A PARTY DURING the weekday was never ideal, to you personally. you hated the idea of having to restrict yourself from getting too drunk so you didn’t suffer a hangover during a lecture the next day. you also hated getting drunk and suffering said hangover the next day during your lecture. the idea of even staying up so late when you had early class the next morning just didn’t appeal to you.
maybe back in your freshman year, when college didn’t feel so serious but rather a fun game to play to postpone adulthood. now, it felt as serious as ever as you were approaching your final year and still having to retake damn classes - a party on a wednesday night sounded stupid.
cozy nights were more your vibe lately, content indoors, especially when you had some new pyjamas, a face mask, fresh bedding and a new movie to watch - but especially because you were on your period, this just sounded 10 times more appealing.
by the time you got home, your back was sore, legs too, and your mood was just low in general. nothing had tipped you over the edge but you felt the urge to cry. throwing your bag on the floor, you stood in your room with a frown, unable to believe you had to get ready for this damn party brad was dragging you to.
your week so far hadn’t been the best - a new assignment in return for the one you’d just handed in, practice papers that needed to be done in a weeks time, an intense practice that left you tired and sore. brad had been having a rough time as well, so he wasn’t exactly comforting. he’d ranted to you yesterday about the dynamic of the team, how his coach wasn’t listening to him and he was sick of losing, how his touchdown on monday had been overruled, how he didn’t like his haircut, how he couldn’t drive his car, and when he came to hang out with you yesterday, you’d just topped off his god-awful, horrible week by telling him you were on your period in the middle of trying to coax you into bed.
he’d told you that you were going to the party, that you needed it and he refused to let you stay in and feel shitty about yourself. you’d told him you’d probably feel shittier by going, but he was adamant after a few drinks, you’d feel better about yourself and less stressed about the week you were having. ‘two hours at least’ and he’d take you home.
so, after a quick nap, you jumped in the shower. you washed your hair, scrubbed your skin, moisturised your entire body in that vanilla-coconut lotion that stuck to you for days. you blow dried and did your hair basic, threw on an outfit without much thought but as always - it was beautiful. so chic. an outfit without a lot of styling but worn in that simple, effective way that brought that 90s supermodel vibe to it. you accompanied it with a cute bag and shoes before texting brad you were on your way.
part of you did feel sorry for your boyfriend in having a shitty week too, you just wished he had the same idea as you when it came to doings things that would make you both feel better - to make you feel good.
you wished he’d jump into bed with you, turn the lights off and watch a silly movie in some face masks. tickle your arm and rub your back, keep you warm with the rain pouring down.
that wasn’t really brad’s thing though. as much as you tried, he was never one to chill in bed and watch a movie with you, unless he was hungover and dead asleep . . . or ignoring the movie completely and trying to slip his hand in your pants. no, his idea of letting loose had to involve drinking and a party, and a part of you dreaded the potential possibility of how pissed he was going to get tonight with the week he’d been having. you actually wondered if for a second, he’d wanted you to come so you could make sure he was ok — and by ok you meant pretty much babysitting him . . he gets so drunk he becomes unbearable and you’re pretty much the only person who can coax him to even leave.
standing there, it suddenly clicks what kind of night you’re in for, and all the more reason for why you don’t want to leave.
. . . but then you get a text from him, and it’s a photo of his beer next to your favourite seltzer.
brad ❤️
[1 image attached]
brad ❤️
got your favourite waiting for you ❤️
it’s the red heart that gets you, so, feeling endeared, you leave your dorm.
maybe you’re wrong. maybe you will have a really sweet night and you’ll be back in bed in two hours with him, watching that movie.
-
the place is packed. you’ve been here over two hours and it feels like more and more people are showing up.
the music is blasting and the garden has already been trashed. floors are sticky, there’s drink all over the counter, you heard a couple having sex in the bathroom on your way up the stairs and brad is nowhere to be seen.
well, that’s a lie - he was in the kitchen last you saw him, opening another beer while you settled for a diet coke.
it just wasn’t hitting. you knew it wouldn’t. you’re hot, irritated and desperate to go home.
brad calls you again, voice deep, words slurred. “y/n?! y/n?! babe??”
he does this. he calls you, you join him by his side, it’s fine, then he starts being annoying, you leave before you say something that starts a fight, he calls you back after 10 minutes - it’s a cycle. this is the third time and your patience is running thin. you seriously want to go home. you don’t even need to be here.
you feel like a spare body just standing in the corner, trying to stop the base of the music from giving you a headache. you can’t even mingle because he has a problem with how much people you leave him to go talk to, or shoots daggers to anyone who tries to do so, so you stay put.
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he smiles, opening an arm to have you tucked under again. he knows he’s being annoying, but he knows you’ll keep coming back if he apologises. “here, i got you this.”
he hands you another seltzer, and instead of telling him again you’re done drinking, you just pluck it from his hand and place it on the counter behind you with a thanks.
he’s talking to his friends, leaning against the oven, laughing and joking about different things. a box of 30 bud light cans is emptied amongst the four of them. brad’s arm stays secured around your waist, his touch starting to irritate you because he can’t stay still while the other swings his drink around, almost spilling over your shoulder.
he senses your quietness, and dips his head between you, his musky aftershave filling the air. “you ok?”
