patrick x extrovert reader, who’s funny,loud and doesn’t gaf what ppl think of them
platonic friends who maybe sometimes kiss, but gf and bf nahhh
You were on your knees in the grass, cursing like a trucker under your breath, trying to find your damn scrunchie. It had been holding your hair together all day like a miracle and now your hair was sticking to your neck like you'd been hit with a garden hose.
The sun was long gone, but the last batch of burgers hissed on the grill like angry cats. Your best friend Stephanie Villarreal lounged against the picnic table, lazily carding her fingers through Henry Bowers’ greasy hair like he was some kind of summer camp Adonis.
“This party’s the best one yet, Y/N,” she sighed, totally blissed out.
You blew a strand of hair out of your eyes and snorted. “Duh. It’s my party.”
Henry groaned dramatically, fanning himself like some drunk Southern belle. “It’s also the hottest. I’m dying.”
You sat back on your heels and raised a brow. “What? You weren’t hot last year when Belch came tearing outta the woods in that Bigfoot mask and made you piss yourself?”
Stephanie cracked up. “Oh my god, I forgot about that!”
“I didn’t piss myself,” Henry muttered, rolling onto his side.
“You definitely pissed yourself,” you and Steph said in unison, then lost it laughing.
“I thought it was your dad!” Steph wheezed. “Like, I legitimately thought we were about to get murdered with a spatula.”
“Mr. Huggins and his infamous sense of idiocy,” Henry muttered, but he was smiling, rubbing Steph’s leg as she leaned down to kiss him. She used to be so uptight about PDA. Not anymore. Now they made out in public like horny raccoons.
You pretended to keep searching for your scrunchie, but really, you just didn’t want to watch them tongue each other. Not that you minded. You were happy for her. But seeing people all wrapped up in each other just made you feel... itchy. Not lonely, exactly. Just... aware. Of your own skin. Of the fact that your last hookup had been months ago and barely worth remembering.
You stood up so fast you nearly toppled over, brushing dirt off your knees and squinting past the flickering light of your mom’s old paper lanterns.
At the end of the dirt drive, a pair of headlights cut out and a tall silhouette stepped out of a van, stretching like a cat. You’d know that lazy slouch anywhere.
“Patrick!” you hollered, throwing your arms in the air. “Holy shit, you actually showed up!”
You sprinted barefoot across the lawn, your feet slapping the dirt, boobs bouncing in your tank top, and launched yourself at Patrick Hockstetter like he was both God and a six-pack of wine coolers.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as you crashed into him, arms slung around his neck, the momentum sending him stumbling a step back.
“I missed you, dumbass,” you said loudly, planting a kiss on his cheek that barely missed his mouth. You smelled like sweat, sunscreen, and that cheap vanilla body spray you swore that made boys lose their minds. “You smell like a gas station.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, wrapping his arms around you with fake tenderness, “you smell like beer and Aqua Net, so who’s the real winner here?”
Then he did something he always did when he thought no one was looking—he bent his head down, all faux-casual, and kissed you. Right on the mouth.
And—yeah. You kissed him back. Like, really kissed him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind yourself why you didn’t go steady with anyone. Why would you? You already had Patrick’s mouth on demand like it was a jukebox and you were the only one with a quarter.
You pulled away first, but only by a breath. “We’re in public, Hockstetter.”
“And yet,” he said, his voice low and cocky, “you kissed me first, in case you forgot.”
“Only ‘cause you looked like shit and I felt bad for you.”
Before you could sass him back, a familiar voice hollered from the backyard.
“Hockstetter!” Vic Criss.
You took a quick, guilty step back, wiping your mouth like you’d just tasted battery acid. Patrick’s hands dropped from your waist like nothing happened. Like they hadn’t been right there a second ago, his thumbs brushing skin under your shirt.
Vic jogged up the drive with Moose Sadler and Lindsey Sharp behind him. Moose was hauling a guitar and Lindsey looked like she’d just stepped off a Whitesnake album cover—tight jeans, teased hair, tits up to her chin.
“Barbecue started at four,” Vic said, mock-scolding. “Ever heard of showing up on time?”
“I show up fashionably,” Patrick drawled, already sliding into his cocky rhythm.
“You missed all the food,” Moose added, patting his lean stomach like a toddler. He gave Patrick a lopsided handshake and nodded at you. “Y/N.”
Lindsey linked her arm with Patrick’s like she was claiming him in front of everyone. “You’re lucky I missed you,” she said, pouting. “Rehearsals have been such a shitshow without you.”
