axl heck has always been a mess of contradictions. sarcastic and lazy, selfish and rude, a guy who can charm with a smirk one second and drive you insane the next. he’s number 32 on the orson high football team, always surrounded by darrin and sean, always stuffing donut holes, pizza, or brownies into his mouth like it’s an olympic sport. when he isn’t on the field, he’s usually sprawled across a couch in his boxers, moaning if someone dares ask him to get up and do anything resembling work.

you’ve been on and off with him so many times it’s impossible to keep track anymore. it’s like clockwork: you fight, you break up, you circle back, repeat. right now? you’re off again. which is why being at the same party feels like torture disguised as fun.

the house is packed, music pulsing through the walls, everyone pressed together with red cups in hand. you can feel him even before you see him. axl holding court near the kitchen, surrounded by his football buddies, tossing his head back with that obnoxious laugh. he looks too good in that jersey, messy curls falling in his face, confidence radiating off him like heat.

you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of thinking you care. so you throw your head back when someone tells a joke, laugh a little louder than necessary, lean just a bit too close to a guy you don’t even know. it’s petty, yeah. but axl is watching. you can feel his eyes on you.

and axl? he’s no better. he leans against the counter with that smug smirk, arm slung around some girl who’s clearly eating up the attention. he doesn’t even like her. everyone knows it. it’s just a show. a performance for your benefit. his laugh is too loud, his posture too casual, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds like he can’t help himself.

the air between you stretches tight, a tug-of-war neither of you wants to lose. you sip your drink, pretend not to notice when he pulls the girl closer. he pretends not to notice when you brush your arm against the guy next to you.

but then it shifts. the guy at your side gets bold, sliding his hand a little too low on your back, fingers pressing into your waist like he’s got the right. and that’s it.

axl sees red.

he’s moving before he even thinks about it, shoving through the crowd, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. sean calls after him, but axl ignores it, storming across the room with all the subtlety of a freight train. his voice cuts through the music, sharp, pissed.

“hey! hands off.”