“yeah.”
“you’re quiet.”
you shrug, looking straight ahead.
he doesn’t say anything.
instead, he scans you from head to toe, eyes catching the pendant on your chest, down to your little short skirt, emphasising the length of your legs.
he then clocks your crossed arms and pouty lips, and nudges you a little rough, removing his hand. “fix your face.”
you pause, brows narrowing. “ . . . what?”
“i said fix your face - you’re standing here like you’re at a funeral,” he takes a swig of his beer, stunning you with his casualty.
“i’m standing here like i’m at a funeral because it feels like my fucking uterus has died,” you spit, watching him roll his eyes at your dramatics. “i didn’t want to come and you still forced me.”
“i didn’t force you to do anything.”
“you talked me into coming or you woulda been in a mood with me.”
his brow perks at your tone. “i didn’t want you to be miserable, staying in on your own, but i seem to be in a mood anyway with you here.”
“i told you i didn’t want to come.”
“right, because god forbid we do one thing i want.”
you stare at him. “one thing?”
“don’t.”
“you never want to do anything i want.”
“because all you want to do is lie in bed and watch movies.”
“so?”
“so? it’s fucking boring, y/n. sorry i’m not 80.”
it hurts more than it should. you look at him and then look away, gaze dropping to the floor.
“oh my god,” he says. “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“that pouty thing.”
“i’m literally just standing here.”
“yeah, like a fucking raincloud.”
his friends laugh despite acting like they’re not listening.
your face begins to warm.
you shake your head, “i’m going home.”
you push off the counter, but his hand catches your elbow immediately.
“where are you going?”
“home,” you repeat.
“no you’re not.”
“i’m tired, brad.”
“you’re not going home.”
when you try to pull your arm back, his fingers tighten. “let go?”
“why are you being like this?”
“because i want to leave,” you almost stomp you foot.
“because you want attention.”
you stare at him, mouth falling open. “what?”
“you do this every time,” he says. “you get pissed off, then threaten to leave so i have to chase after you. i’m not doing it today.”
“i’m not threatening anything?”
“yes, you are.”
“i don’t want to be here?”
you seriously don’t understand the issue. you want to go home. he doesn’t need to follow you.
his hand slides further up your arm, grip tightening when you try and step away.
“stop it,” his large hand wraps around your arm.
you wince. “you’re hurting me.”
“stop pulling away then.”
your stomach twists and you go still.
he notices that too.
he also notices people watching you both.
his expression changes instantly - softer, calmer, like a switch. “baby,” he says, quieter now. “come on.”
you don’t answer.
“don’t do this.”
“i want to go home,” you repeat, refusing to look at him, your arm cramping in the position it’s in. “you don’t need to come, you can stay here.”
“okay,” he nods quickly, “no it’s fine. we can go home.”
you look up at him. “really?”
no hatred in his tone, no sulking. “yeah.” he rubs your arm where he’d been gripping it, thumb brushing over the skin, “if you wanna go, we’ll go.”
you stare at him, waiting. waiting for the next part.
he just tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, dragging his eyes down your frame. “we’ll go back to mine,” he mutters in your ear, “watch a movie or whatever you want, yeah?”
you don’t say anything, he just slips his hand to your waist. “don’t be mad anymore,” his large hand gives your ass a pat.
you look at the floor. “i’m not mad.”
“good,” he smiles like you’ve said the right thing, “because you know i hate when we fight.” he presses a kiss to the side of your head, fingers digging into your hip just a little too hard. “go say your goodbyes. i’m gonna finish this drink and then we’ll go.”
you nod, and dismount from him, leaving for the stairs to use the bathroom. you didn’t know anyone here, not anyone you had to say goodbye to anyway.
your head spins.
you feel like shit now, dragging him home. he really doesn’t have to come, and to be honest, you don’t want him to come.
if brad thinks there’s any chance of you having sex tonight, he is so unbelievably mistaken. you’d rather him stay out than to have the argument and face his coldness when you turn him down - again.
you don’t know how he’s stuck you this long, considering he wants to have sex all the time and you just don’t. it’s not that you’re a prude, you’ve (unfortunately) lost your virginity, and every couple months, you give brad a little something, but only because you feel obligated to. sex with brad is exactly how you’d imagine - quick, rough, and anticlimactic - for you at least. he doesn’t know your body at all, and when you tell him what you like, he complies for maybe a minute before focusing back on himself, going at his pace, his rhythm, chasing whatever helps him finish.
you assume that’s just what sex is, how sex with guys is - jab, jab, jab, grop, squeeze, grop, maybe a hand on you neck for a second or two. you kind of just fake your turn when he comes, not bothered to let it continue any longer than it needs to. you don’t get the hype around sex, it’s absolutely not what they make out in the movies. there’s no head throwing, no loud cries - you’re actually pretty quiet in the bedroom.