Patrick was still looking at you. He hadn’t looked away once since the kiss.
You’d already turned around, strutting back across the yard with your middle finger casually tossed over your shoulder.
You found your scrunchie—finally. Snagged under a folding chair, dirty as hell. You dusted it off on your tank top, muttered “close enough,” and looped it back into your hair. Not like anyone cared what you looked like tonight. Except maybe Patrick. And maybe you wanted him to.
But you were done thinking about that. Done. So done. Completely—
…God, he looked good.
He was posted up at the picnic table now, legs spread like he owned the entire goddamn mountain, dark hair messy from the road, sunglasses tucked in his collar. Lindsey Sharp was perched beside him, leaning in close, talking about rehearsal and music festivals, twirling her hair like a twelve-year-old. You watched her touch his shoulder and wanted to rip your own hair out, but instead, you just popped open a warm beer and dropped down under the old apple tree like a feral little sprite.
You weren’t sulking. You were lurking. Big difference.
From your spot in the shadows, you watched him laugh at something Moose said. He did that thing he always did—ran a hand through his hair, leaned back like he was bored, but still listening. His eyes were scanning the crowd. Looking. For something.
You hated that you liked that. Hated it like you hated summer sweat behind your knees. Like mosquito bites under your bra strap.
You rolled the beer can across your forehead and muttered, “Cool down, slut,” to yourself.
You didn’t want Patrick Hockstetter to be your boyfriend. He’d be the world’s worst boyfriend. He wouldn’t call back, he’d definitely flirt with your friends, and he’d probably finger you in a movie theater then tell Vic about it before the credits rolled.
But God, the way he kissed.
Your fingers brushed your lips.
You weren’t in love. Please. You just hadn’t been kissed like that in a while. And not by someone who knew how to do it mean. Patrick kissed like he had something to prove. Like his mouth was a loaded weapon and he wanted to see what you’d do if he pulled the trigger.
And yeah, you sometimes kissed. You sometimes did more. But there were no strings. No pet names. No “what are we” bullshit. Just sweat, teeth, and bad decisions made under the buzz of lantern lights and too much Coke mixed with whatever Vic poured into the jungle juice.
You took a long sip and smirked.
Whatever Lindsey thought she had going on, Patrick was yours when it counted.
But then you saw it—Patrick glancing toward the porch. Not at you. Past you. At the screen door.
You tensed. Steph and Henry were back to their weird couple routine—her draped on his lap, his hand halfway up her back pocket. But Patrick’s gaze was sharp, unreadable.
You’d seen it the night of prom when he’d walked you to the bleachers and asked if you wanted a cigarette and then kissed you before you could say yes or no. When your eyes were still swollen from crying over Peter Gordon, and Patrick didn’t care. He kissed you anyway, like kissing you was the solution to everybody else’s mistakes.
You hadn’t let him do it again for weeks.
Until one night, in the back of his van, he just said, “You’re gonna let me, right?” and you did. And you kept doing it. Because it was easy. Because it was fun. Because it didn’t mean anything.
Except maybe it kind of did.
But tonight? You weren’t gonna think about that. You weren’t gonna sit under this stupid apple tree like some tragic prom queen waiting for her dirtbag almost-boyfriend to make eye contact.
You slammed the rest of your beer and stood up. Your legs felt electric, wobbly and charged.
If Patrick wanted to play games? You were the ref.
You jumped. Belch Huggins had crept up under the tree like a giant lumbering bear, a red cup in one hand, a hot dog in the other.
“You scared the shit outta me,” you said, smacking him in the chest.
“I bring gifts,” he said solemnly, holding out the hot dog like an offering. “Also, you look like you’re gonna light someone on fire.”
You snatched the hot dog and took a savage bite. “I might.”
He sat down cross-legged and squinted toward Patrick. “Lindsey’s trying real hard to get banged behind the shed.”
“Let her. I hope she pulls a hamstring.”
Belch snorted. “Jesus, you're mean when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” you said through your mouthful. “I’m territorial. Difference.”
But before Belch could psychoanalyze that, Henry Bowers leapt up on the picnic table like an overcooked firework.
“EVERYBODY SHUT THE HELL UP!” he shouted. “I have a beautiful, life-changing idea!”
“Oh Christ,” you muttered.
Vic cut the music. Conversations died down. Steph looked like she wanted to crawl into the grill and cook herself.
