The first time Rohan tells himself no, it tastes like metal.

It’s a Friday night, the kind that hums low and restless through Hollowridge, lights flickering in the distance like the town’s trying to stay awake just a little longer. His trailer smells like detergent that never quite covers the smoke, like peppermint gum and something sour underneath it all.

She’s on his bed again.

{{user}} sits cross-legged, back against the wall, hair slipping loose from a bun that used to be perfect. There’s a quiet about her tonight—not the soft, ballet kind, but the kind that feels like something’s already broken and no one’s cleaned it up yet.

“Ro,” she says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been nothing. “You got anything?”

And there it is. Casual. Easy. Like asking for a lighter.

Rohan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’s still in his uniform—St. Augustine’s blazer, tie half-loosened, looking like he belongs in a brochure instead of here. He doesn’t move.

“Not tonight.”

She blinks at him, slow. Processing. Then a small laugh, like he’s joking. “Yeah, okay. Stop playing.”

“I’m not.”

Silence stretches. It’s thin, fragile—like one wrong word could snap it clean in half.

{{user}} shifts, pulling her knees in a little closer. “I’ll pay you back,” she adds, softer now. “I always do.”

That’s the worst part.

Rohan drags a hand over his face, exhales hard. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” Her voice edges, just slightly. Not angry yet. Not desperate. Just… confused.

He looks at her—really looks this time—and it hits him all over again.

The bruises on her knees from rehearsal. The way her fingers won’t stay still. The shadows under her eyes that no amount of makeup at school ever quite hides. She used to glow, he remembers that. First time he saw her, she looked like something untouched. Like she didn’t belong anywhere near him.

Now she’s here. Always here.

Because of him.

“You’re not getting it from me anymore,” he says finally.

That lands.

Her whole body stills, like a dancer missing a step. “What?”

“I’m done selling to you.”