you think you’re broken at times, weirded out that you don’t get horny or yearn for him to touch you like that, but then you do get hot and bothered, and the most you want is a hot and heavy kiss.
don’t get you wrong, you love the affection and can get giddy at times when his hands are all over you - the sex just feels uncoordinated a lot of the time. like you’ve lost your rhythm. sometimes when you’re drunk, you get a thrill, but lately you can’t imagine anything worse than having his fingers in your pants, your libido being the lowest it’s ever been in your whole life.
you don’t get the big deal about it. you don’t get this mind-blowing stigma around it. you grew up in a home you could say was big on the idea of traditional values: date to marry, only have sex after marriage, don’t have any kids before you’re married - it was your favourite excuse when you ran out of them when brad was trying to talk you in to doing something - telling him you feel too guilty and if he had a problem, you’d call your parents up and tell them why he wouldn’t be coming for dinner at the weekend - because you wouldn’t have sex with him.
brad drunk is just double that problem. he gets so drunk at times, he can’t even get his dick up and then wonders why you won’t do anything with him. it’s a wonder he hasn’t cheated on you yet. you really credit him for his loyalty, because he must love you some heck of an amount if he’s stayed with you this long.
you come back ten minutes later, your stomach cramping as you walk back downstairs. you push through people to get to the kitchen. brad has moved to the island now, two empty shot glasses behind him, and he’s pulling a face at his friend like what he said is on the money.
“—but she can be such a fuckin’ bitch at times, you’ve seen it yourself, man” he lets out a hearty laugh, “it’s hard work fellas.”
they laugh, and you stall.
“everyday, it’s something. it’s always something: she didn’t wanna come, she wants to go home, she doesn’t feel good—” he puts on a mocking voice, “can we just watch a movie?” laughter erupts amongst them. “no, i don’t want to watch the fuckin’ movie, fuckin’ . . suck my dick.”
they cackle, punching his arm for his audacity while you stand there, at the entrance, your mouth catching flies.
“—she doesn’t even remember what it looks like anymore, she’s always tired, she’s on her period, she’s got a headache, her stomach hurts—” he rhymes off, letting it all out to his boys. you don’t realize you’ve even moved ‘til his friends spot you first, and he turns to see what they’re all looking at.
his face doesn’t change, just perks a brow at your presence. “you ready?”
“you . . . are you serious right now?”
“what?”
“you—you were fucking taking about me?!”
“yeah i was,” he turns to fully talk to you, setting his bottle down.
no regrets, no remorse.
your eyes are wide, barely blinking. “wow.”
“don’t start, y/n,” he shakes his head.
“don’t start? you called me a fucking bitch?!” you scoff.
“‘cause . . you’re acting like one.”
you just stare with your mouth open, waiting for any backtrack.
there is none.
he takes another swig of his beer when you twist on your heel to leave.
he doesn’t let you get far, his hand catching your wrist. “don’t walk away from me,” his voice is calm, his grip effortless - yet, it holds you there.
“let go.”
“no.”
“let go brad!” you grit your teeth, but he only pulls you closer, his grip hardening. his jaw is clenched, but he talks through his teeth with a smile so no one picks up on it. “stop doing that.”
“i’m not doing anything!” you try to pry his hand off.
“no you do this every fucking time,” he says, huddling you both into the corner. “you push and push and push until i’m the asshole.”
“i didn’t even do anything.”
“exactly,” he laughs once, “you never do anything. you stand there with that fucking face and make everyone else miserable.”
your eyes sting. “brad . . . ”
“stop crying.”
“i’m not—”
“—yes, you are,” he leans in closer, “and i’m not doing this here.”
“then let me go, please,” you beg, pulling your hand back. you can feel your heart racing, your blood boiling, hands shaking. you can feel the edge of your fight or flight begin to teeter to fight . . .
you try to sidestep him, but he backs you up against the fridge, in one corner of the kitchen where you’re not really viable to anyone. it makes you nervous.
“what the fuck is wrong with you tonight?” he mutters between you.
“with me?!”
“yes, with you,” he laser focuses his attention on you, “you’ve been a fucking nightmare all night.”
“i didn’t want to come,” you repeat, voice steady.
“and i’m sick of hearing that.”
“the maybe you should’ve listened,” you snap, eyes burning.
his eyes darken, and he takes a step forward, looking down on you. “watch your mouth.”
you look away, unfavourable of his gaze.
he brings his hand to your jaw, fingers pressing a little too hard, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to, “look at me when i’m talking to you.”
you do.
you always do.
he holds your eyes, not allowing you the option to look elsewhere. “don’t stand there and act like i’m the bad guy, like i’m a bad boyfriend just because you’re too sensitive to take a joke. to—to get upset about something you weren’t even supposed to hear.”
“a . . . a joke?”
“yes. a joke.”
“you . . you called me a bitch?”
“because you are one,” his thumb presses harder into your face, eyes swallowing yours.
“brad,” you whisper, helplessly wrapping your hand around his wrist. “don’t . . .”
