"So you didn't come here to fuck with me?"

Patrick's knuckles turn almost white from how hard he is holding the steering wheel, passing the speed limit almost twice as much, the neons on the traffic lights hitting his freckled face. At his words, you merely scoff, earning a side glance and a smirk from him.

"I'm disappointed, really, you used to love bouncing on my dick."

The nasty musk of the car's interior is almost completary to the repugnance of his words, making you roll your eyes at the memory. Fucking dickhead. The leather seats are peeling, windows are stained - completely corresponding to the state Patrick is in. Disgusting.

It almost pains you, what he has become, going from a promising and even - to an extent - successful player, to a loathsome fucker who haunts you for your past decisions. As if it wasn't him who cheated on you.