchy and shameless, the smirk across his face only interrupted when the doors opened and you both reconnected again.

The whole ride is a pressure cooker, every floor another click of the dial ratcheting the tension tighter, his grin sharper, his pupils darker. Your lips move from his down to his jaw, then to his neck. Roman’s eyes are glued to the little glowing numbers above the elevator doors like his penthouse is personally taunting him with how high it is above the city skyline.

Like a gunshot at the end of a marathon, the ding once the elevator reached his floor was music to your ears. Before the doors can even slide open, Roman’s arm snakes around your waist again and tugs you out into the foyer. You’ve never been inside his place before, but you’re far too preoccupied kissing him to look around and ask for a tour.

The second your back hits a wall, you realise you’ve got absolutely no clue where you’re supposed to be going. The foyer branches off into that rich person open plan layout with hallways shooting off in five different directions. You try to follow his lead except Roman in peak Roman fashion, is attempting to walk backwards while still keeping his mouth pressed to yours. It’s clumsy, it’s frantic, it’s two steps forward, one stumble back into a designer console table. He mutters something sharp against your lips that you can’t quite decipher, more complaint than apology.

It’s not moving fast enough for him, not with the MDMA buzzing through your veins like rocket fuel. He breaks away from the kiss just long enough to huff out a strangled sound, the kind of annoyed groan he usually saves for family meetings and hoists you up to carry you to his bedroom. His only focus was getting from point A to point naked in the fastest time possible, so if that meant carrying you like some hyperactive, coked up firefighter, then so be it. He stumbles a few paces, muttering about how his place is a ‘fucking maze designed by a sadist’, but his grip is surprisingly secure.

Neither of you bother with grace or class. The moment you’re unceremoniously dropped onto his bed, Roman is already yanking his t-shirt up and over his head and you’re kicking off the one heel still on your foot after the other had fallen off somewhere in his living room. The fabric gets briefly stuck on his elbow and he wrestles with it for a second, swearing under his breath before flinging it behind him.

Roman hovers above you, one arm pressed firm into the mattress, the other cradling your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Your mouth collides with against his again, hot and impatient, with clashing teeth and breathy whimpers stemmed from pure adrenaline. It’s messy and frantic, the kind of touch that’s more about momentum than precision.

“Do you get like this with every guy who takes you home?” he murmurs, lips brushing the side of your neck as you reach down to unzip the pants you were now mentally scolding yourself for wearing tonight. A dress would’ve been so much easier to pull off, but after you shimmy the silk down to your ankles and kick them to the floor, you regain focus.

“Not all of them,” you breathe out.

Roman doesn’t give you a chance to relax, his fingers slip underneath your shirt and with a yank that’s more impatience than grace, he pulls it over your head. He pauses just long enough to grin down at you, his eyes even darker than before with a manic mix of mischief and desperation buzzing between you like electricity.

“No bra? Fuckin’ slut,” he laughs, dipping his head down to kiss your collarbone, his hand caressing your breast as the other fumbled to undo his belt.

“What am I, a fucking nun?” You joke, leaning back against the pillows and watching him shift further down the bed.

Roman doesn’t hesitate this time. His fingers hook beneath either side of your underwear and he slips them down your legs. He grins up at you, dragging his index finger slowly along your folds, just enough to make you gasp. Usually he’d hate feeling how wet a woman was for him, finding it wildly overwhelming and daunting from the pressure of having to perform, but the drugs had shifted his mentality entirely tonight.

“Is this from me or were you just getting horny thinking about all the other men you’ve fucked?” He taunts.

You can feel the edge in his voice. The teasing is a game but the jealousy he feels is very real. He’s daring you to answer, to react, to prove something, but at the same time, he’s staking his claim over you. Making it impossible to forget that in this moment, in this penthouse, in this bed, you’re his.

“Shut the fuck up, Roman,” you breathe out, pushing his head back down between your thighs.

You watch him grin up at you smugly as he presses his tongue against your pussy, licking up towards your clit. “C’mon, answer me. Are you horny thinking about them? About Mencken?

You writhe beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging and guiding him to find that sweet spot. “I’m trying to focus on you right now, asshole.”

Every flick of his tongue, every groan, every glance he makes to look up at you, makes your toes curl. You’d never expected him to actually be this good, especially since he was always so self deprecating when talking about his own game in the bedroom. Tabitha’s commentary didn’t help when they dated, instilling the notion in your head that Roman was this anti-sex guy who rarely mustered up the energy to go down on her let alone actually fuck.

But Jesus Christ were you wrong. Roman wasn’t inexperienced at sex, he just chose not to do it. Every little gasp and shiver from you seemed to fuel him even more, like your pleasure was gasoline and he’d just struck a match.

He groans against your skin, frustrated and driven by the jealousy he’d felt about Kendall and Mencken and those fucking Wall Street douchebags who came before him. It makes his movements sharper, more possessive, more determined to prove himself. He shifts slightly, pushing two of his fingers inside of you as he lapped at your clit with his tongue.

“Fuck, Roman…”

Hearing his name was a far more addictive drug than anything he’d taken before, quickly becoming the newest high he wanted to chase. As he curls his fingers against your g-spot, you quickly pull at his jaw and he looks up at you with furrowed brows. Confused as to why you’d want him to stop after he was obviously making you feel so good.

“I just want you to fuck me already.”