“then stop it,” he bites, “you’re making a scene and embarrassing yourself.”
you nod, giving up. “ok . . ok sorry, i—i just wanted to go home.”
he stares at you for a minute further, face in his hand before letting go. “you should be sorry.”
you nod, looking up at him through damp lashes, waiting for whatever he says next.
instead, he just reaches for the bottle he’d been drinking from earlier and lifts it back to his mouth like the conversation’s over already.
“we’ll go when i finish this.”
you blink. “no—you . . you can stay.” your hands lift instinctively, small, cautious motions like you’re trying not to set him off again. “you don’t have to come.”
“i’m coming with you.”
something in your stomach drops.
“no, no, i don’t— you don’t need to.” your words trip over each other now, too fast.
“i want to.”
your eye twitches faintly. he’s still not hearing you. not actually hearing you.
“i . . ” you swallow hard. “i don’t want you to.”
his eyes narrow slightly. “why?”
because he knows why.
because he’ll walk you back to your room acting soft and sorry, all gentle hands and quiet voices for ten whole minutes. he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. tell you to stop crying. tell you he loves you — and then, eventually, his hands will start wandering again — up your thighs, under your shirt — and the second you tense or pull away, the irritation will come straight back like it never left.
you can’t do it tonight.
you want your bed. you want silence. you want him nowhere near you.
“because i said so . . . ” you mumble, wiping harshly at your nose with your sleeve. “i’m going now.”
he sighs through his nose, setting the bottle down before following after you anyway.
your panic spikes instantly.
his hand reaches for your arm and you whip around before he can touch you, yanking yourself back like his fingers burned.
“stop touching me,” you warn, voice sharp and shaking all at once.
“y/n—”
“STOP,” you snap louder this time, recoiling again at the brush of his fingertips against your wrist.
you take another step away, already feeling your breathing turn uneven — and then his hand lands against the small of your back, steering, like he’s decided for the both of you.
and something in you finally blows: “OH MY GOD, BRAD, GET OFF OF ME!” you shove him away from you.
everything stops.
everyone turns to look.
his friends stare.
someone by the cooker raises their eyebrows. people in the living room look in.
you’re breathing hard, shaking everywhere, and instantly you know how this looks.
crazy. hysterical. overdramatic.
brad just stares at you for a second before slowly lifting his hands, like he’s the reasonable one here. the calm one. “okay . . ”
“back. off,” your voice shakes violently. your eyes lock onto his — wild, wet, cornered-looking - like an animal that’s both scared and ready to pounce; tear him to shreds. he had a nightmare once that you did.
“okay,” he repeats carefully, “i just wanted to make sure you got home okay—”
“I DON’T WANT YOU TO!” you scream out loud. “I DON’T NEED ANYBODY TO?!”
“y/n—” one of his friend perk up.
“–NO!” you spin toward the room instead, frantic now, hands out like you can physically force everybody back. “everyone just leave me alone! oh my god!—”
“baby, you can’t walk home by yourself,” brad says softly, stepping back in with that patient tone that makes you feel ten times worse. like you’re a child throwing a tantrum. like he’s rescuing you.
“OH MY GOD!” you wrench yourself free so hard your shoulder stings. “I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME WITH YOU!” you shriek, wishing someone would get him the fuck away from you.
you’re about to seriously lose it. the kitchen window is looking seriously fucking appealing right now.
“—i’ll take her home.”
the room pauses.
so do you.
you freeze completely, eyes darting toward the new voice.
standing in the kitchen doorway is will, one hand still resting against the frame. navy jacket half-zipped, expression unreadable except for the fact he doesn’t look annoyed, but he doesn’t look entertained either. just . . normal.
“i can take her,” he says again, calmer this time.
you look at him, eyes still wide and glassy with panic. your whole body trembles with leftover adrenaline, chest tight with that awful feeling of being cornered — like the walls are closing in and every single person in the room has witnessed this ugly and humiliating act of yours.
the second you feel brad’s grip slacken, you yank your arm free. “fucking hell . . . who invited this guy?” he completely dismisses you, focused on the freshman.
will ignores him. “y/n—” he repeats, watching you make your exit.
you escape them all, pulling your sleeve as you brush past him and out the front door, surprised you don’t trip when you dash down the steps leading to the front yard.
“y/n!”
will’s voice is calm even as he yells. it doesn’t panic you . . . but you ignore him, too embarrassed to face him, to face anybody.
he doesn’t let you get too far. “y/n . . y/n wait up! i can take you home!”
“it’s fine, will.”
“no seriously, i’m completely sober, it’s—”
“—I SAID I’M FINE, WILL!” you raise your voice, storming on with your arms folded. “i’m NOT getting in your car!”
