DROWNING
Brandon
I stared at it so long the words burned into me. Aria’s bloody handwriting—neat, careful, almost too kind. That’s what made it worse.
“I can’t do this right now. You confuse me. I don’t know what love is. I need time.”
Time. What the hell did that even mean? She wasn’t coming back. That’s what it meant.
My flat was silent, too silent. Empty bottles and ash from half-burnt cigarettes covered the table like evidence of who I really was. My chest was tight, my throat raw, but I couldn’t sit still. Sitting meant thinking, and thinking meant pain.
The itch was there again. That restless crawl under my skin. That hunger. That bloody need.
So I grabbed my keys and walked out before I did something mad in the silence.
---
The bar was alive, buzzing, music pounding through my ribs. It was easier here. Easier to drown. Shot after shot went down fast, burning, numbing. Whiskey, vodka, I didn’t care. Anything to shut her voice in my head.
That’s when I saw her.
Caramel skin, curls tumbling around her face, eyes sharp but warm. She caught me staring and smiled. Christ, that smile.
Then she heard me speak. Just one word "Another, mate”—to the barman, and her eyes lit up like I’d just pulled a trick.
“You’re British?” she asked, leaning in.
I smirked, drunk but charming. “So they tell me.”
From there it was easy. Too easy. The way she leaned closer, her laugh, the way her hand brushed mine. She was hungry for the accent, hungry for me.
Before I knew it, we were outside, kissing against the wall like teenagers. Her lips were soft, sweet, her tongue eager. My hands dug into her hair as if she could erase Aria from my head. She moaned when I spoke, every word turning her on more.
We ended up at her place, stumbling through the door, her mouth already on me. She dropped to her knees without hesitation, curls brushing her cheeks, and I lost myself. Drunk, needy, desperate.
“Fucck…” I groaned, head falling back, her lips moving over me like she’d been waiting her whole life. The alcohol blurred everything, but the release was sharp, violent, ripping through me until I couldn’t breathe.
I collapsed on her couch after, trousers half-undone, chest heaving. She curled up beside me, lips swollen, smile smug.
I didn’t have it in me for more. Didn’t want more. I was already gone, drifting, whiskey dragging me under.
When I woke in the dim light of her flat, mouth dry, head pounding, I realized it.
This wasn’t about her. It never was.
It was about the itch. The addiction. And Aria’s bloody letter that I couldn’t outrun.
Brandon stumbled into work with his sunglasses still on, collar stiff but shirt creased, tie hanging like it had been tied in the back of a cab. His head pounded with every step, the world too bright, too loud. Coffee wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping.
“Morning, mate,” someone said as he passed. He smirked, voice dry but steady: “Alright?”
He was good at that. Pretending.
Inside his office, the walls closed in on him. The desk looked foreign, papers stacked neatly from the day before like they belonged to a man who had his life in order. That wasn’t him. Not anymore.
He sat, opened his laptop, stared at emails that made no sense, numbers that blurred. His hands shook. Aria’s words replayed, louder than any alarm: “I don’t know what love is.”
His chest clenched. He couldn’t breathe. He needed release. That old itch was there, crawling under his skin, screaming for attention. He closed the blinds, locked the door, sat back in his chair.
His hand moved before his brain could stop him.
He hated himself for it, hated the desperation, but the urge was stronger than shame. He opened tabs he shouldn’t, images filling the screen. He jerked himself off, head tilted back, jaw tight, thinking of her. Always her. Aria’s laugh, Aria’s lips, Aria walking away. The mix of pain and lust twisted inside him until he came hard, fast, empty.
After, he sat there trembling, chest heaving, disgust pooling in his stomach. He wiped his hand on a tissue, closed the laptop, and leaned back in his chair, eyes burning.
By noon he was back at his desk, suit jacket on, pen in hand, face smooth like nothing had happened. To everyone else, he was the same Brandon—sharp, confident, untouchable.
Inside, he was crumbling.
Every meeting, every smile, every “cheers, mate” was an act. He was a bloody actor, wasn’t he? A man with a mask glued so tight no one could see the rot underneath.
And when he caught his reflection in the boardroom glass, he thought This is what I do best, isn’t it? Pretend. Lie. Perform.
But the urges didn’t stop. They whispered to him even as colleagues laughed, even as he shook hands, even as he signed papers with a steady grip. By the end of the day, his nerves were on fire again, and he knew the truth he couldn’t outrun
He was barely functioning. And Aria—her absence—was the wound he kept clawing open.
BI was already wound tight from the day — contracts, meetings, boardroom vultures circling, deadlines stacked on my desk like fucking bricks on my chest. By the time I drove home, I could feel the itch clawing under my skin. That familiar burn. That voice whispering, Just one release, Dean. Just one.
