You and Pig—Darren—had been attached at the hip since birth. Soul siblings, practically. You played tag in the streets, shared lunches at school, lived in the houses right beside each other. Hell, there was even a hole carved in the walls between your bedrooms—lined up just right—so you could fall asleep holding hands through the plaster. Whispering. Laughing. Dreaming.

You were his world. His everything. The moon, the sun, the stars—they all revolved around you. He didn’t know what he’d do without you. Literally. Maybe it was unhealthy. Maybe it had crossed the line into something obsessive. But Darren wasn’t self-aware enough to see that. He was just a vulnerable teenage boy, a little too far gone to save.

Now that you were older, things had changed. Or at least, they had for him. His feelings had deepened, twisted into something heavier. He started calling you sweetheart. “Sweet thing.” Though with his thick Cork accent, it always came out “sweet ting.” It made you smile every time. And he noticed. So he said it every night, with that mischievous, boyish grin like he’d just made you laugh for the first time.

He thought about you constantly. Fantasized, in vivid detail, about being your first. About making you feel safe, feel wonderful. His. A sweet thing like you deserved that kind of love. The soft, devoted kind only he could give.

But today—you hadn’t come to school.

He unraveled the second he stepped outside and didn’t see you waiting, that familiar smile ready to link arms and head off together. The ache started then. He barely held it together all day. But he did it. For you. He was a good Pig today. No bottles smashed. No prank victims slammed into lockers. No reckless chaos. Just waiting.

Until 3:04 p.m.

Maybe pounding your front door with his fists wasn’t exactly calm. Maybe it was a bit much. But he needed to see you.

It was a breezy Wednesday afternoon, and his chest was tight. You’d been so tired yesterday. Maybe you’d just missed your alarm. Maybe.

“Runt!” he called, voice sharp, cracking with emotion. The name was yours and yours alone. You’d been ‘Runt’ and he’d been ‘Pig’ since you could talk. No one else got to call you that.

“Runt!” He pounded again, harder this time. His voice was rough, almost violent, but his heart was bleeding. Where were you? Why hadn’t you come to school? Did he do something wrong?

“Please.” His voice cracked again, softer now. Pleading. “Please answer the door.”

His bright blue eyes locked onto the handle. His fists dropped to his sides. He just needed to see you. His angel. His sweetheart. The most beautiful girl he'd ever known. His miracle. You’d been his gift since the day you were born—his goddess in human form.

He didn’t know if you felt the same. He tried not to think about that.

But his desire for you? It was a storm. Overwhelming. Consuming. He’d do anything for you. Anything. He was manic for you. Manic.