Rip me Apart

Matt

I’m not a complicated motherfucker. Give me a stiff drink, a loaded camera, and a woman who’s actually willing to get filthy—like real filthy, the kind that makes priests cross themselves and soccer moms lock their doors—and I’m golden. Fucking content. Problem is, finding a woman who doesn’t chicken out the second you press her up against a wall and call her what she begged to be called is rarer than a goddamn unicorn deepthroating a rainbow.

They all say they want it. Oh, they love the fantasy. “I’m super into exploring,” they purr, eyelids heavy, voice dripping like syrup on bare skin. Or, “You can call me whatever you want, I like it rough.” And I buy it like a fucking idiot every single time, thinking, Alright. Finally. One of the wild ones. A real ride-or-die slut who doesn’t cry after being called that to her face.

And then—boom—inevitably, it unravels. Like tonight.

She had it all. Long blonde hair, curves you’d sell your mother to trace with your tongue, lips like they were made to wrap around cock and grin about it. She gave me those eyes across the bar, all hunger and heat, and I thought, Okay, here we go. She flirted like she wanted a collar around her throat and my fingers between her legs before the drinks were even cold. She said all the right things.

But the moment I said what she claimed she wanted to hear—called her my needy little slut—she turned on a fucking dime.

“There’s no way I’m doing that while you called me a slut,” she snaps, yanking her top down over tits that I hadn’t even gotten a good grip on yet. Her face lit up red like I’d just whipped it out and pissed on her grandmother’s grave.

I sit there on the edge of the bed, naked, hard, and completely fucking stunned. “You said you liked dirty talk,” I growl, but she’s already in full hurricane mode, stomping around like I dropped a racial slur instead of a goddamn kink keyword.

“You’re a fucking pig,” she hisses, wrangling her skirt up those legs that, frankly, didn’t look half as good when they were leaving me cold and cock-blocked.

“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, leaning back, palms over my face like I’m trying to scrub away the whole evening. “It’s just a fucking word, princess.”

But she’s gone. The click of her heels down the hall is sharper than gunfire, echoes like judgment. The door slams and I’m left with twisted sheets, an unspent hard-on, and a cigarette I don’t even want anymore.

This is the exact bullshit that keeps me from dating. Every time it’s the same script: tease, flirt, make promises—and then slam the brakes the second things get real. I’m not trying to tie a girl up and feed her broken glass. I’m not looking to brand them or beat the shit out of anyone. I just want a woman who doesn’t flinch when I call her my dirty little whore and make her feel like one. A woman who understands that sex isn’t supposed to be some polite tea party with coordinated moaning and safe-for-daytime-TV dialogue. It’s sweat, it’s spit, it’s hands in hair and teeth on skin and yes, fucking filthy words.

But no. Instead I’m left with the same shit every time: Oh my god, how dare you, and then I’m the villain, the degenerate, the walking red flag with a cock and a bad attitude.

“Un-fucking-believable,” I snarl, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand. No glass. Just a swig. Warm burn down the throat, something real, at least. The whiskey doesn’t fake it. Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t scream and run when I talk dirty to it.

I tuck my cock back in my boxers, half-limp and still pissed off, and shuffle out into the living room. Jules is parked on the couch, cross-legged like a smug little Buddha, spoon buried in a mug of ice cream that’s probably half-melted. She doesn’t even look up when Miss High-Horse slams the door like she’s auditioning for a soap opera. No flinch, no raised brow. Just one hand on the remote, spoon in her mouth, eyes locked on the TV like nothing happened.

That’s Jules. Cold-blooded. Unshakeable. Ice queen with a heart that occasionally thaws when I’ve fucked up bad enough to amuse her.

I throw myself onto the opposite side of the couch, the old leather groaning beneath me like even it’s tired of my shit. “That was a fucking disaster,” I grumble, head dropping back against the cushions.

She doesn’t even pause her spoon. “Another one bites the dick, huh?”

