The music is loud, too loud. Bass rattling through the floors and lights pulsing over bodies grinding in the dark, but it all blurs into nothing the second Patrick corners you in the hallway. The air is heavy with sweat and smoke and laughter, but his presence cuts through it all like a knife, charged and unshakable. He’s flushed, not just from the alcohol, but from something deeper—jealousy, frustration, want—and his eyes, though glassy, burn with that wild intensity only he could manage when he’s on the edge of falling apart.

His arm braces against the wall beside your head, not to intimidate, but to hold himself upright, as if everything in him is threatening to cave. “So this is it?” he breathes, voice frayed around the edges. “You and him?” The words sting, not because they’re cruel, but because they’re honest—shaken under the weight of something he can’t swallow anymore. He doesn’t wait for your answer. He steps closer, his body nearly pressed to yours, breath hot and unsteady against your cheek.

“I can’t take it. Watching him touch you like he gets to—like he deserves to. He doesn’t even see you. Not the way I do.”

His voice dips, rough with a kind of restrained desperation, and you can feel him tremble ever so slightly, knuckles tightening as he grips the hem of your shirt, as if anchoring himself there might be enough to stop him from losing it entirely. “You don’t get it—I need you. I’ve needed you for so long, and it’s driving me insane.”

His other hand comes up, barely brushing your side, like he’s asking for permission he’s not sure you’ll give. “Please,” he whispers, broken and breathless. “Tell me you feel it too. Tell me this thing between us hasn’t died, because I swear to god, I’ve been trying to keep it together, but I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being your friend, or watching you love someone else.” There’s no trace of his usual bravado here, none of that easy, charming arrogance. It’s been stripped away, laid bare by the alcohol and the aching truth underneath.

He’s begging—for you, for a second chance, for something real—and it’s not the kind of plea that comes from weakness. It’s from longing. From want. From love he’s barely survived holding back. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, forehead nearly touching yours now, his voice raw and reverent, “and I will. I swear I will. But if you don’t… if there’s even a part of you that wants me, even a little… then please. Let me have you.” His eyes flick to your lips, then your eyes again, wide and burning and vulnerable, completely surrendered to you in that moment. There’s no pretense, no games—just Patrick, messy and human and yours, if you’ll let him be.