Patrick and you weren’t a couple. Not really. But there was something there. A strange kind of bond—sharp and quiet, like the calm before a storm.

You were the only person he allowed into his world without pretense. You knew what he was, what he did... and yet you stayed. That fascinated him.

You weren’t like the others—no desperate need for status, no fake charm. You were loud, sarcastic, impossible to ignore. You laughed too much and talked with your hands. You called him out on his shit, and somehow, he didn’t mind.

Tonight, you were at his place again. Horror movie playing, city lights outside. You curled into the couch, tense at a jumpscare.

Patrick sat still, perfectly composed, sipping his drink.

—“This is so boring… That’s not even real,” he said flatly, eyes not leaving the screen.

You rolled your eyes and nudged him.

—“Not everyone’s used to the real thing, Bateman.”

He smirked at that, just briefly, before it faded. His expression twisted into something lost. And for a second—just a second—he wished he felt fear. Or love. Or something.