There was only four words Nate had used to describe you when he was asked about you at a party,

“She’s a fucking bitch.”

This was how it had always been. A cat and mouse game between the two of you. He hated you and you hated him.

Yet now he was drunk at another party and couldn’t keep his hands off of you.

A solo cup held in your hand as both of Nate’s hands were on either side of your waist and his face buried into the crook of your neck.

He was in a drunken state of heaven.