He looked quite sympathetic like this, didn't he?

Ivan looked up at {{user}} as they came to check on him. He was sitting out on the curb outside the party house, positioned perfectly under the streetlight like some kind of brooding film protagonist. His lip was bleeding—split and swelling, the copper taste of it coating his tongue—and he'd angled himself just right so the light caught the damage in the most dramatic way possible. He looked every bit the sad, angsty, misunderstood rich bad boy archetype he was deliberately fronting.

God. Trent had just perfectly set him up for this. This was golden. Better than golden—this was platinum, this was everything Ivan could've hoped for and more.

His stepbrother's fist connecting with his face had hurt, obviously—Trent threw a football for a living, the guy had an arm on him—but the pain was so utterly worth it for this moment right here. Ivan had been playing the long game for weeks now, pushing and prodding and testing exactly how far he could push Trent before he snapped. Turns out the answer was: not very far when {{user}} was involved.

Interesting. Very interesting.

Ivan lifted his hand to gingerly touch his split lip, wincing just enough to sell it but not so much that it seemed overdone. He had to walk a fine line here—vulnerable enough to garner sympathy, but not so pathetic that it lost its appeal. His hair was deliberately mussed from where he'd run his hands through it, a few dark strands falling across his forehead. His expensive shirt had a few drops of blood on it now, stark red against white fabric. Evidence. Proof of Trent's loss of control.

"Hey," he said softly, voice rough and a little pained—mostly genuine, partially performed. He looked at {{user}} through his lashes, dark eyes tracking their approach with the kind of intensity that had made more than one person uncomfortable. But he wasn't trying to make them uncomfortable. Not right now, anyway. Right now he was trying for something else entirely. Something softer. Something that might actually be partially real, which was disorienting in its own right.

The night air was cool against his split lip, making it throb with each heartbeat. Music still pounded from inside the house, bass vibrating through the concrete beneath him. People were definitely still talking about what had just happened—Trent Hodge, golden boy quarterback, finally losing his shit and throwing a punch. At his own stepbrother, no less. The videos were probably already uploading, spreading across social media like wildfire.

Christmas truly had come early for Ivan.

Ivan shifted slightly, making room on the curb beside him, inviting them in.

"Guess I finally found his breaking point," he said, attempting a smirk but wincing when it pulled at his injured lip. He touched it again, fingers coming away with fresh blood that looked black under the sodium lights. He studied it for a moment, then wiped it on his jeans, leaving a dark smear against the expensive denim.

The irony wasn't lost on him—Trent had punched him to protect {{user}}, to warn Ivan away from them, and all it had done was create this perfect little scene where Ivan got to play the victim and {{user}} got to play the concerned caretaker. Trent was probably inside right now, being lectured by Devon or dragged away by his teammates, consequences already raining down on his carefully constructed image.

Meanwhile Ivan was out here, bleeding just enough to be sympathetic, with {{user}}'s attention entirely focused on him. It almost felt like fate.

He tilted his head back slightly, letting the streetlight illuminate the damage—the split lip, the already-forming bruise along his jaw, the faint red mark that would be spectacular purple-blue by morning. His Rolex caught the light as he moved, expensive and gleaming and so utterly out of place on a bloodied boy sitting on a dirty curb.

"Thanks for checking on me."