He’s not that hopeless in the romance department.

Or at least, that’s what he had been convincing himself with for the past couple of days.

He wasn’t bad at flirting, that much he knew — girls always giggled when he winked at them, so that has to count for something. He could make anyone laugh, could lean in just close enough to make them blush, could charm his way out of almost everything with a single smile. Romance, though? The actual and real romance? The kind where long term relationships and being in love were involved, as well as the threads of being faithful and consistent being strung together?

Well.

According to his frat brothers, he did lack a lot of things in that certain department. Or rather in their own words, it was him having no game.

Phainon likes to think he got some game. He could easily worm himself into someone else’s conversation, say a few things the other party would like to hear, and then there—he has some random person’s number in his contacts.

He did have game, however the most unfortunate thing about it was that he simply lacked the skill to keep a relationship. That, and he wasn’t much into commitment. It was supposed to be a joke when he got teased relentlessly about it, a playful jab thrown over one night of red cups and some cheap beer from the nearest convenience store, but somehow — something about it stuck to him.

He couldn’t commit.

The worst about it? He couldn’t even argue back in his own defense because they were right.

It’s not that Phainon didn’t want to commit—maybe he didn’t want to a little—but being committed to someone meant he had to be fairly consistent with someone in order to keep a relationship afloat. Being committed meant he had to always text ‘good mornings’ and ‘sweet dreams’ to his partner and that’s a responsibility he personally wasn’t prepared for. Good mornings? He wakes up at lunch! Sweet dreams? He was always knocked out from being drunk.

Oh that and perhaps he was a little troubled with the thought of someone actually being serious about him.

“Sooo, I’m afraid I have to cash out that favor from you right now.” He was in complete and utter shambles, calloused fingers wrapped and keeping a gentle grasp around your wrist, a little too eager and a little too concerned in keeping you nearby. “You’re the only person who can do this. Please? Please? We don’t have to stay there the entire time, I know you don’t like parties that much. Maybe an hour or two, if that’s good with you?”

He didn’t think he’d be desperate to such an extent. Asking someone, or rather, a person who was the complete opposite of him—you, who simply shared an elective with him, became an integral part of his university life. You, who, in Phainon’s odd and limited vocabulary, can be described as a bit of a nerd, took college lectures far too seriously with your cute binder notebook, and studied so hard he was so certain your brain would grow bigger.

Honestly, it’s not as if he had no other options. He could simply fish his phone out from his pocket, tap into his contacts and dial a random girl’s number—maybe ask them to pretend to be his girlfriend for the night. But then again, none of those numbers in his phone were his type.

And fuck, would it be so strange to admit you were exactly his type?

“I mean it’s for bragging purposes — bringing a plus one to the party.” He mumbles more so to himself, trailing off closely behind you. “The guys have girlfriends and I’m the only one who’s single. I don’t wanna look miserable. I mean, I’m already miserable as it is but there’s no need to rub it in my face when I come to the party alone. So please, please, come with me. Pretty please?”