08

The screen blurs as you stare at his contact—a blank gray circle where his photo used to be. The one of him and Caleb at graduation, both grinning, arms slung around each other's shoulders.

Gone.

Your thumb hovers over the message thread. The last thing he sent stares back at you, clinical and cold:

Hoseok: 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

Three words.

That's all it took to unravel everything—all the heated glances, the lingering touches, the way he'd made you feel seen and wanted and his.

(Stupid. You were so stupid.)

The phone hits the wall with a satisfying crack. You don't check if the screen's broken. Don't care. Let it shatter like everything else.

Because that's what this is, isn't it? He'd played you perfectly—drawing you in with gentle words and meaningless touches, making you question your own sanity until you were desperate for confirmation. Until you were willing to do anything just to prove you weren't imagining it all.

And now?

Now he's gone.

Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Just another conquest, another game won, another—

A soft knock interrupts your spiral.

"Y/N?" Caleb's voice filters through the door, concerned but not pushing. "You okay?"

You swallow hard, swiping at your eyes. "Fine."

The door creaks open anyway.

Your brother takes one look at you—curled up in your desk chair, eyes red-rimmed, phone face-down on the floor—and something in his expression shifts.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't pry. Just disappears briefly and returns with two mugs of chamomile tea, the kind mom always makes when either of you is upset.

"Scoot." He nudges you over, settling on the floor beside your chair. "Found that terrible rom-com you like. The one with the talking cats."

A wet laugh escapes before you can stop it. "It's not terrible."

"It's horrific." But he's already pulling up Netflix on his phone, patting the space next to him until you slide down to join him.

The tea is too hot and slightly too sweet—he always adds an extra spoonful of honey—but it warms something frozen in your chest. You lean against his shoulder as the movie starts, breathing in the familiar scent of mom's laundry detergent and that stupid cologne your aunt always gifts him for Christmas.

He doesn't mention how your shoulders shake slightly. Doesn't comment on the damp spot growing on his sleeve. Just wraps an arm around you and lets you hide your face when the tears come faster.

It's going to be okay.

(It has to be okay.)

Your phone buzzes weakly from its place on the floor. You don't check it.

Some things are better left broken.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince yourself this is a good idea.

Kiara had been insistent—persistent—about dragging you out tonight. "You need this," she'd declared, rifling through your closet with terrifying efficiency. "Fresh air. Good music. Hot strangers who aren't emotionally constipated medical residents."

(You hadn't told her about Hoseok. Hadn't told anyone. But somehow she knew—the way best friends always do.)

The dress she picked is shorter than you'd usually wear, black fabric clinging to curves you normally hide under oversized sweaters. Your legs look longer in the heels she forced on you, and the smokey eye makeup makes you look... different. Older.

Less like the nervous med student who stammers through anatomy presentations.

Less like his Chip.

Your throat tightens. You reach for your phone automatically—to check if he's unblocked you, to see if he's noticed your absence, to—

"Don't you dare." Kiara appears in the doorway, looking unfairly gorgeous in a red dress. She snatches your phone, dropping it into her clutch. "No drunk texting allowed."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Sure." She starts fixing your lipstick. "And I'm not planning to get absolutely destroyed on tequila shots."

You manage a weak laugh. "You're buying."

"Obviously." She steps back, examining her work with critical eyes. "There. Now you look properly devastating." Her grin turns wicked. "Let's go make some bad decisions."

And that's how you somehow end up in one of those trendy pubs near campus.

Which is, by the way, absolutely packed when you arrive—music thrumming through the floorboards and lighting making everyone look airbrushed.

The bass line manages to drown out the voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like him.

Kiara orders shots immediately. The tequila burns going down, but it's better than the ache that's been living in your sternum for days.

"To terrible men," she declares, raising another glass.

"To terrible decisions," you counter, and the lime tastes like freedom when you bite down.

And three shots later, the edges of everything finally start to blur pleasantly.

The music feels like it's flowing through your veins, making your hips sway without conscious thought. Kiara drags you to the dance floor, her laugh bright and infectious as she spins you around.

"See?" She has to shout over the bass. "This is what Friday nights are supposed to feel like!"

And maybe she's right. Maybe this is better than sitting in your room, staring at your phone, waiting for a message that's never going to come. Maybe this—the plethora of bodies moving around you, the asphyxiating burn of tequila, the way your dress slides against your skin when you dance—is exactly what you need.

You close your eyes, letting the music take over. Let yourself forget about gentle voices and surgical hands and the way he'd looked at you like you were something precious right before he—

No.