Henry pointed toward the trees behind the cabin like he was Moses on a Red Bull bender. “Full moon. Ninety degrees. Everyone’s half-naked anyway. I say we go swimming.”
A pause. Then a roar of approval.
“What?” she blinked, stepping toward him. “Henry, it’s illegal to swim after dark. It’s a state park!”
Henry jumped off the table and grabbed her hand. “Oh, come on. Live a little.”
“There’s no lifeguard. It’s dangerous,” she said, glancing at you like you were gonna back her up.
You just raised your brows and licked mustard off your thumb. “What? Sounds fun.”
Steph stared. “You’re kidding.”
“Babe,” you said sweetly, “you’re the one who brought the red bikini and told me not to let you chicken out. Don’t get all valedictorian on us now.”
Henry gave you an approving nod. “Y/N gets it. Steph, you can stay here with the potato salad, or you can come make bad decisions like the rest of us.”
Steph frowned. You turned, tossed your hot dog in the grass, and started walking toward the path that led down to Fox Lake.
You didn’t wait for anyone.
Behind you, there was laughter. Footsteps. Yelling. Someone shouted, “Skinny dip!” and someone else screamed. You heard Belch yell, “If I see one snake I’m punching it,” which made zero sense.
The walk to Fox Lake was chaos.
Flip-flops slapping, beer cans cracking, Steph’s absence hanging heavy like someone forgot to pack the main dish. You kept drifting further back in the group, letting couples pair off like it was romantic full moon night instead of illegally trespassing at a state park.
You were frustrated. And horny. And hot. And not in the good way.
Patrick had been walking up ahead with Vic, going off about some band Tamara Foster’s cousin was in—some guy from Toronto, which apparently made him cool by default. Patrick had barely looked at you. Not once. Not after that kiss. Not after you stripped to your bra like a pinup in front of half the party. It was like he just…flipped some switch in his head.
Henry took off ahead, yelling something about testing the water. Translation: he needed to go cry-sprint in the woods because Steph stayed behind. Honestly, you could sympathize.
One by one, the rest peeled off like it was a scavenger hunt for places to hook up. Marissa and Randy heard an owl and disappeared. Kristy and Matt vanished by the canoe racks. Gard and Alexa were already halfway to the raft. Which left you, Vic, and Patrick. Excellent. A dream throuple, you thought sarcastically.
Vic slapped on his headphones, mumbled something about going to the rental shack, and wandered off. Patrick jogged after him, yelling “Yo, wait up!” like you hadn’t just spent the entire walk mentally planning your slow-burn eye contact reunion.
You stood there next to a trash can, flip-flops shuffling uselessly, watching them walk away.
You almost turned around. Back to the cabin. Back to Steph’s judging eyes and the ice chest full of disappointment. But the lake was quiet, and you were tired of pretending like you didn’t care. So you took a deep breath, muttered “fuck it” under your breath, and stomped down the trail toward the dock.
The water glittered black and silver. The air smelled like pine needles and cheap body spray. You peeled off your clothes, tossed them in a damp pile on the dock, and stood there in your low-cut one-piece swimsuit like an angsty Miss America runner-up.
You dipped one toe in. It was cold. Perfect. Bracing. Like a slap in the face you didn’t know you needed.
You stood at the edge of the dock, fiddling with your hair, trying to get it up in a messy bun with your scrunchie, like that was going to help any part of your mood.
“Don’t,” someone said behind you.
You jumped a little. Spun around. Patrick was there.
Barefoot. Shirtless. In a pair of old cutoff jeans, ones that were probably once pants he ruined trying to acid-wash like Kurt Cobain. His shirt was balled up in one hand, the other one reaching for your scrunchie.
“What are you doing?” you asked, heart skipping.
He stepped forward and gently tugged the scrunchie from your fingers, tossed it on the dock. “Just leave it down. You look better when you’re not trying so hard.”
You blinked at him. “Wow, okay, backhanded much?”
He smirked. “I meant it in a good way.”
“Oh.” Your voice sounded stupid and small and not at all like the girl you were ten minutes ago.
Patrick’s gaze dropped down to your lips, then your throat. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth to say yes, but instead you stepped straight back off the dock. One second you were standing there. Next second: splash.
You hit the water like a drunk otter, ass first. Your swimsuit wedged up instantly. You came up coughing, gasping, kicking. “Jesus Christ.”
Then a bigger splash. Patrick.
His arm snaked around your waist before you could even yell. “Are you okay?! Can you—?”
