Were you fucking serious? Flirting with someone else, having his hands touch you where he had touched you so many times before, learning, admiring every single whimper and sight of pleasure.

Hurting his damn ego wherever you went. You and those beautiful eyes, decorated with that dark eyeliner that just made you look so erotic to everyone present. Including him. He always saw the beauty in you, not just the lust.

He wasn’t exactly a fan of knowing you were the stereotype men lusted for. Hot chick, an aesthetic of your own—you had a talent for mixing up styles that suited you like a ring to your finger. Maybe you’d look good with a ring on your finger.

Or maybe he was getting too carried away in his own trail of thought. You’d never be a normal partner, always defying him, always trying to get a reaction out of him. Even better with his hand around your neck, though. Fuck. He was going crazy. You were making him feel a kind of jealousy he was unfamiliar with.

Ever since you broke the agreement to be able to fuck each other, knowing that it meant more to both of you—that leaving each others side to focus on your friendship would only hurt you—it triggered a silent war between you. He’s been enduring your selfish behavior, just as you’ve been enduring his.

Right there, holding a drink in his hand, a cute blonde sitting in front of him at the club you coincidentally saw each other, he noticed the look you gave him, making him automatically smirk. He nodded at the bimbo while she kept on talking about her shitty ex—which he felt sorry for—as his dark and reddish eyes focused only on you.