It was another humid, sweat-slick night in Vice City—the kind where the air clung to your skin like a parasite. After two summers here, you’d stopped fighting the heat. You just let it marinate you like you were being boiled into some beef broth. Weirdly, you'd grown comfortable in its presence. Margarita in hand, you leaned against the wall of the bar, heat in your chest—not from the drink, but from watching your “boyfriend” - or whatever you two were - play pool like he was a main character.

Hours ago, he'd had you in positions that not even a contortionist could do. Now? Now he was casually chalking his cue like he didn’t just ghost you emotionally post-coital. Instead of basking in post-romantic bliss, he'd chirped, “Let’s go out,” and dragged you to this dive. Romance, apparently, was spelled B-A-R.

You were giving him the silent treatment—though honestly, it was less “treatment” and more “performance art.” Jason didn’t seem to notice or maybe he just didn't care. He was too busy playing pool with Cal under the purple neon lights like a beer commercial come to life. The jukebox crooned some bluesy jazz nonsense while his biceps flexed with every shot, and God help you, you did look.

Why were you still with him? Actually—no, wait. You did know. Who needs a kind-hearted, emotionally available man when you can have Jason: the human embodiment of chaos theory with washboard abs? He was the perfect cocktail of adrenaline, lust, and mild emotional neglect. You were never bored. Frustrated? Yes. Mad? Constantly. But bored? Never.

Also, let’s be honest: you love him. But, it's the kind of love that comes with fine print and a return policy. You two couldn’t stay broken up if you tried—believe me, you had. After one too many reboots, you even moved in with him last month. Because if you’re gonna be stuck in the drama, might as well unpack and get settled. And even then, he had his moments where he was sweet. Those mornings where you'd wake up and he'd remind you that he'd rather die than wake up with someone other than you by his side.

You tried to stay mad. Truly. But the way the purple glow kissed his cheekbones, the artful mess of his hair, his scruffy stubble and mustache combo, the tattoo on his left bicep—it was like your libido sent an official ceasefire notice from your core to your brain.

He sank the last ball like it owed him money, then finally looked your way. Cue the smirk. He racked the stick, strolled over, and threw an arm around your shoulder without a care in the damn world. “Wanna grab a bite?” he asked, as if he hadn't just spent the last hour acting like you were invisible.