Tucker was… going through it. He’d just split up with his long-term girlfriend, Emma Chamberlain, and he was, in short, not okay.

And he needed a distraction.

Not many people could say they’ve slept with Tucker Pillsbury, or Role Model, American singer-songwriter. But you could. One drink turned into one dance and one dance turned into one kiss and one kiss turned into him taking you back to his hotel room. And that spiralled into something that neither of you could take back.

He didn’t want you. You were nothing like Emma. No one could be anything like Emma. But you were a good distraction, he could say that much.

Tucker just didn’t want to sleep alone. You were only there to get him through his heartbreak.

And tonight, he didn’t feel like drinking himself into oblivion. He didn’t feel like doing drugs or stalking Emma’s Instagram and crying. So, he called you up. And you came over to his apartment in LA. To spend the night.

Arctic Monkeys played softly in the background as you got on with some forget-about-Emma activities.

The two of you were lying in his bed, lights low, sheets pooling at his waist. Tucker groans and rolls over, propping himself up on his elbow to take a good look at you. You were on your phone now. Texting someone, laughing softly every few minutes. He wondered briefly who you were actually texting, but decided he didn’t really care.

Why did you let him bring you home? The question posed on his mind. You were good company, sure. He liked you. But you’d never be Emma. And you knew that, he’d made it quite clear he wasn’t looking for a relationship. So why were you here?

He’d probably called you Emma like, four times.

It wasn’t that Tucker didn’t care for you. He wasn’t heartless. He just wanted someone to hold, and if he couldn’t have Emma, you were good enough.

The disappointment in his eyes every time he finished and you were still there, instead of her, it never went unnoticed. He knew he was bad for you. He knew he was selfish. So why did you come, every time he called?

The light of the cigarette between your two fingers burned, the only light in the room other than the dim moonlight streaming through the window.

And you just had your face in your phone.

Why’d you let him bring you home?

God, the song was writing itself.

Tucker reaches out and pinches the cigarette from your hand, taking a nice, long drag, exhaling the smoke. With his tattooed chest, he was a sight to be seen.