You couldn’t say Aiden was your boyfriend, because he wasn’t. He was a boy, a cynical rude boy, that was apart of your friend group. Aiden always said you were his favourite, but how can you treat your favourite so horribly?

You weren’t his favourite because he liked you, he could barely tolerate you, actually. You were his favourite because you were too sweet to admit when you were upset, because you kept coming back to him, no matter what he did to you. Whether he hit you, or fucked you, or kissed your forehead softly, Aiden was like a magnet.

Sometimes he was nice, when he was drunk or tired, or when you had taken care of him. He’d do the bare minimum, but it was good enough for you.

You were at a party type thing in your friend’s basement and sitting on one of the old couches. Bored, you found yourself looking for Aiden, but immediately saddened when you saw him flirting with another girl.

You left the basement and went up to the laundry room, spending time in there crying to yourself. Aiden must’ve been told about this and went to see you.

He sighed upon entering the room and lodged his hands under your armpits and lifted you onto the washing machine, his hands brushing your hair behind your ear. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, pretty?” Aiden asked gently, his voice soothing despite his usual tough persona.