Not tonight.

Tonight is for dancing and drinking and pretending your heart isn't still beating in morse code: Ho-seok, Ho-seok, Ho-seok.

(But god, even the bass line sounds like his laugh.)

The tequila makes your phone screen swim as you glare at his contactless profile. The gray circle mocks you—empty and cold like his stupid perfect soul.

"Look at you," you slur at the blank icon. "Not even a picture anymore. Too good for pictures now? Too busy being tall and successful and making people question their sanity?"

Kiara—who apparently managed to grab a mojito at some point—now snorts into her glass. "Honey..."

"And your hands." You jab accusingly at the screen. "Why are they so big? Who gave you permission? Stupid... stupid surgeon hands with their stupid... precision."

"Okay, that's enough." Kiara tries to grab your phone, but you clutch it to your chest.

"No wait, I'm not done insulting his perfect face. Which isn't even here anymore because he's too important for profile pictures apparently." You hiccup. "Probably busy being gentle and professional somewhere else. With his stupid rolled-up sleeves and his stupid honey voice and his stupid—"

"Perfect bone structure?" Kiara supplies helpfully.

"Yes!" You slump against the bar. "It's offensive. His whole... everything is offensive. Criminal, even. We should report him to the medical board for being unreasonably attractive while also being a complete—"

"Asshole?"

"I was gonna say bastard but yes." You squint at the screen again. "Look at him. Not looking at us. With his not-picture. Rude."

Kiara pats your head sympathetically. "Come on, disaster. Let's find you someone who actually shows up in photos."

As if summoned by her words, two guys materialize beside your table. The taller one—dark hair, nice smile, definitely not wearing a white coat or speaking in medical terminology—leans against the bar.

"Can we buy you ladies a drink?"

You open your mouth to decline, but Kiara kicks you under the table.

"We'd love that," she says smoothly. "I'm Kiara, this is Y/N."

"James," the tall one offers. "This is Mike."

Mike waves, sliding onto the stool next to you. He's cute, in a slightly tired way—the kind that comes from hospital rotations and too little sleep.

"Med student?" he asks, noticing your distracted glance at your phone.

"How'd you guess?" you ask.

"The thousand-yard stare," he laughs. "I'm doing my internship at SNU. Just started the emergency rotation last week."

You manage a small smile. Med student, intern—at least he's not a certain first-year resident with surgical hands and a talent for making you question your sanity.

"So," Mike asks, "what brings you here tonight?"

"Emotional devastation," you announce before Kiara can stop you. "Also tequila."

He laughs—a normal laugh, not a honey-dripped chuckle designed to make your knees weak. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"Oh, there's a story." You straighten up, warming to your topic. "See, there's this guy—"

Kiara slaps her hand over your mouth. "Who we are not talking about tonight!" She smiles brilliantly at James and Mike. "How about those drinks?"

You lick her palm until she releases you with a yelp.

"Fine," you concede, accepting the fresh margarita Mike slides your way. "No talking about He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Voldemort?" James jokes.

You snort into your drink. "Worse. He's a doctor."

Mike winces sympathetically. "Ah. One of those."

"Exactly!" You point at him triumphantly. "One of those. With their... their competence and their steady hands and their stupid ability to make everything sound like a medical procedure—"

Kiara kicks you again. "Drinks," she reminds you firmly. "We're drinking and dancing and not thinking about certain medical professionals who shall remain nameless."

"Right." You take a long sip of margarita. "No thinking about names. Or nicknames. Or the way certain people say certain nicknames like they're tasting them—"

"Dance floor!" Kiara announces loudly, grabbing your arm. "We're going to the dance floor now!"

As she drags you away, you hear Mike ask James: "Should we be concerned?"

"Probably," James replies, but he's following anyway.

You let Kiara pull you into the crowd, the bass drowning out your thoughts. It's fine. You're fine.

And if you check your phone one more time—just to glare at the blank profile picture and maybe compose a strongly worded text about the audacity of certain medical residents—well.

That's between you and the tequila.

Definitely not between your bones and Mike as hemoves closer, hand settling tentatively on your waist.

You know he's being polite about it—know he's asking permission with his eyes, keeping a respectful distance.

It's nice.

Normal.

Boring.

(No. Not boring. Safe. This is what normal flirting feels like. Not... whatever psychological warfare Hoseok had been waging.)

"You're a good dancer," Mike says, and his voice is perfectly pleasant. No syrupy-thick manipulation. No clinical observations about your hip mobility.

"Thanks." You manage a smile that only feels slightly forced. "You too."