“I can swim, you dick!” you yelled, choking a little, already laughing.
Patrick looked worried—like real, human emotion worried—which somehow made you more annoyed. “You didn’t have to go full Baywatch.”
“You fell,” he said, breathless, hair soaked and sticking to his face. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Let me drown like a hot mermaid,” you said dramatically, flipping your wet hair. “It would’ve been poetic.”
He barked out a laugh and let go, floating beside you. “You’re such a freak.”
“You’re the one who made me fall.”
“You tripped on your own clumsy feet.”
“You distracted me with your…face.”
Patrick tilted his head, that lazy half-smile tugging at his mouth. “My face?”
“Yeah,” you said, swimming closer. “It’s annoying.”
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “You’re annoying.”
You shoved him underwater.
He came up sputtering and laughing. The moonlight reflected off his wet skin.
“Jumping in all at once is better,” Patrick said, floating in front of you, legs kicking lazy circles. “Rips the Band-Aid off. You don’t think. You just... do it.”
You smirked, wiping water from your face. “You would say that. You’ve probably never hesitated in your life.”
He shrugged, winked. “No one calls you a chicken if you jump first.”
You raised your brows. “Oh, please. You love when people call you names. It gives you a reason to be a menace.”
You were treading water in front of the ladder now, half-on, half-off. The wood scraped your lower back, but you didn’t move. Not with Patrick right there—arms braced on either side of your head, hands gripping the ladder like he had you caged in.
You were talking shit, but your voice was a little breathier now. A little too fast.
“It’s not about being cold,” you said. “It’s the other stuff. Hitting your head. Not being able to see the bottom. That irrational, childhood 'oh-god-what’s-under-me' dread. It sticks.”
He tilted his head. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You think too much.”
“You don’t think enough.”
You meant it as a joke. But it didn’t land like one.
He wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching you, water beading down his face, chest rising slow with every breath.
“You shouldn’t be so scared all the time,” he said quietly.
You snorted. “Wow. Thanks for the groundbreaking therapy, Dr. Hockstetter.”
“No, seriously.” His tone was gentle, almost too gentle, and it made your stomach twist. “You don’t have to be scared around me.”
The moonlight turned the lake silver around you. Your heartbeat thudded in your throat.
You looked down, arms crossing over your chest like that could protect you from what he might say next. Or from what you might.
“I’m not scared of the water,” you muttered.
“What are you scared of?”
You glanced up. He was too close. Always too close.
“I’m scared of…” you started, but stopped. Your throat was dry.
The moon made the lake look like silver oil, slick and rippling. You floated in it like a dirty secret.
Your arms crossed over your chest—not out of modesty, but defense. Patrick was watching you like he could see through it. Through you.
“I’m not scared of the water,” you muttered.
He drifted closer. “What are you scared of?”
You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t know. But because he already did.
His hand came up slowly and pressed a finger against your mouth, just soft enough to make your pulse bang against your ribs. He didn’t speak. Just looked. Then his hand moved, slow and familiar—through your wet hair, down your shoulder, tracing the strap of your suit like it was something fragile.
He touched your throat. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. You didn’t stop him.
The ladder dug into your back, grounding you as his body leaned into yours. Hard and warm and real. The space between your faces vanished.
Right before his lips met yours, he whispered, “You don’t have to be scared.”
You blinked once. "Of you?"
He grinned. “Of how bad you want me.”
Then you kissed him. Fast. Hot. Mean. Like you were mad about it. And it didn’t stop.
Not until your legs were tangled, the ladder squeaking under your weight, and you had to whisper, breathless, “Okay, okay—clothes stay on. We’re not giving Lindsey a fucking show.”
He laughed, low and thick in his chest. “You’re no fun.”
“You’re all the fun I need,” you shot back.
And then you climbed the ladder and didn’t wait for him.
The last few notes of “Dream a Little Dream of Me” floated across the lawn. Lindsey leaned back against a pine tree like she was trying to become one with it, eyes closed, voice syrupy sweet. Moose plucked along on his guitar like he was born with strings for bones.
The crowd gave a soft ripple of applause. Belch clapped the hardest, but didn’t smile.
“Lindsey, you gotta do Show Boat or something,” he said. “That was insane.”
Lindsey offered a polite smile, already glancing toward the driveway like she expected someone. “Moose is the star. I just sing so he doesn’t have to talk.”
“Yeah, well—” Vic started, but then froze. “Oh. Speak of the devil.”
