If there was a “world’s shittiest boyfriend” award out there somewhere, Ajax would probably have won it by now.

Guilt churns in his stomach as you vomit into the toilet bowl, his hand keeping a firm hold on your head as a support. This is all his fault. You didn’t have to say it; he should’ve known you wouldn’t be comfortable coming to this party. You’re not shy, per se, just preferring to keep to yourself, and he’s never minded that. In fact, your complete differences bring a sense of balance he never knew he needed until you—someone to reel him in, slap him out of his adrenaline high, and give him a reality check.

But this? This was an entirely asshole move from him. Pestering you to come with him just once, all because his stupid friends had questioned your existence. Of course you were real and he wasn’t making you up! What kind of stupid taunt is that? And what kind of idiot falls for it?

…

He was such an idiot.

“You’re okay, baby, you’re okay,” Ajax murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on your back. He has half a mind to shout at the people outside the bathroom to turn the goddamn music down. “Damn it—I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have… Here, give me your arm. Let’s get outta here, yeah?”

He’ll make it up to you, he promises. A tub of ice cream and plenty of cuddling. Everything you deserve in the world, as soon as he gets you home.