He grins—an uncomplicated expression that doesn't hide any surgical precision behind it. "Want to get some air? Maybe..." He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Take a smoke break?"

You don't smoke. Have never smoked. Would normally launch into a lecture about pulmonary health risks and carcinogenic compounds because you're that kind of med student.

But.

But tonight you're wearing a dress that makes you feel dangerous, and your lips still taste like tequila, and somewhere across the city he's probably being perfect and untouchable and—

"Yes." The word tumbles out before you can stop it. "Air sounds good."

Kiara catches your eye across the dance floor, raising an eyebrow in silent question. You wave her off, letting Mike guide you through the crowd toward the exit.

The night air hits your bare shoulders like a slap, sobering and sharp. Mike leans against the brick wall, offering you the pack with another easy smile.

You take a cigarette because you're drunk and stupid and maybe trying to prove something to yourself. Or to him.

(Everything feels like it's about him lately.)

"Here." Mike cups his hands around the flame, shielding it from the breeze as you lean in.

The first inhale burns—acrid and harsh and nothing like the way his mouth had burned against yours. You manage not to cough, but it's a near thing.

"Not a regular smoker?" Mike asks, amused.

You shake your head, watching the ember glow in the darkness. "First time, actually."

His eyebrows lift. "Shit, really? Should've told me. We could've started you with something lighter."

The concern in his voice makes something in your chest twist. Because it's nice. He's being nice. And you're standing here thinking about someone else's mouth and someone else's hands and—

"Sorry," you blurt out. "I'm kind of a mess right now."

Mike's laugh is gentle. "Yeah, I got that impression." He takes a drag, smoke curling between you. "Want to talk about it?"

"God no." You attempt another inhale, managing not to choke this time. "I want to forget about it."

His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to yours. "I could help with that."

The invitation is clear. Simple. Uncomplicated.

You could do it. Could let this nice, normal boy kiss you against the brick wall. Could replace the memory of bergamot with something softer. Safer.

Could prove that you're not still thinking about gentle poison and cloying praise and the way his fingers had—

"I can't." The words taste like ash. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Hey." Mike straightens, hands lifting in surrender. "No pressure. We can just talk. Or not talk." He grins. "Or you can keep pretending to enjoy that cigarette while plotting revenge against whatever doctor broke your heart."

A laugh bubbles up—slightly hysterical but real. "That obvious?"

"Little bit." He takes the cigarette from your trembling fingers, stubbing it out. "Come on. Let's get you some water before your friend murders me for letting you smoke."

You let him lead you back inside, grateful for the simple kindness of it. For the way he doesn't push or pry or try to take advantage of your obvious vulnerability.

It's nice.

Normal.

Right.

(So why does it feel so wrong?)

Your phone buzzes in your clutch.

You ignore it.

Some habits are harder to break than others.

The rest of the night blurs into a mess of well-meaning moments that all feel slightly wrong. Mike gets you water, makes sure you're steady on your feet, laughs at your increasingly unfiltered commentary about medical school.

He's perfect.

And that's the problem.

Because your drunk brain keeps cataloging all the ways he's not perfect enough. His hands are normal-sized. His smile doesn't hide anything. When he touches your elbow to steady you, it's just... a touch. No clinical observations about proprioception or balance compensation.

"You doing okay?" he asks for the third time, and his concern is so genuine it makes your teeth hurt.

"I'm fine," you lie, but what you mean is: you're not him.

You're not fine. You're drunk and touch-starved and maybe a little broken, because apparently regular flirting feels empty now. Like eating sugar-free candy when you know exactly how the real thing tastes.

"Want to dance again?" Mike offers, and you almost say yes because that's what you're supposed to want.

Normal girl, normal boy, normal Friday night.

But.

But your skin feels too tight and your head is spinning and all you can think about is how he would handle this—how he'd steady you with those surgeon's hands and murmur something about vestibular dysfunction while his thumb pressed against your pulse.

"I need air," you announce, pushing away from the bar.

Your heel catches on nothing, sending you stumbling.

Mike reaches for you, but you're already righting yourself, muscle memory kicking in as you adjust your center of gravity.

"Excellent compensatory response," you mutter in his voice, then laugh because you're definitely losing it.

"What?"

"Nothing." You wave off Mike's concerned look. "Just... medical student things."

"I get it," he says with a knowing smile. "The terminology gets stuck in your head after a while. My attending at SNU is always going on about proprioception and vestibular function."

Your stomach drops at the mention of SNU. "Which department?"

