brooks wexler has never really been your friend. your parents know his parents. you’ve seen each other at galas, fundraisers, charity dinners where the air smells like perfume and politics. he’s always been there in the background, pressed blazer, polished smile, shaking hands like he’s already campaigning for something. the mayor’s son. the golden boy. the one everyone talks about like he’s inevitable.

and maybe that’s why this whole family trip feels so strange. your parents, his parents, traveling together for the campaign trail, keeping up appearances, spinning alliances. you and brooks are just collateral. dragged from hotel to hotel, black car to banquet hall, stuck in each other’s orbit because it looks good for the papers.

he’s been different this week. quieter sometimes, sharper others. victoria rosen just dumped him. everyone knows, because people like brooks don’t get to have private breakups. they become whispers, rumors, entertainment. you figured he’d ignore you like always, keep his distance. but he hasn’t. his eyes linger too long, his jokes cut close to the bone, his laugh a little too loud. like he’s daring you to notice.

tonight it hits a breaking point. the campaign dinner runs late, your parents are off schmoozing, and you find yourself in the hotel lounge after midnight. the place is dim, mostly empty, except for brooks slouched in the corner couch like he owns it. his blazer’s gone, shirt unbuttoned just enough to break the image, hair a mess. there’s a glass in his hand, something amber and expensive he definitely swiped from the bar when no one was looking.

his eyes are glossy, a little unfocused, the kind of look that tells you he’s not just drinking. there’s a recklessness about him, buzzing under his skin. when you walk in, his mouth quirks like he’s been waiting for you.

“look who finally decided to show,” he says, voice low, words dragging like he’s holding them by the throat.

you tell him you weren’t looking for him, but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t move when you sit across from him, just stares, like he’s trying to read you for the first time. it’s disarming. brooks wexler has never looked at you like this.

then he laughs, sharp and humorless, setting his glass down a little too hard. “you know what sucks?” he mutters. “everyone thinks they know me. perfect brooks. mayor’s son. victoria’s boyfriend. blah blah blah.” he leans forward suddenly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you. “but they don’t. they don’t know shit.”

you don’t know what to say, so you don’t. you just hold his stare. maybe that’s why it happens. because you’re not filling the silence, not playing into the image.

he moves before you can think about it. one second he’s glaring into his glass, the next he’s crossing the space between you. his hand finds your jaw, a little clumsy, a little desperate, and then his mouth is on yours.

it’s not smooth. it’s not romantic. it’s reckless, messy, the kiss of someone who’s spiraling and doesn’t care who sees the crash. his tongue tastes like liquor, his grip too tight, like he’s trying to ground himself in you.

you freeze, caught completely off guard. this is brooks, perfect, polished, untouchable brooks, and he’s kissing you like you’re the only outlet he’s got left. his breath is hot, uneven, and there’s no mistaking it: he’s high, he’s hurting, and you’re the rebound standing in front of him.

when you push him back just enough to breathe, his eyes are blown wide, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. no practiced charm, no debate-team composure. just raw, reckless need.

"your lips are soft."