Roman freezes for a fraction, eyes darkening in a mix of surprise, desire, and pride at you taking control, but it doesn’t last long. He pushes his unzipped pants down with his underwear and lets them fall to the floor in a pile before moving back up the bed to meet your lips again. Every movement was a battle for control between you both, where neither one of you wanted to let the other win. You sit up and push his shoulders to make him roll over and lay on his back, swiftly straddling him on the bed with your legs either side of him.

“Focus on me, okay? Not Kendall, not Mencken, just you and me.” You say quietly. As much as it was a reality check to drag him out of his head and into the present moment, it was also a warning.

Roman’s focus sharpens, an almost imperceptible growl vibrating in his chest as he let you take control. He couldn’t look away, seeing you straddling him like this. How your hair was already so tousled and messy. How your breath would rise and fall with every exasperated breath. For once, there’s no teasing or sarcastic playfulness between you, just pure unadulterated lust.

His phone buzzes on the bedside table beside him and despite the fact his eyes stayed locked on you, you can’t help but glance over to see who would be texting him at such an ungodly hour. You sigh, seeing Jeryd Mencken’s name on the screen before wrapping your hand around the base of his cock.

“Speak of the devil.”

He quickly looks over at the notification which admittedly was only a link to the latest ATN article, but he looks back at you with a devious smile. “I should tell him who my dick is inside right now.”

“Don’t fucking test me Roman,” you threaten, angling his cock beneath you as you prop yourself up onto your knees, his tip brushing against your entrance ever so gently.

He tilts his hips instinctively, desperate to be inside of you but reaches for his phone just to rile you up even further. You quickly reach down to press your hand against his neck instead. Your fingers curl around his throat and tighten, smirking at the surprised look on his face staring up at you.

“Answer that text and I’ll make sure this is the first and last time you get to fuck me,” you say leaning over him and putting more pressure on his throat before sinking down onto his cock.

Roman gasps as he feels your tight walls around him. His hands tighten around your thighs instinctively, fingers digging into your skin as he leans further back into the pillow. Groaning through gritted teeth, he grins up at you, “Atta girl… ‘Bout time you got feisty.”

Every inch of contact sends a shiver through you, the culmination of months of sexual tension, his perverted jealousy and the raw desire you shared between you. His lips parted as he watched you ride him, looking so angelic whilst doing the deed of the devil. You’re proving to each other, and in the most fucked up way, perhaps even to Mencken by proxy, that this was a fire neither one of you could ignite with another person.

There was no denying that psychologically, you and Roman clicked better than anyone else. You matched each other’s dysfunction.

He pulls you back down to kiss him again, loaded with that unspoken drive that he simply wants to be better. Better than Mencken, better than Kendall, better than every man who’s ever crossed your path and devoured your pussy after a late night at a bar. The thought isn’t voiced of course, it doesn’t need to be. But the intensity of his grip, the heat in his eyes, the way your hips roll against his with deliberate force says it all.

His hands tighten on your hips as he thrusts up into you, like he’s silently staking a claim over you. Every inch, every thrust, proving he’s the one who can give you exactly what you want, take you higher, push you further, make you cum harder. Each movement feels amplified far more than usual because of the ecstasy still running through your bloodstream, and each time the tip of his cock hits your cervix it elicits a breathy moan from you.

“Fu- Fuck!” You cry out, feeling your climax wash over you like a tidal wave, leaning back and resting your palms against his thighs so that the angle of his cock hits your g-spot with every bounce.

His lips part and his jaw falls open as he moans, “Say it- Say my name...”

You loudly moan his name, the sounds of skin slapping against skin mixing with the wet, sloppy slick of your cum as your dig your nails into his thighs and ride out your orgasm. He’s half grinning, half groaning, alternating between trying to clench his jaw and stay focused or trying to catch his breath, as if the two were mutually exclusive but equally essential. The rhythm of his thrusts are erratic and rushed, but the sheer force behind it makes up for any lack of precision. He’s all in, every muscle taut with desire, every shit, fuck and Jesus Christ spilling out of mouth one right after the other.

His grip on your waist is firm enough to leave bruises as he pushes your hips up so he can pull out, frantic and only barely in time. His orgasm hits him as his hand pumps his cock before cum spurts across your stomach. It’s hot and thick and dripping down your skin as he moans again at the sight of it, voice breaking around the edges of your name. Both of you were completely and utterly wrecked. Ragged, shaky and delirious.

You fall down on top of him, your chest pressed against his as you let your head rest on his shoulder. You can feel his heart beat racing just as much as yours as you try to regain your breath with your face buried in the crook of his neck. Roman’s arm shifts lazily around you, not quite a full embrace, but enough to keep you draped against him like he doesn’t want to risk you moving away from him just yet.

You’re both quiet, which is rare for Roman, and it feels almost unnatural. Not in a bad way, just unusual. The high of the drugs is fading enough to let reality creep back in, but neither of you wants to move. For once, Roman’s not scrambling for a sarcastic quip, or twitching with impatience. He just lies there underneath you, tethered by the unfamiliar weight of you resting against him.

His leg twitches with an aftershock of his orgasm and he chuckles, brushing his hand over your hair and down your back soothingly. More so for him than for you. “You’re kind of insane, you know that?”

You chuckle against his neck and lazily crane your head up to look at him, smiling despite the overwhelming exhaustion you felt. Your mascara had smudged underneath your eyes from the sweat and your hair was an absolute mess, but he thought you were gorgeous nevertheless because this was a look he’d contributed to himself.

“If I’d known this was gonna happen, I would’ve drugged you months ago,” you laugh.

He squints at you and scoffs playfully, “Pretty sure that’s a fucken’ crime.”

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