“then i’ll walk you—”
that makes you turn around, probably giving him the perfect view of your ugly makeup and psycho state. “i don’t need you to walk me! i’m not going home with you either now leave me alone,” you turn around.
will pulls a face as you strut on, but walks distantly behind you nonetheless. “listen y/n, i don’t care how you want to get home, but i’m not letting you walk by yourself. i have a sister and if i thought for one minute anybody would leave her to make her way home at this time of the night on her own in a vulnerable state, i’d probably smash every one of their faces in. so, if you don’t want to walk with me, i’m letting you know i’m still gonna follow you from a distance until i make sure you’ve made it home safe.”
that makes you pause.
you look at the walk ahead, the dark streets even with the street lamps on, and the leaves that blow invitingly into the distance.
“you have a lime on the bottom of your shoe by the way.”
you turn around, seeing will with his hands in his pockets, chilled, fully prepared to follow you back.
you take a step back towards him and watch, from a two-meter distance, him take a mirrored step forwards you.
you shoulders slump, and you shake your head. he waits for you to take a few steps back to him. you do.
you feel him staring as you come face to face, avoiding his gaze on the ground. “i . . . i promise i’m not a psycho . . .”
“didn’t say you were.”
“well, you sure looked at me like one . . .” you accuse, looking at the ground.
will pinches his brows at that, the second time you’ve offended him with assumptions. “i was looking at you ‘cause you were freaking me out. you were freaking out. was like watching a trapped animal not knowing where to run. i was worried . .”
you look at him unexpectedly, unfamiliar with his words. “well . . i’m fine.”
“yeah, you sure look it,” he takes a few steps closer, slow and calm, collected and natural. “are you . . are you okay?”
you don’t answer. just nod.
you just want to cry, to be honest.
“i can walk you home . . but it’s up to you: from a distance, or beside you . . . although i’ll probably just end up behind you, waiting for that lime to fall off your shoe.”
your eyes soften, but it’s enough for him. he smiles, and when you glance at the back of your heel, you see a tiny, baby lime, stuck to your sole.
you turn back to him, feeling at little more at ease. “i . . . we can take your car - if it’s ok - we don’t have to.”
he just swings his keys around his finger, smiling satisfactorily. “sweet. let’s go.”
his car is parked at the next house down from the party one, and he opens your door when walking past it before circling around to his own. you’re actually confused at first by the action, fully expecting him to get in the passenger seat.
the drive isn’t long. about ten minutes, but it’s a constant bend of streets and small stretch of roads that are empty at this time. will doesn’t talk to you, just keeps the car warm and quiet, knowing you probably have a lot going on in your head right now.
you feel so inconsolably heavy.
it feels like the weight of the word is on your shoulders, how low you feel right now, how tight and suffocating your throat feels while looking out the window. your chest hurts. your head hurts. your jaw and wrist hurts which only makes your chest hurt more.
that ugly, hallow, narrowing feeling that kind of feels like it’s trying to drag you to drown.
you don’t know how you’re going to get over this. how do you? where do you start? everyone just saw you have a total psycho meltdown and is probably telling brad right now how strong he is for coping with a girl like you.
you look at will, wondering what he thinks, what he heard when he found you, but he’s just looking straight ahead, kinda looking like he doesn’t have a single thought at all going on in his head. you turn back to the window, leaning your head on it.
you swear, you close your eyes for 20 seconds and it envelopes you into the deepest sleep that when will says your name, you don’t budge.
“y/n,” he repeats, touching your arm next.
you jump, eyes wide awake before looking at him, and he just holds his hands up in surrender, waiting for you to come around. “hey, it’s chill. it’s just me,” he points to your dorm building. “we’re here.”
you sit up with discomfort, scraping your hair back. “oh . .” you mumble, looking to unbuckle the belt. it pops with a click. you turn to him. “thanks will, i . . i really owe you one.”
“you really don’t,” he watches you rest your hand on the handle. “just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”
you nod. “i’m sorry for being a bitch. i know you were just trying to be nice. i was just . . . being a psycho.”
“you’re not a bitch, y/n.” he quickly shuts down. “‘n you’re not a psycho either.”
you try to smile. “yeah . . tell that to brad.”
will shakes his head. “the only psycho in that house is brad. anyone can see that.”
you furrow your brows at his comment, and turn slightly there to face him. “how long . . how long where you there? at the party?”
“a while,” he shrugged. “long enough to see you bored and on your own.”
“stalking me?” you use his line on him.
“i was in and out of the kitchen for drinks.”
“i thought you were sober?” you try to catch him out.
“water, gorgeous,” he winks, “i’ve got a reputation to upkeep, a future to secure, y‘know? can’t be drinking illegally,” his sarcasm makes you almost roll your eyes.
you know he’s joking, but it makes you blush when he uses the word ‘gorgeous’. you are definitely not gorgeous right now.
he watches you sit there, initially chuffed by his comment, and then it fades to flat, like he can see the reality hit of what your next step is for the night - a lonely night in, just you and your thoughts and the memory of what happened tonight, probably tearing yourself to pieces over it.
will doesn’t want you to be on your own. “is your uh . . is your roommate home?”
you shake your head, opening the door. “she’s at her boyfriend’s.”
he mentally grumbles. he doesn’t like the sound of that.
then a light bulb appears at the top of his head. “can i grab your file?”
it makes you pause, and when you realize what he says, you laugh a little. “sure.”
he follows you inside.
your room is dark when you walk in. you flick the lamp on and immediately feel embarrassed by how small it looks: messy bed from your nap, clothes on the floor, makeup in front of your mirror, pills for your cramps on your desk. you tiredly kick some stuff out the way. “sorry, it’s a mess.”