"Emergency, but we rotate through different services. This week I've been with the surgical team." He shrugs. "It's intense, but the residents are mostly cool."

You nod, wondering if he's ever supervised Mike, if they've worked side by side while you were sitting at home staring at your phone.

He smiles like he understands, but he doesn't. Can't. Because he's never had someone turn basic anatomy into psychological warfare. Never had someone make him question his own sanity with plausible deniability and careful touches and—

"Text me?" Mike's voice cuts through your spiral.

Your eyes flicker down to his hand. He's holding out his phone, expression hopeful.

You stare at it. At his normal, nice, completely uncomplicated contact page with its normal, nice, completely visible profile picture.

"I can't," you say finally, and you mean: I'm ruined for normal now.

His smile is understanding. Kind. "The doctor?"

"The doctor," you confirm, and you hate how your voice catches on the word.

Kiara immediately appears at your elbow—your guardian angel in four-inch heels. "Let's get some air." She waves to Mike. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her."

"Anytime." He means it too, which makes it worse somehow.

You both make it outside. The night air feels like clarity. Kiara tucks you against her shoulder as you let out a soft sigh.

"He's nice," she says finally.

"Yeah." You close your eyes, remembering gentle smiles and normal hands and complete lack of medical terminology. "Too nice."

"Oh honey." She strokes your hair. "You're so fucked."

You laugh until you cry, because she has no idea how right she is. How thoroughly, completely, deliberately fucked you've been by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Your phone buzzes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.

Your heart stops.

"Y/N." Kiara mutters, glancing down at your screen.

"Give me a second." You reply, voice slightly slurred.

Because you know that clinical concern. Know that detached tone that sounds like medical advice but feels like ownership.

Your fingers slip on the keyboard as you type:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜??? 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚎𝚔 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 # 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚢?? 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚃

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

The nickname makes you see red. You practically stab the screen with your thumbs:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝚃. 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙿. 𝙼𝙴. 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙳 𝙼𝙴

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚛 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝????? 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑????? 𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 "𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢" 𝚑𝚞𝚑?????

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝙾 𝚞𝚛 𝚊 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳. 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃 𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙲𝙾𝙲𝙺.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙼𝚛 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝙱𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕?????? 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you wait.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚄 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈/𝙽.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚘??? 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽???

The dots return, lingering longer this time.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾. 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚍. 𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: ...𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚝𝚠. 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍. 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚆𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎?

You grin viciously at the sharp edge in those two words.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚄 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚠𝚘

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙽𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚝????? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜????? 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎?????

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾𝙿𝙴. 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛????? 𝚒𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢/𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚢/𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝙷𝙴𝚁

You jab at the send button, chest rising too fast, too unsteady, because fuck him.

Fuck him for watching you from a distance. Fuck him for pretending he wasn't. Fuck him for texting you when he's the one who left—for acting like he still has a say in what you do, who you see, how much you drink.

Fuck him for making you like this.

Your fingers curl tighter around your phone, the alcohol thick in your bloodstream, pulse scalding under your skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but all you can see is him. That fucking look on his face, like you'd somehow made him the victim.

Like he was the one suffering.

You shove your phone back into your bag, stomach twisting, vision tilting—

And then you pull it right back out.

Because you can't escape inevitability, even as much as you wish you could.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚗

The dots appear instantly, then vanish. Your heart pounds as you push further:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍

A long pause. Then:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝.

Your lips curve, knowing you've got him. Even through the alcohol haze, you can feel the shift in his tone—the way the period instead of a question mark betrays his tension. Curiosity. Intrigue.

Attraction.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You press on:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚘. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈/𝙽.

Full name. You're getting to him.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝??? 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚠???

The response is immediate:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝???? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚎??? 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚗????

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗??? 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚘𝚗????

Another pause. Then:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢??? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗???

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Your thighs clench at the curse. Because this—this is what you wanted. What you want. Him cursing. Him losing it, like you've lost it—medical terminology abandoned.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚍𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚊𝚕

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚡𝚒. 𝙽𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔

The response is lightning fast:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚊𝚕.

The threat has your knees wobbling.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜???

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

Three dots appear. Linger. Disappear. Your phone buzzes with a location pin instead.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟸𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

You stare at the address, feeling slightly bold. Slightly reckless. Because that's his apartment. Where he'd almost—where you'd nearly—

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸 𝚊𝚖.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝟷𝟿 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

His reply makes you, indeed, not want to behave at all.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢. 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎????

Three dots appear one last time:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟷𝟾 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙. 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔.

You send him a middle finger emoji and watch the dots appear, disappear, appear again.

Let him stew.

You've got 17 minutes to decide just how badly you want to misbehave.

(Very badly, as it turns out.)