“Christ,” I mutter, rubbing my temples like maybe I can exorcise the memory. “Same bullshit. Starts out all heat and heavy breathing, ends with her bolting like I asked her to wear a Nazi uniform.”

Jules snorts, and I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Maybe don’t lead with calling her a slut, genius.”

I glare. “She fucking said she liked it.”

“Sure. And I say I love cardio, but you don’t see me signing up for a goddamn marathon.”

“Don’t start with me, Jules.”

“I never start it,” she says, voice syrupy with that mocking tone she uses when she’s about to ruin me with five words or less. “I’m just here to witness the carnage.”

She sticks the spoon in her mouth and sucks slow, loud, obnoxious. Like she’s making a point. Like she’s daring me to fucking snap.

Jules has been my ride-or-die since college. Met her at some party where I was still pretending I gave a shit about my father’s legacy. She saw through it immediately—saw the camera I wasn’t showing anyone, the resentment I hadn’t admitted even to myself. I tried to fuck her, of course. I was a dumbass back then. She laughed, poured a beer on my head, then helped me back to my dorm when I passed out on the stairs. Didn’t leave. Bought me coffee. Stayed. Who the hell does that?

Only Jules.

She’s the one who shoved me out of business school and into photography, said, “Matt, you’re shit at lying. Do what you’re good at: watching people, catching the moment right before they break.” And fuck, she was right.

She came from worse than me—poverty, a broken mother, a dad with hands that didn’t know boundaries—and she still climbed her way into some high-rise gig where she gets paid to tell men twice her age they’re wrong. I watched her come up swinging, never once blinked. All teeth and caffeine and spite. Now she’s all grown up and terrifying.

She looks over at me, finally, eyebrows raised. “Why do you even bother?”

“What, dating?”

She smirks. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Fuck you, Jules.”

She drags the spoon from her lips, slow, smirking like the devil herself. “You wish, asshole.”

Classic fucking Jules. Always quick with the comebacks, sharp enough to draw blood, cool as iced-over steel. Nothing shakes her—god knows I’ve tried. Throw a tantrum, bring home a screamer, crash on the couch with whiskey breath and regret oozing out my pores, and she’ll just raise one fucking brow and keep eating her ice cream like I’m background noise.

We sit in silence, a heavy, familiar quiet that doesn’t need filling. The kind that settles between two people who’ve seen each other at their absolute worst and still share the couch anyway. A couple minutes crawl by, and then she grabs the remote, one-handed like a queen claiming her throne, and flips the channel over to one of those classic car restoration shows we both actually give a shit about. Finally. Something worth watching, instead of that dumpster-fire reality TV she had on before, full of fake tan, fake tits, fake orgasms, and somehow still less real than a cartoon.

I glance sideways as she sinks deeper into the cushions, legs curled under her like she owns the entire fucking planet—and let’s be real, she kind of does. Technically, she owns the apartment, her name’s the only one on the lease. I pay rent, sure, but she’s the one who made this place feel like a home instead of just a roof over my regrets.

Her hair’s blunt and cropped short, sharp around the edges like she cut it herself with a knife and a bad mood. And somehow, that look that would make ninety-nine percent of women look like they’re trying way too fucking hard? Jules makes it work without even blinking. She doesn’t just pull it off—she wears it like armor, like defiance, like she’s daring the whole world to try and give her shit about it so she can rip them apart with one line and a smirk.

It’s the bone structure. That’s what it is. Her cheekbones could slice glass, her jawline’s a weapon, and when she’s pissed, she looks like some old god brought to life just to ruin your whole fucking lineage. She’s not pretty. Pretty is delicate. Jules is viciously gorgeous, cut from marble and lit with blue fire. That face? That fucking face could cause riots. Sculptors would lose their minds trying to carve it, sobbing because they couldn’t get the expression right—the one that says, You’re not worth my time, but I’m watching you anyway, just in case you amuse me.