“it’s not.”
he waits at the door for while you hunt for the work, and when you hand him it, he wishes he’d came up with a better reason to come up here. “thanks,” he smiles, and feels the need to ask once more before he goes. “. . . you sure you’re okay?”
you nod.
he looks at you for a second, your voice still hoarse, eyes dull, “. . definitely?”
you pick your nails, “yeah, stop worrying.”
“you were shaking.”
oh.
that makes your throat tighten.
you look down at your shoes and self-consciously smooth your skirt. “sorry.”
“why are you apologising?”
you don’t answer, because you’re not even sure. you always apologise for things. “i—i dunno.”
he stands there, and you don’t know what to do with yourself.
you feel too raw. too tired. too embarrassed.
“do you . . want a drink of water?” you ask quietly.
“only if you’re getting some.”
you nod and busy yourself for a minute because it gives you time to think. will allows himself in, sitting on the end of your bed.
he’s quiet for a second, you both are, sitting opposite ends of the bed, deep in your thoughts.
will can’t keep quiet for too long.
“does he always talk to you like that?”
you look at him and hesitate, raising a shoulder. “sometimes.”
“sometimes?”
you shrug. “when he’s drunk.”
“he was drunk.”
“yeah.”
“and?”
you don’t know. you shrug again, “he just gets angry.”
“at you?”
“at everything.” you’re not lying, you know your boyfriend is a hot head, he gets riled up pretty easy when things don’t go his way - it’s what makes him play good in games, but you can get pretty angry too, it feels. “his moods can switch really quickly.”
will watches you observantly, hands tapping the bottle of water. you definitely don’t look like the bubbly, cheery confident cheerleader he sees strutting around campus with her head held high right now.
you look beat down and worn. “you looked scared.”
you hate how quickly your eyes burn. “i wasn’t.”
he doesn’t say anything, which makes you feel worse.
“i just—” you laugh weakly. “i don’t know. when he gets like that i just try not to make it worse.”
“worse?”
“he hates when i argue back.”
“so you just let him say whatever he wants?”
“it’s easier . . i’ll talk to him in the morning about it. tonight i just . . was overwhelmed or something. it doesn’t really bother me as much, i just had a long day.”
the second it leaves your mouth, you hate it. you know how pathetic it sounds, but it’s true.
he looks at you for a long second, not wanting to overstep, but he still says, “that’s not normal, you know.”
you fiddle with the plushie that follows you around the globe. “i know . . ”
“then why are you with him?”
the room is quiet.
“i dunno.”
“yes, you do.”
“i don’t.”
“you do.”
you let out a breath. “he’s not the worst person in the world . . when he’s nice, he’s really nice.”
will feels like it’s the equivalent to hearing nail scraping sharply down a chalkboard.
“–and i can be really difficult at times,” you continue, “i ask for too much, i know i do, and i think i can be hard on him when he’s got a lot going on. i know he loves me, and i do love him - it’s normal for couples to fight, of course. he’s a good guy, everyone knows that, everyone thinks he’s amazing.”
“everyone doesn’t think he’s amazing.”
you look at him.
he gives you a look.
“ok you don’t count.”
“i’m not the only one.”
you roll your eyes. “he just . . he makes me feel like i’m overreacting, but maybe i am.”
“you’re not.”
“he says i am.”
“he says a lot of shit. you definitely don’t overreact.”
you go quiet again.
there’s a lump in your throat that hasn’t gone away.
you don’t know what to say. talking to will about how great a guy your boyfriend is probably not the best choice . . .
“you know what one of my coaches said to me in middle school?”
“what?”
“he said if one person thinks you’re a horse, they’re probably weird. if ten people think you’re a horse, you should buy a saddle.”
you stare at him, lips tugging slightly, “. .ok?”
he laughs, “i spent, like . . a full week offended because i thought he was calling me a horse.”
you laugh despite yourself. “ok?”
“but he was saying if one person calls you something, maybe ignore them — if everyone does, maybe there’s something to it.”
“ok . . what does that have to do with me?”
“because one guy telling you you’re crazy doesn’t make you crazy.”
your smile drops slightly.
“everyone else in your life loves you. your friends love you. people like being around you.”
“you barely know me.”
“i know enough.”
“you know i’m a nut job.”
“i know you gave your drunk boyfriend three chances to stop being a dick before you finally lost it,” he pauses, “which, honestly, was generous.”
you laugh again, settling to silence with the little comfort he provides. “thanks will . . ”
he sends a small smile, embracing the quiet.
he watches you from across the room, fingers absently stroking the teddy’s fur while you avoid his eyes completely. you look deeply uncomfortable being part of the conversation, like this is the only topic that you’d pay money to get out of.
brad’s worn you down into something smaller over time, shaped you carefully around his moods, his wants, his version of you — and now you take every word he says as truth without even realizing it.
