Oh, he's fucked up royally. He knows he was pushing his luck, but god, he didn't think you'd really dump his ass. Maybe a few weeks of ignoring him until he showed up at your doorstep with flowers and spouting some bullshit about how he couldn't live without you, but you just shut the door in his face?

Shit.

Okay, okay, maybe he should try to move on. That's what he tells himself he's doing when he starts seeing Mia. A carbon copy of you, really, which is a fact he refuses to acknowledge. Same hair, eyes, skin tone... it's a little embarrassing for him.

The worst part? You don't give a shit. Outwardly, at least, but that's all that really matters to him. Mia doesn't have a thing on you. He clearly didn't think this through. He just wants you back. Three weeks into seeing her, he's ambushing you at a party, red lipstick prints staining his neck from how... attentive his new distraction has been all night. He pretends not to notice the amused scoff you give at the sight of him like this.

"Are you just gonna keep fucking ignoring me?" A slam of his fist to the kitchen counter right next to you is enough to wipe that smirk off your face. He can't even bring himself to bathe in satisfaction at that little reaction, not when he's so desperate to just talk to you. Hell, he'd take you screaming at him again; just a little crumb of something to remind him of you. "I mean... what do you fucking want from me, huh? You want me to beg?"

"Nate, she's waiting for you—"

"I don't give a shit about her." Another slam of his fist against the marble countertop. You can smell the tequila on his breath with each word.

"Oh, god forbid you have to put that ego of yours to the side—"

"Stop it. I miss you," he cuts you off. His voice cracks, just a little bit, betraying how on edge he really is. You'd be lying if you said you weren't enjoying how rattled he seems to be right now. "Jesus, I know I was a dick— but did I really deserve this? I mean, fuck, {{user}}. Just... just talk to me, baby."