And those eyes—fuck me running—those eyes. Piercing blue, clear as mountain ice, sharp enough to find every flaw you didn’t even know you had and stare at it until you crumble. They don’t blink much. That’s what I noticed first. When Jules locks eyes with you, it’s like being nailed to a wall. No flinching. No fidgeting. Just that gaze, unwavering, a slow, silent dismantling. It’s not even anger. It’s worse. It’s understanding. She knows you. You can’t fake shit with her. And if you try, she’ll smile like the devil just whispered in her ear and then carve your ego apart with surgical precision.

That was the moment she got me, back at that party. Not the laugh, not the sarcasm—those came later, like the second wave of a storm. It was that face, that look. That I’ll chew you up and spit you out and you’ll still crawl back for more look. And god help me, I followed her around that house like a brain-dead puppy, hard and hopeless, drunk off her and the shitty frat punch, thinking maybe—just maybe—I had a shot.

Too bad she’s fucking bulletproof now. Immune. Has been for years.

Jules is the one woman I’ve never been able to bullshit. The one who didn’t flinch when she found out what I walked away from—the country clubs, the inheritance, the name that still echoes in old-money circles like a curse. She didn’t care about any of that. Didn’t treat me like a broken trust fund with a camera fetish. She saw me blackout drunk, stinking of vomit and ego rot, and stayed. Stayed. She wiped the sick off my chin, left Advil on the nightstand, and brought me coffee. Like I was worth saving.

No one does that. No one gives a fuck like that.

Except Jules.

Now it’s years later, and nothing’s changed in the ways that count. I’m still a mess with a camera and too many demons. She’s still sharp as sin and twice as addictive. We’re parked on our ratty-ass couch in this glorified shoebox of an apartment, watching two grizzled assholes tear apart a ’67 Mustang like it’s sacred scripture, and I can’t help thinking this right here? This fucking moment? Might be the only kind of peace I ever get.

No games. No pretending. Just Jules, the flicker of TV light across her face, and the quiet thrum of our own broken rhythms beating in sync.

And goddammit, I don’t even know what I’d do if she ever left.

“You still brooding about your date?” Jules asks, eyes fixed on the screen, tone casual as fuck, like she didn’t just casually jab a dagger into my side without looking.

“Nah,” I lie straight through my fucking teeth. “Blonde chicks aren’t worth the trouble.”

She snorts, loud and sharp. “Neither are brunettes, trust me. I’ve fucked enough of both to know.”

And there it is. Us in a nutshell. Two jaded fuckups, so cynical we’ve practically rotted from the inside out, sprawled on a battered couch like we’re royalty watching peasants weld together glory from garbage. It’s the same every night: the glow of the screen, the hum of tired machines, and the two of us marinating in our own bad choices.

“How’s your gallery project?” she asks, deadpan, eyes never leaving the TV. Like the question’s a side note, not the kind of thing that’s been chewing me up and spitting me out for weeks now.

Jules is the only one who gives a flying fuck about what I do. Not pretend-to-care, not that fake smile and “oh that’s interesting” bullshit people toss around at dinner parties. She gets it. She was there the night I torched my future in a boardroom and pissed on my pedigree, swapping pinstripes for shutter clicks. She didn’t blink. Just handed me another drink and told me to stop being a little bitch about it and get to work.

My parents? They can suck a whole goddamn yacht full of dicks. They don’t give a single shit about the photos I take or the people I capture. I’ve shot protests, wildfires, sex clubs, deathbeds—and they still think I’m just playing with daddy’s money. To them, I’m the fuck-up who flushed the Brandt name down the drain and came back with nothing but ink-stained fingers and a chip on his shoulder.

“I’m making progress,” I say, the lie tasting stale on my tongue. Truth is, I’ve been sitting in front of the same goddamn light table for two weeks, squinting at shots and hating every single one. Nothing looks right. It all feels off, like I’m trying too hard and not hard enough at the same time. Like I’m jerking off for praise and forgetting how to come.

