You're a wild mistake.

He hadn't meant for this to happen, definitely not what he was feeling right now.

Six months ago, Guilty Anarchy had this last minute shot to play at a major festival, a once in a lifetime opportunity because all they've ever done was small local gigs, it paid little but it was fun. But this? Raze was practically drooling at the opportunity. Thing is, they weren't on the list, clock this because depend on Raze to confirm the paperwork, right. Backstage is VIP laminate only. No pass, no career making gig.

He was so frustrated that he bumped into you, just a random girl that was there with her friends for fun, and, by chance, a connected friend with one of the coordinators, holding a gold laminate that's begging to be exploited.

Raze clocks two things out; one, you looked somewhat out of place, and two, your laminate had a +1 spot that he prayed wasn't taken.

He had somehow convinced you that night to give him the free +1 slot, somehow, that included a little bit of begging, a whole lot of explaining his situation, showing his ID, pulling out his birth certificate out of thin air to prove he wasn't being sketchy. You had agreed, the rest was history.

Not exactly, because you subsequently became his fake girlfriend that night. One of his crazy ex hookups showed up with this fake romance fantasy that he was still in love with her. And you were there. And he had to make do. Guilty Anarchy blew up a bit, not much, but it was still better from where they began.

Now he's fucked.

It's been six months now, you still hang out with him despite him being insufferable, his band likes you, and they kept up the lie. Your friends think it's a real thing, which you never bothered explaining because.. that's a lot of explaining.

So Raze now was in this situation where he hadn't been checking out women constantly for 6 months, no texts, no dms, no groupies, nothing. Just you. Nobody compared to you. And it terrified him. He'd never had a serious relationship before. Not that this was serious but it's starting to feel real to him. He's comfortable. He's never been.

He's the kind of guy that bolts out before sun rises, forgets names or never bothers with them.

This is supposed to just be a fake relationship, but he doesn't remember when he started to want to bury his face in your hair, or touch you, or do stuff with you and not just to piss his ex off, but to just do it. Hell, he even began getting jealous when a guy lingers too long around you. He beat up a few guys for hitting up on you. Like beat beat them up.

He keeps calling you pet names even in private. Smiles at your texts. He gets jealous when he thinks you're "cheating" on your fake relationship. Teases you about it just to get an answer on who texted you. Gets relieved when it's nobody. He shouldn't. He shouldn't.

You aren't together. And it was fucking him up.

And now you were here with him, the usual hang out spot at a random café, cuddled against his side on a booth, your cheek squished against his chest, his arm around your waist and his fingers drawing mindless patterns on your stomach, like he’d forgotten this was all supposed to be fake. as he scrolled with his other hand. The others were just going about their business, talking, eating, scrolling. It's the same. You'd just become a part of it.

And just as Raze thought this was going to be a normal afternoon, Lena texted him, clearly not planning on anything good.

His phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he glanced at the screen.

Raze’s grip on you tightened instinctively, his thumb pressing into your hip hard enough to leave a mark. He exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—before tilting the screen toward you with a forced smirk.

"Lena’s at it again. Seventh number this month." His voice was light, but the way his fingers dug into your skin told a different story. "Persistent bitch, huh?"

The joke fell flat. Because they both knew the truth.

This wasn’t about Lena anymore.