You and Patrick were walking up the drive.
Wet hair. Bare shoulders. Linked arms. Matching smirks. Like two people who had just done something they weren’t supposed to—and liked it.
“Hey Hockstetter!” Henry called out, tone way too loud. “We thought you drowned!”
Patrick didn’t even glance at him. He just squeezed your hand and kept walking.
Gard moved to stop Henry. “Let it go, man.”
But Henry turned to Belch anyway, voice low and bitter. “Y/N always tells you everything. What’s going on?”
Belch hesitated. His eyes flicked to you. Then to Patrick. His jaw twitched.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Ask them.”
“Been going on long?” Henry asked, trying to sound bored and failing.
Vic answered before anyone else could. “Since about an hour ago. Maybe less.”
Then, quieter, “About time.”
"You guys are worse than girls," Jen Niles said, smacking Belch’s arm. “God, you act like she eloped. They're just holding hands.”
Belch didn’t say anything.
Jen blinked at him. “Wait. Are you okay?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She gave his arm another squeeze. He flinched like she’d startled him. “It’s not the first time friends have… you know.” Her voice softened. “Fallen for each other.”
Belch looked at her finally. His face was still slack, eyes distant, like he was watching something that hadn’t finished playing out yet.
She pulled him away from the others, into the shadows near the driveway. “Reginald,” she said again, quieter. “Talk to me. Are you upset about Y/N and Patrick?”
That snapped him out of it. “What? No.” He snorted, bent down and started fidgeting with his shoelace like it owed him money.
He stood up fast and kissed her. It wasn’t fast and hungry, or slow and sweet—it was still. Just still. Like holding something in place that wanted to move. When he pulled away, he tapped her glasses gently back up the bridge of her nose. His voice was hoarse. “Don’t be ridiculous. Since you, I haven’t thought about Y/N like that. Not even once.”
Jen searched his face. “Then what is it?”
He shook his head and gave a weak tug at his baseball cap. “There’s something off,” he said, eyes scanning the driveway where you and Patrick had disappeared from view. “But it’s not about you. Or us.”
Jen crossed her arms, voice lowering. “Is it something to do with him?”
Belch didn’t answer. He finally looked at her. Not panicked. But serious. Like his stomach knew something his brain hadn’t caught up with yet.
Belch watched Jen disappear into the house, then scanned the yard like he was trying to find somewhere to breathe. He made a move toward the hammock, but spotted Steph headed that way too. She was drifting toward Henry, who stood by the volleyball net like a lonely statue, spinning a deflated ball on one finger.
Steph touched his arm—barely—and handed him a beer. Henry took it, looked at her like he might say something, then set the can on the ground and turned away.
Steph kept walking. Right toward the hammock.
You were standing barefoot on the grass, cheeks pink, tank top clinging to your chest like it was doing damage control. Your hair was damp, tangled, and your mouth looked like it had been kissed within an inch of its life. You looked... alive again. Really alive.
Belch blinked at you, then gave a weak smile. “Y/N, you look—”
He stopped himself. Cleared his throat. “You look good.”
You bit your lip, eyes darting down. “Yeah, uh…”
Your toe dug a shallow trench in the dirt. You looked so fidgety it was almost funny, like your own skin didn’t fit right anymore.
“I’ve got a couple minutes now,” you said. “If you wanna talk or whatever. Before, I couldn’t—I just…”
“Don’t explain,” Belch cut in. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. Not really.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought you and Patrick were just... you know. Friends.”
You grinned, crooked and dangerous. “Me too. Until like... ten minutes ago.”
He choked on a breath, but you grabbed his hand before he could spiral.
“Come on,” you said, tugging him toward the rusted swing set your brother never used anymore. “We can talk. Or not. But I need to move or I’m gonna combust.”
You plopped down on the swing and started swaying slowly, your toes carving half-moons into the dirt. Belch sat on the one beside you, elbows on his knees, watching you out of the corner of his eye.
You weren’t looking at him, though.
You were watching Patrick, who was across the yard helping Vic load Moose’s sound equipment into the back of the truck. His shirt was still off. His back glistened under the porch lights.
“I think I broke my own rule,” you murmured.
Belch sighed. “Which one?”
You looked at him, deadpan. “The ‘no kissing friends with jawlines sharp enough to cut you in half’ rule.”
He gave a tight, short laugh. “Yeah, that one’s tricky.”
Your eyes were locked on Patrick—muscles flexing as he lifted Vic’s busted amp into the back of Moose’s pickup.