Jules side-eyes me, one brow cocked in that trademark “don’t bullshit me, asshole” look she perfected sometime around year one of us living together. “Uh-huh. You sound thrilled.”

I bark out a laugh that’s more snarl than amusement, sharp and bitter. “What can I say? I’ve got a lot riding on this one.”

“You always do,” she says, stabbing her spoon into the ice cream with the force of someone delivering a sermon. She points it at me like it’s a weapon, the end dripping like punctuation. “And you always fucking pull it off. You’re a miserable bastard, but you don’t quit.”

I shake my head, the smirk pulling at my mouth before I can stop it. “Thanks for the pep talk, Coach. Real inspiring.”

“Anytime,” she mutters around another mouthful of ice cream, like I didn’t just bare a sliver of my soul and she didn’t just stitch it up with a joke and a spoon.

That’s Jules. Doesn’t hand out false hope. Doesn’t tell me things’ll work out when she knows damn well my family’s never gonna stop treating me like the black sheep who ran off to join the fucking circus. She doesn’t insult me with that they’ll come around eventually bullshit. She knows the truth: they won’t. They’ve got too much reputation and too little spine. They’d rather throw a few million at some clean-water charity in Ghana than spend five minutes looking at the world through my lens. They’ll polish their images while mine gathers dust.

To them, I’m a stain. An embarrassment with a good eye and a bad attitude. A son-shaped failure they try not to mention at galas.

But Jules? Jules sees me. Not the broken parts, not the wasted potential—they’re there, sure, but she sees past it. Sees through it. She’s been calling me on my shit since the beginning, never letting me spiral too far without throwing a wrench in the gears. She’s like some foul-mouthed, whiskey-soaked anchor, keeping me from drifting straight into my own self-made abyss.

And that’s the fucked-up truth of it. I’d probably be long gone without her.

And goddammit, I think she knows it.

“You gonna let me see what you’ve got so far?” she asks, yanking me out of the depressive death-spiral in my head with the ease of someone used to cleaning up my messes. Jules always knows when to drag me back from the edge—usually with sarcasm and profanity, never with sympathy. Thank fuck for that.

“Eventually,” I mutter, head lolling back against the couch like I’m trying to merge with it. “When it doesn’t suck out loud.”

“Matt, you’re such a fucking drama queen,” she says, that goddamn laugh bubbling out of her—light, sharp, like a shot of something strong and smooth. The kind of laugh that sounds effortless, but I know damn well it took years of heartbreak and bullshit for her to carve that sound out of herself. “It’s photography, not a goddamn heart transplant. Nobody’s gonna die if your framing’s off.”

“Thanks for that, Jules. Your compassion knows no bounds.”

“Hey, I’m just saying—stop acting like your lens holds the key to world peace. You’ll figure it the fuck out. You always do.”

And just like that—no pep talk, no hand-holding—she manages to kick the weight off my chest just enough so I can breathe again. She doesn’t sugarcoat shit. Doesn’t coddle. But somehow, just hearing her say it like that makes the mountain I’ve been staring at look more like a shitty hill. Like maybe I won’t crash and burn in front of a room full of pretentious art snobs with opinions sharper than their jawlines.

That’s Jules. She doesn’t fix my shit. She just makes it suck a little less.

“How’s the corporate hellscape?” I ask, the words tasting like fucking ash in my mouth. Even just talking about her job makes me itch. Suits, boardroom circle jerks, ass-kissing executives with egos the size of their goddamn stock portfolios—it’s the exact kind of soul-sucking environment I clawed my way out of, but somehow she thrives in it. Like she’s been sharpened just right for the battlefield.

“Same old,” she says with a shrug so casual it’s borderline criminal. Like juggling sharks in a blazer is just a Tuesday. “I’ve got this event coming up, though. Black-tie, corporate schmooze-fest bullshit. I don’t think showing up alone is a good look.”

