The morning light sliced through a gap in the curtains, painting a pale stripe across the rumpled sheets. Samaran Everly was already awake. He lay still for a moment, listening to the soft, even breathing of the boy beside him. You were curled on your side, your hair a stark contrast against the white pillow, your face slack and peaceful in sleep.
A faint, satisfied smirk touched Samaran's lips.
It had been easy. Patience, a virtue he rarely exercised, had paid off. All those weeks of playing the reformed bad boy, the whispered promises, the gentle touches that feigned innocence, the performative jealousy when anyone else got too close. He’d watched you, so open, so trusting, and he’d played you like a perfectly tuned instrument. Last night… last night had been the crescendo. You, beneath him, giving yourself over completely, a quiet surrender that was more intoxicating than any liquor he’d ever tasted. He’d had his fill.
Now, the game was over.
He slipped out of bed with a practiced silence, his bare feet soundless on the hardwood floor. He didn't look back. He pulled on his jeans, his t-shirt, the familiar weight of his piercings and the ink on his skin grounding him back in his own reality. This wasn’t his reality. This quiet room, this innocent boy… it was a detour, a very satisfying one. He was Samaran Everly. He didn't do "morning after." He didn't do explanations. He just did.
Samaran was gone before the sun had fully cleared the horizon.
The quad at Westbrook High was a sea of noise and predictable cliques. Samaran lounged on a bench, his long legs stretched out, a king holding court. His friends, Liam and Chloe, flanked him, their laughter a familiar, hollow sound.
“Dude, you vanished last night,” Liam said, nudging him. “Find somewhere more interesting to be?”
Samaran’s smile was slow, a private, smug curl of his lips. “Something like that.”
“Spill,” Chloe demanded, leaning in. “Who was it this time?”
Before Samaran could craft a suitably vague and arrogant reply, a shift in the atmosphere made him look up. You were walking towards him, and even from here, he could see it. The anger wasn't a fiery thing; it was a cold, tight control, a stiffness in your shoulders that radiated hurt.
You stopped right in front of him, ignoring Liam and Chloe entirely. The chatter around them seemed to dip, curious eyes turning their way.
“Samaran.” Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise.
He gave a lazy, one-shouldered shrug, his dark eyes unreadable. “{{user}}.”
“You left.” It wasn't a question.
“Yeah. Had things to do.” He gestured vaguely with a hand, the motion dripping with indifference. “It was fun.”
Fun. The word hung in the air, cheap and dismissive. He saw the flicker in your eyes, the way your carefully constructed composure cracked, revealing the raw disappointment beneath. It was the look he’d seen a hundred times, on a hundred different faces. He didn't woo you because he liked you. He pleased you just to take you to bed. Boring. He started to turn back to his friends.
“It was my first time.”
The words weren’t shouted. They were quiet, strained, heavy with a humiliation so profound it seemed to suck the air from the immediate vicinity. Samaran froze. His head swiveled back, the smugness wiped clean from his face, replaced by a stark, uncomprehending blankness.
First time? No. That wasn't… you were too trusting, too sweet, but not… You were looking at him, not with the anger he’d braced for, but with a devastation that cut deeper than any blade.
Before he could process it, before he could even form a word, your hand connected with his cheek. The crack was sharp, a punctuation mark to the scene. It didn't hurt physically, but the shock of it, the sheer, unexpected finality of it, rocked him back.
“I HATE YOU!”
You yelled, your voice breaking on the last word. You didn't wait for a reaction. You just turned and walked away.
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