“he’s an asshole,” he says simply.
“i think i just make him angry. . ”
“you don’t have to keep defending him.”
“i’m not.”
“you are a little.”
“but i do,” you insist, “i know how to push him and i know when he’s in a bad mood and i still—”
“stop.”
you stop.
will actually hates how obediently you do stop. “this — none of this is your fault, y/n. you did nothing wrong. if you want to go home, you should be allowed to go without seeking for approval.”
it hits you, slowly, his words sinking slightly. it’s actually strange how simple it sounds on his tongue.
you drop your head to your hands, embarrassed. you’re even more embarrassed that it’s will, someone you don’t really know, a freshman who probably likes you no more than to look at - deal with you like this. be probably finds it so satisfying.
deep down - you know he doesn’t. you know that’s your insecurities sinking in, because you don’t know will - but you know him well enough to know he’s a kind person.
you think back to the encounter, to brad - the kitchen. his hand on your arm. the way everyone looked at you. the way he stood there calm while you felt insane.
“hey,” he says quietly.
you shake your head apologetically, “i’m sorry will.”
“y/n what are you apologising for? it’s okay?” he reaches for your arm, not wanting you to hide.
“i’m just embarrassed.”
“don’t be,” he stresses, and he sounds sincere.
“i literally screamed at him in front of everyone,” you croak, feeling him peel his hands from your face.
“because he was awful to you,” he reasons.
“everyone thinks i’m crazy.”
“nobody thinks you’re crazy,” maybe crazy to be with him in the first place, “and who cares what they think?”
you wipe your eyes with your sleeve. “easy for you to say.”
“seriously,” he leans forward, “you spent the whole night trying not to upset him and he still found a way to make you feel bad.”
you don’t say anything, because you know he’s right.
“you deserve better than that.”
the room goes very still.
you look down at your hands.
nobody’s ever said that to you before, not out loud - and not like they meant it. you don’t know how to respond. it sounds entitled if you agree.
so you shrug, barely giving a nod, “he was drunk,” you brush it off, “he gets annoying when he’s drunk.”
“drunk or not he shouldn’t’ve spoken to you like that.”
“he didn’t mean it.”
the second it comes out your mouth, you hate it, because it sounds rehearsed.
will looks at you like you’ve insulted him. “you know that’s bullshit.”
“well . . i can be difficult sometimes.”
will just scoffs and shakes his head, but you’re trying to burst this bubble of perfection he has stamped on you. “no really, i was probably asking for that fight.”
“from what i saw, you spent most of the night trying not to.”
you play with the stuffed animals arms again.
you realize you don’t like arguing with will, for real . . . especially when he’s right.
he reaches over, resting a hand carefully against your crossed leg. the contact sends a strange little jolt through you, enough to almost make you flinch, but he keeps it there anyway, thumb brushing lightly against your knee.
he can tell you’re upset - uncomfortable more than anything.
and even if he disagrees with you, even if he thinks you’re wrong, he needs to let you know this isn’t an argument. there’s no sharpness to it, no raised voices - it’s calm, it’s civil, no-one’s angry at anybody. it’s the kind of conversation that should feel safe, even if you’re not on the same page.
“seriously,” he says, “you looked like you were trying so hard to keep him happy.”
“i was.”
“i know,” he agrees, taking your word. the way he says it - not mocking, not pitying - but empathic like he understands. it makes you pause.
you look down quickly because suddenly your eyes sting again. hearing the truth in detail makes you uncomfortable, you almost squirm. “i . . yeah. i don’t know why i’m with him sometimes . . ”
will studies you.
you’re right — he doesn’t know you that well. not really. he doesn’t know what you’re like in a relationship, doesn’t know your habits or your worst moods or what you’re like when you love somebody - but he knows one thing for certain: you are not hard to be around. from personal experience, he feels like he even breathes better when you’re around.
he bets a lot of people on campus feel like that.
but then he watches you curl further into yourself at the conversation, visibly distressed by it, and he finally understands the real problem.
it’s not that you don’t see what brad’s doing, it’s that he’s spent so long convincing you that nobody else would tolerate you that now you instinctively defend him before anyone can challenge it. that being with you requires patience, tolerance and management.
so every time he hurts you, you end up believing you probably pushed him there somehow.
smitty can already see how this goes. you won’t leave brad after tonight. maybe you’ll ignore his texts for a few days, maybe you’ll make him panic a little first, but eventually brad will apologise in that soft voice of his, hold your face like he’s scared to lose you, and you’ll convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt in the moment.
it’s comfort. it’s security. it’s familiar.
there’s no use in trying to open your eyes, will decides, it’s not possible. the more aggressively he tears brad apart, the more likely you are to shut down and start to pull away from him too, and selfishly, he doesn’t want that.
until you start seeing things for yourself, he knows its no use, not yet - not when you barely know him either. he considers the possibility you think he’s only here in hopes you give him something in return, which mentally makes him grimace and recoil.
so, he gives in for tonight, and decides to wrap up the conversation, for the sake of your comfort. “you stay because he’s good at making you think this is all you deserve,” a beat follows, “it’s not.”
you don’t say anything.