I snort, can’t stop the grin that creeps up. “You? Needing a date? What, none of those uptight little corporate fuckboys begging for a chance to kiss your boots?”

“Eat shit,” she says, and with a flick of her wrist, launches a spoonful of ice cream at me. It splats wetly onto the couch cushion between us like a melting fuck-you. She groans. “Goddammit. That’s your fault.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, watching her swipe it off with her fingers, sticky and annoyed. “I accept no responsibility for collateral dairy casualties.”

“I’m serious,” she says, licking her fingers with a grumble. “I can’t show up solo. It’s one of those events—black-tie, champagne up your ass, everyone pretending to be best friends while they mentally figure out how to bury each other without leaving fingerprints.”

“Sounds like a fucking dream,” I mutter, stretching my legs out and kicking the edge of the coffee table just to feel something. “Why don’t you just drag along one of your little corporate stooges? I’m sure they’d cream their tailored pants at the chance.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I can hear it. “Yeah, no thanks. The last thing I need is one of those chucklefucks thinking it’s an actual date. I’d end up dodging awkward boner texts and sideways glances for the next six months.”

“Valid,” I say, grabbing the half-dead bottle of whiskey off the table and tipping it back. Liquid heat, rough and honest, unlike most people we know. “So what’s the plan? You hiring a gigolo or what? I can lend you a Craigslist link.”

“Fuck you,” she laughs, slapping my thigh with the back of her spoon. “Though honestly, that might be less annoying than dealing with real people. At least you can pay a hooker to shut the fuck up.”

I grin, swirling the whiskey in the bottle like I’m making a toast to that. “Ain’t that the truth.”

She leans back, dragging a hand through her short hair, face lit by the TV glow and just a hint of the kind of weariness that even her armor can’t completely hide. But she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t whine. Just says, “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out,” like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t been single-handedly fighting uphill in a world designed to chew women up and spit them out in pantyhose and polite smiles.

That’s Jules. Always knee-deep in the shit, never asking for help, and somehow still managing to look like she’s winning. Or at least holding the high ground.

She’ll figure it out. She always fucking does.

I take another swig, whiskey burning its way down like it’s trying to carve out all the shit I don’t want to think about. Jules is still watching me—side-eyeing me like she’s waiting for a confession I’m too goddamn stubborn to give. Like if she stares long enough, I’ll spill everything. But I don’t feel like unpacking my emotional baggage tonight. The air’s already thick with enough unspoken bullshit to choke a horse.

“So, you seriously can’t find anyone to drag along?” I ask, just to kill the silence before it gets loud enough to scream.

She shrugs, scrolling her phone with that practiced detachment she wears like armor. Like she’s just passing time, not lowkey swiping through her mental Rolodex of fuckboys and failed flings. “I don’t need a fucking relationship, Matt,” she mutters. “I just need someone warm, breathing, and photogenic enough to sit next to me and fake a smile. Preferably without trying to stick their dick in me afterward.”

“Sounds like you’re already halfway to using people as props,” I say, half under my breath.

She whips her head toward me with that look—the one that could curdle milk and kill a lesser man. The one that doesn’t need a single syllable to scream shut the fuck up before I take your balls as payment. I raise my hands in mock surrender, but I don’t fucking back off.

“I’m just saying,” I continue, leaning into the fire like the idiot I am. “You could be doing better than playing dress-up in the middle of a corporate circlejerk. You’re smarter than all those coke-snorting, back-patting dickheads combined.”

She looks up, eyes sharp, slicing through the room like goddamn razors. “Oh, really? And what the fuck would you know about it?”

I lean back, stretching my legs out like I’m not seconds away from starting a fight I have no hope of winning. “I know you, Jules. You’ve got more brains in your little finger than half those suits jerking each other off for stock options. You don’t need to be arm candy at some glorified ass-kissing orgy just to keep up appearances.”

Her jaw flexes—tight, clenched like she’s biting back every insult in the book. Then she laughs. Not that nice, warm, real laugh. No. This one’s bitter as fuck. Dry. The kind of laugh people make when they’ve been let down one too many times and forgot what the real thing feels like.

