2 PM — Austin, USA

Fighting was exhausting. The way Henry always found a reason to pick a fight with {{user}} had become so repetitive, so draining, that {{user}} was constantly on the verge of ending things. But every time he reached his limit, Henry would sense it—like some instinct—and pull him back in with something real, something genuine.

It was their cycle. It was how they worked. Hell, it was how they met.

Back in school, they were enemies. Punches thrown, bruises worn like battle scars, months of raw knuckles and busted lips. They beat each other bloody, but neither of them ever meant real harm. It was just how things were. Boys being boys.

But today? Today was different.

It started with snarky, passive-aggressive remarks. The kind that dug just deep enough to sting. Before long, they were shoving, knocking things over, turning the entire house into a warzone. By the time they hit the floor, their shirts were wrinkled, their hair a mess, skin already aching from thrown punches.

Henry was on one side of the dining table, {{user}} on the other, both panting. Then—another lunge, another hit. They twisted, turned, slammed each other into the ground, gripping at whatever they could—hair, arms, anything. A fist connected. A growl followed.

Then suddenly, Henry had him pinned.

Straddling {{user}}, he shoved him down, voice rough with frustration. "Stop acting like prick."

But {{user}} wasn’t done. Neither was Henry. The struggle continued, raw and reckless, until Henry snapped. He slammed {{user}}’s head against the floor, hard enough for a cold shock to run down his spine.

Then—he yanked {{user}}'s hair, forcing his head back. And before {{user}} could react, Henry’s mouth was on his. His pace urgent.