You kicked off the ground, letting the swing sway. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when your brain still tasted lake water and Patrick’s hands were still all over your skin.
Belch cleared his throat. “Uh, Y/N…”
You tilted your head toward him, absentmindedly tracing the chain of the swing around your fingers.
“I think you were right earlier. Whatever I wanted to talk about? It’s not urgent. It can wait till next week. When you’re back in Derry, just call me, okay?”
You frowned slightly but didn’t press. “Yeah, sure. Next week.”
He stood up, brushing rust from his pants and adjusting his cap like a nervous tic. He walked across the seesaw, wobbling like a clown in slow motion, then hopped off and offered a weak grin.
“I told Jen I’d help inside. She’ll kill me if I bail.”
“Go,” you said, spinning slowly on the swing. “Tell her I said you were being a noble idiot.”
He gave a little half-wave and turned. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched as he walked fast toward the house, or the way he kept his head down until the screen door slapped shut behind him.
He didn’t go to Jen. He didn’t help with drinks or ice or the spilled bag of popcorn on the floor.
He went to the far corner of the porch, collapsed into a busted wicker chair, and stared through the screen at you like someone watching a slow-motion accident.
Patrick was already walking toward you. You didn’t see him at first. Not until his shadow passed over your legs and he stepped behind the swing.
“You looked like you were about to throw yourself into orbit,” he said, hands gripping the chains.
“Only if you don’t mind me screaming bloody murder.”
He leaned down, real close to your ear. “You screaming doesn’t scare me.”
You turned to say something cocky back, but he was already pushing—gently at first, then higher, and higher, until your shrieks bounced off the trees and had you wheezing with laughter, feet kicking like a maniac.
Belch watched from the shadows. Your hair was flying. You looked wild and happy and dangerous.
You looked happy. And that scared him more than anything.
Because Patrick Hockstetter was dangerous. Not in the funny, Vic Criss sense. Not in the pull-my-fire-alarm Henry Bowers way. Patrick didn’t care about people. He didn’t feel things. And whatever was happening between you two? It wasn’t harmless.
Belch knew that look Patrick had. He’d seen it before—when Patrick tormented a kid in middle school until he transferred. When he laughed during a fight. When he smiled too long after a girl cried.
You weren’t just some girl he kissed in the lake. You were a game.
And Belch had made it worse. Because this morning, at the Center Street Drug Store, Pete Gordon had shown up—nervous, pale, hands in his pockets like he was fourteen again.
“Is she seeing anyone?” Pete had asked. “Is it serious?”
And Belch—stupid, protective Belch—had said, “Not yet. But let me talk to her first.”
He didn’t say your name. He didn’t say Patrick’s. He just hoped maybe, maybe, you’d want something safer. Someone who meant it. Because he knew you and Patrick would never get together, not really
But now he was watching you twirl in the swing, your head tilted back in full-blown girlish delight—and Patrick was behind you, smirking like he owned the night.
“Goddamn it, Y/N,” he whispered. “Please don’t fall for him.”
Because Patrick Hockstetter wasn’t the kind of boy you fell for.
He was the kind of boy you disappeared into.
Patrick let the swing slow on its own. His hand still gripped the chain beside your shoulder, warm and steady.
You didn’t look back at him, not yet. You were too afraid he’d be looking at you like he meant something. Or worse—like he didn’t.
The party was still alive behind you—music, laughter, the occasional beer can cracking open like a gunshot in the dark—but you weren’t really there anymore. You were in that space between skin and want, between the night you thought you’d have and the one you’d ended up with.
You leaned your head back against the chain, your voice low. “We’re never gonna be boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Patrick didn’t answer. You didn’t need him to. You didn’t believe in fairy tales. You believed in moments. In heat. In two a.m. mistakes that tasted like power. You and Patrick weren’t a story. You were a pause. An in-between.
Sure, you’d kissed him. Sloppy, hands-all-over-each-other kisses. You’d straddled him once in the back of Moose’s truck, dared him to make you moan with your clothes still on—and he almost had. Almost.
But that's it, save for tonight. So far. And now that he’d touched your waist in the water, now that you’d let him mouth your name like it was a dare... you knew it was coming.
You weren’t scared of that. You were scared of what came after. Because Patrick wasn’t meant to hold anything gentle. And you weren’t meant to fall softly.
You pressed your bare foot against the dirt and let the swing drift to a stop. He still hadn’t let go. And neither would you.