“Thanks for the TED Talk, Coach Brandt,” she says, voice cool and sharp. “But I’ve been surviving just fine without your life advice. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Bullshit. She’s carrying more than she lets on, always has. I’ve seen the cracks, even if she won’t admit to them. I know how much of herself she’s stuffed into this tidy, powerful, untouchable image—just so the world won’t notice how much she’s bleeding underneath it.

But I don’t say that. I’m not a complete fucking idiot. So instead, I let the silence wrap around us again, thick and heavy and too goddamn familiar.

After a beat, I drag us back into safer waters. “So, you gonna show up solo?”

She’s quieter now, her voice a touch softer, like the edge dulled just a little. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll drag your stubborn ass along. Make you suffer through overpriced wine and awkward small talk with me.”

I raise an eyebrow, snorting. “You want me to what? Play the part of your date? No fucking chance in hell.”

She grins, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. “Why not? You’ve got the face for it. Clean up nice when you try. Put on a suit, pretend you like people, and I’ll even let you call me ‘babe’ for the night.”

“Fuck off,” I grunt, though I can’t stop the half-laugh that comes out with it. The idea’s absurd. Me, in a room full of dead-eyed social climbers, fake-smiling through clinking glasses and cloying cologne. It’s like asking a wolf to blend in with a pack of poodles.

I eye her, cracking my knuckles. “No way in hell I’m putting on a suit. Not for you, not for anyone. Don’t care if you pay me in blowjobs and bourbon.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I swear I hear them click. “It’s not like I’m proposing, jackass. One fucking night of pretending you’re not a total misanthropic shitpile.”

“One night of hell is still hell,” I mutter, draining what’s left of the bottle. The burn feels good, grounding. “Besides, you’ve got half the office creaming themselves to get a shot at being seen with you. Pick one of them and let me stay home and rot in peace.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, because nothing sounds better than escorting a horny coworker who thinks dinner and a dance means I’m signing a marriage license with my vagina. No thanks.”

“Fair,” I admit. “So what’s the plan? Bring a mannequin? Find someone off Craigslist who can smile and not shit themselves in front of a CEO?”

Jules lets out a low chuckle. “Honestly? Might be easier. At least a mannequin wouldn’t try to ‘accidentally’ brush his hand against my ass every five fucking seconds.”

I shake my head, grinning. “You? Desperate? Nah. You’ve got more options than a goddamn vending machine, Jules. You’re just too picky to bother with any of them.”

She throws her spoon at me—again. “Fuck you.”

“Not tonight,” I shoot back, smirking.

“But seriously,” she says, sitting up straighter, licking the last of her ice cream from the corner of her mouth in a way that’s definitely not helping my focus. “It’s not about needing someone. I don’t give a shit about that. I just wanna get through this night without some greasy exec looking at me like I’m his dessert.”

“Then go solo,” I say, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “Walk in like you own the place—which, let’s be real, you practically fucking do—and dare any of those overpaid dickless wonders to say a goddamn thing.”

She lifts an eyebrow, giving me that signature Jules look—the one that says I’m both insane and a little entertaining. “Right. Show up alone and instantly become the subject of ten passive-aggressive whispers and one HR inquiry. ‘Is she okay?’ ‘Do you think she’s unstable?’ ‘Maybe she’s just hard to work with.’ Fucking pass.”

“Well then, own that shit. Embrace the psycho label. Start rumors on purpose. Walk in with blood-red lipstick and a switchblade in your purse. Fuck their expectations. Blow the place up metaphorically.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

“I know,” I say, flopping back into the couch like the world’s most exhausted fuckup. “But that’s why you love me.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just smirks, slow and mean and a little dangerous. “You wish, camera boy.”

And maybe I do.