“you deserve somebody who actually likes you,” he says, voice quieter now, “not just when you’re fun, or pretty, or doing what they want . . . you deserve someone who wants to watch a movie with you because you’ve had a shit day. someone who takes you home because you don’t feel good and doesn’t make you feel guilty about it,” he tries to make it sound lighthearted instead of telling you off, despite his frustrations.
“that’s like . . bare minimum,” you mumble, picking at the blanket.
“exactly,” he says, “and he still can’t do it.”
your chest cracks. you wish he’d stop taking ‘cause it really fucking hurts.
you look at him for a second - really look at him.
the way he’s sitting on your bed, now kind of lying on it, comfortable with his legs up beside your torso, holding one of your decorative pillows to his chest. he’s laying there chilled, looking at you like you’re not crazy - like you’re not too much, like he actually means every word he’s saying and not even passive-aggressively.
he’s just having a normal, factual conversation with you.
it suddenly hits you that he’s almost filling in as one of the girls, being your therapist, listening to your problems right now at the end of your bed when he definitely didn’t plan on it being the reasoning he ended up in your bed. will perks up at your softening features, your relaxing shoulders and the grin that’s fighting so bad to not show up on your face. “what?” a smile breaks out onto his own face.
you let the laugh slip out, tiny but free, genuine. “sorry, you just . . i’ve ruined your night by holding you captive here . . you can go,” he watches you awkwardly rub your arm, still smiling, slightly blushing.
“you’re not holding me captive,” he pulls a face, “and if you were, i definitely wouldn’t be complaining about it,” his brow twitches playfully.
“smitt,” you throw the pillow at him, smiling with a roll of your eyes.
“there she is,” he grins, catching it.
the sight of him makes your heart burst, realizing just how endearing will smith is. such a kind and caring soul. you feel so much lighter than you were an hour ago.
you’re convinced he’s probably the only person able to do that.
you’re lucky to have crossed paths with him. “you can go if you want . . i’m not kicking you out, i’m just letting you know you can go back to the party and be done with my dramatics.”
“trust me, you’re not even close to the most dramatic thing i’ve seen this month.”
“oh?” you lean back into your pillows.
“last away game, one of the guys got dumped over facetime in the locker room.”
you grimace. “oof.”
“yup. full meltdown. punching lockers, saying she’d regret it when he made the new york rangers.”
you laugh so suddenly you nearly spill your water, “no.”
“yeah, and the worst part?—”
you raise your eyebrows.
“—he plays fourth line and gets, like, four minutes ice time.”
you laugh harder.
he laughs with you.
and for the first time tonight - the room doesn’t feel so small anymore. the night doesn’t feel so heavy. you’re still tired, your arm still hurts a little where you were grabbed, but you’re sitting on your bed in your dorm room at maybe like, two in the morning, laughing about some hockey player you’ve never even met.
for the first time all night, you don’t feel like you can’t breathe.
he tells you another story, and you tell him one back, and it snowballs from there, another hour passing of you both taking turns in recalling funny memories, laughing at nothing, revealing little crumbs at a time about your life outside college.
when you talk to will, you don’t feel like you have to say the right thing, or laugh at the right moment, or backtrack and add ‘i’m joking’ to every comment you make so that he doesn’t get annoyed at you – you just talk.
and he listens.
he even asks questions, asks to see photos. shows you photos in return, like the one of him dressed up as a leprechaun for one of his birthdays, or a pic of a nasty scar he got from playing basketball out his backyard.
by the time you glance at the clock, it’s way later than you thought. “oh my god,” you mumble, “you should go.”
“yeah, probably,” he agrees with a heavy breath, tucking his phone in his pocket. it sounds like he doesn’t want to, like the effort of now having to go home is draining.
you wish he didn’t have to either, but you refuse to be the reason he wakes up exhausted tomorrow just because you can talk forever.
he stands eventually, and grabs his keys from your desk, slipping his sneakers back on. “text me when you wake up tomorrow?”
you look up at him confused. “why?”
his mouth opens, and he almost responds shyly as he twists his ankle the shoe, “just . . wanna make sure you’re okay,” he says like it’s obvious.
your heart does a weird little thing.
“okay,” you say softly, “maybe let me know when you get home safe?”
“of course.”
you smile, and he smiles. “g’night y/n.”
“goodnight will,” you call after, getting a click of a closed door in return.
when you stand to lock it, you’re smiling crawling back under the covers, laying there in the dark for a second, staring at the ceiling.
the night still hurts, but not as much, not when you can still hear his laugh in your head, which makes you laugh to yourself as you snuggle in deeper to your mattress.
you wait for your phone to ping with his message to make sure he got home safe, and while laying on your side, covers tucked up to your chin — you spot that he didn’t even take the file with him.
vaporwave
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