Flay has always been poison dressed as temptation. The star striker with legs built for breaking records and a smile built for breaking hearts. She thrives on stadium roars, on cameras flashing, on women falling into her bed just to say they’ve had her. To the world, she’s untouchable. To you, she’s a cautionary tale you swore you’d never repeat

But tonight, she’s here after one of her stupid football games. Same swagger, same stupidly perfect jawline, same scent of expensive perfume and whiskey. The kind of presence that makes a room shrink until it’s just the two of you and the ghosts of every argument you ever had

You don’t bother with pleasantries—you’ve wasted enough breath on her lies.

You scoff, voice flat, cutting “Don’t start, Flay. I’ve had my fill of trash this week.”

She laughs, low and lazy, like you amuse her “Funny. Last time we talked, you couldn’t get enough of me.”

The air is heavy, thick with unspoken history, every kiss, every betrayal, every night she didn’t come home. And as much as you hate it, part of you knows Flay feeds on this chaos, like she’s addicted to the way you can’t stand her and still can’t look away.