She stands up, arms stretching above her head like she owns the fucking room—and maybe she does, with the way she moves, slow and languid, like a goddamn cat who knows exactly how good she looks and exactly what kind of chaos she causes without even trying. Her shirt rides up just enough to flash that perfect strip of skin between her ribs and her waistband, and fuck me, it hits like a sucker punch to the chest. That toned little stomach, the smooth slope of her back, the way her boy shorts cling to her ass like they were custom-made just to fuck with me—it’s all too goddamn much.

And yeah, I fucking stare.

How the hell could I not? Jules is fucking gorgeous in that ruthless, effortless way that doesn’t beg for attention—it demands it. Like gravity, like a fucking black hole wrapped in sarcasm and sharp cheekbones. She doesn’t need makeup or some bullshit push-up bra. She doesn’t need to try. She walks around in a ratty t-shirt and underwear and still manages to look like something out of a fucked-up dream. And the worst part? She knows it. The bitch knows exactly what she’s doing to me, even if she pretends not to.

Sometimes—fuck, more than sometimes—I wonder if I ever had a shot. If maybe, just maybe, back when we first met, before I fucked everything sideways with alcohol and self-loathing, there was a window. A real chance at something different. But I fucked it. Like I always fucking do. I drowned the shot in whiskey and passed out on the floor with puke down my shirt while she sat beside me and made sure I didn’t choke to death on my own pathetic failure.

Goddamn it, why the fuck did I drink so much that night?

She was right there. Willing. Interested. Hell, I could see it in her eyes back then—something wild, something curious. And I ruined it. Buried it under a landslide of daddy issues and wasted potential. I had the one woman who saw me for exactly what I was and didn’t flinch—and I blew it. Maybe if we’d fucked that night, it would’ve ruined everything. Maybe it would’ve been too much, too fast, and we’d have burned out before we even lit up. Maybe she would’ve walked out the next day with that cold smile and I’d be nothing more than a blurry memory in the back of her mind.

But maybe not.

Maybe it could’ve been something real. Something that didn’t come wrapped in regret and silence and whiskey-soaked nights where I stare at her and wonder what the fuck we’re even doing anymore.

She turns, heading toward her bedroom, but not before glancing back over her shoulder. Just a flick of her head, eyes catching mine with that knowing spark that always makes my spine tighten. “I’m going to bed,” she says, voice casual, like she didn’t just kick me in the dick with her existence. “Corporate hell rings early.”

I grunt, shifting on the couch, biting down on the urge to say something that’ll make this weird tension even worse. “Yeah, sure. Go enjoy your land of fake-ass smiles and dick-measuring contests. I’ll be here, jerking off into my existential crisis and pretending my camera makes me whole.”

She doesn’t say a word. Just smirks—barely there, almost like a dare—and disappears into her room. The door doesn’t slam, doesn’t creak. It just closes. Soft. Final.

And I’m left alone, again, with nothing but the fading taste of her laugh and the raw scrape of thoughts I can’t shut the fuck up. The bottle’s still in my hand, half-empty and judging me, and the silence presses down so fucking heavy it might as well be a goddamn tombstone.

I take another long pull of whiskey, let the burn claw down my throat like punishment. Like maybe if I drink enough, I’ll stop thinking about the way she looked over her shoulder. About that goddamn perfect curve of her hip, the way her voice wraps around my name like it means something.

But I know better.

Jules is fire I’ve been dancing too close to for too long. And I’m already fucking singed.

Man, I just need a good, filthy fuck. Not a sweet little makeout session. Not some sanitized, half-assed quickie where she moans like she’s auditioning for porn made for church moms. I need something raw. Ugly. Sweat-slicked skin, clawed backs, spit-swapped kisses, and a throat hoarse from screaming my fucking name. I need to ruin someone—leave them wrecked and smiling, legs shaking, mascara fucked six ways from Sunday, begging me to call them a nasty little cum dumpster again like it’s a goddamn compliment.

I want to bury myself so deep inside someone that the rest of the world falls the fuck away. Just one night where everything stops—no guilt, no pressure, no bullshit second-guessing. Just two bodies colliding like we’re trying to fuck the world off its axis.

But let’s be honest—Jules? Jules is way too fucking good for that kind of shit. Or at least, that’s the lie I keep telling myself every time I look at her and feel that pulse in my gut scream mine. She’s got that locked-down discipline—controlled, composed, unreadable. The kind of woman who never slips, never cracks, never lets the world see even a fucking hint of weakness. Everything she does is calculated, razor-sharp. Her laugh, her posture, the way she tells people to fuck off without ever raising her voice—it’s all part of the armor. Clean lines and control.

Not the kind of girl who gets off on being called a filthy little whore with spit on her tongue and her knees bruised against the floor.

…Right?

Fuck. I don’t even know. Maybe she is. Maybe she’d love that kind of dirty, depraved shit. Maybe there’s a side of her I haven’t seen because I’ve been too busy trying not to fuck everything up. Because I did fuck it up once, and that one night cost me the shot. The second I passed out instead of pulling her clothes off, the chance disappeared, like it never existed.

And now? Now she’s my best fucking friend. My constant. My anchor in the middle of all the chaos. The only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m defective. The one human being I trust to call me out without cutting me down. And I’ve built this whole thing with her on a foundation of not crossing that fucking line.

So what the hell am I doing thinking about bending her over the kitchen counter and watching her fall apart?

I shake my head hard, the room swaying just enough to remind me how much I’ve had. Doesn’t stop me. I grab the bottle again, slosh a little into the glass—fuck it, straight from the neck—and down it with a hiss. Fire in the throat. Same old poison.

I don’t know why the hell I’m torturing myself with these thoughts. Maybe I’m just a dumb fuck. Probably always have been. It’s easier to get twisted over fantasies than deal with the fact that I’m alone, that the only connection I haven’t burned to ash is the one I’m too scared to touch.

She’s my best friend. That should be the end of the goddamn conversation.

But it’s not. Because every time she walks around in those little shorts, with her toned thighs and that smirk she flashes when she’s mocking me, I feel it. Every time she brushes past me on her way to the fridge, her bare skin grazing mine for just a second too long, I feel it. Every time she flops down next to me on the couch, foot tucked under her, shirt hanging just loose enough at the collar—I fucking feel it. And I hate myself for it.

Maybe I’m better off keeping things the way they are. Safe. Familiar. Uncomplicated. I don’t want to fuck it all sideways because I can’t keep my cock in my pants around the one person who actually gives a shit about me.

I take another drink. Let the whiskey burn away the noise. What I need—what I really need—is some random girl. Some dirty, faceless, willing fuck. Someone who doesn’t know my past or my family name. Someone who doesn’t give a flying fuck about who I am or what I’ve failed at. Just a warm body, an open mouth, and a filthy streak a mile wide. No strings. No pretending. No goddamn illusions. Just raw, primal, mutual destruction.

But that’s a fucking fantasy too. Because even the ones who say they’re into that shit—oh, they talk a big game—all “choke me,” “degrade me,” “I love it rough”—they fall apart the second you actually deliver. One whispered “you like being a cumslut, don’t you?” and suddenly they’re clutching the sheets like I called them a war criminal. It’s all roleplay until you get real. Then they fold like a house of wet cardboard.

I lean back into the couch, the cracked leather groaning under my weight, eyes locked on the ceiling like maybe it’ll offer some kind of divine fucking clarity. But it’s just drywall and shadows. Like everything else around me. Fake, hollow, and tired.

I take another swig. Let it sit heavy in my stomach. Goddamn, I need to get my head out of this spiral. I need to stop thinking about her. About this. About all of it. But the more I try, the deeper I sink.

And the worst part?

I know tomorrow she’ll walk back out here, sleepy-eyed and smug, asking if I drank the last of the coffee, and I’ll be right back at square fucking one—watching, aching, pretending none of it matters.

Fucking hell.