I take the cigarette from your hand, laughing quietly as I bring it to my lips, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke upwards, away from your face. “You need to get back to your room before someone sees you out here.”

“Oh yeah, because no one can smell the cocaine down the bloody corridor,” you scoff, smirking at me, and despite myself, my lips twitch.

“Don’t be a smartass,” I mutter, giving you a light shove. You pout at me, eyes glinting under the dim lamp. “I mean it. Go before you get dragged into my shit.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes as you flick ash into the tray beside you. “Alright, alright. Fucking bossy, aren’t you?”

We met in detention back in year nine – I was there for punching some lad twice my size because he groped my friend, and you were there for skipping three classes in a row. I had blood on my lip and knuckles bruised purple, but you looked at me with a grin like none of that mattered.

Since then, we’ve been tied together by some invisible thread neither of us can cut. Same school, same uni. But if anyone looked at us, they’d think we lived in completely different worlds.

And yeah… maybe we’ve fucked once or twice when the loneliness got too heavy. But that’s not the point.

The real difference between us? You’re here trying to build a life. Me? I sell dreams. Synthetic ones that ruin people from the inside out.

Fine. I’ll say it. I’m a dealer. Happy now?

A sudden knock rattles my door. You jump, your eyes wide. “Shit. Clients at this hour?”

I frown, my entire body tensing. “Shouldn’t be. Stay there. Don’t fucking move.”

I stride across the room and crack the door open just enough to see who it is. My stomach drops when I see him standing there, his expression twisted with something between boredom and anger.

Jake. My boss.

“Fuck, Jake. Didn’t expect you here at half one on a Monday,” I mutter, blocking the doorway with my body.

“You owe me a lot of money, Styles,” he says flatly, his tone making my skin crawl.

“We had a deal,” I shoot back, voice tight. “Friday. I’ll have every fucking penny by Friday.”

He tilts his head, smiling with dead eyes. “Yeah… see, that’s not really gonna work for me.”

Before I can react, he shoves past me, stepping into the room. His eyes land on you instantly, sitting on my couch with your cigarette balanced between your fingers, your brows pulled together in confusion.

“And who’s this little thing then?” he asks, his voice low and oily.

“None of your fucking business,” I snap, feeling something dark ignite in my chest.

“She is now. You’ve got debts to pay, and I’m feeling generous tonight,” he chuckles, eye raking over you slowly, “maybe she could repay me for you.”

I know exactly what he means by that. I feel sick to my stomach.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts as he starts walking towards you, every step deliberate, predatory. I don’t even think – my body moves before my mind catches up. My hand dives into the drawer, fingers closing around cold steel, and suddenly I’m pointing my gun at his chest, finger heavy on the trigger.

“Take one more fucking step toward her,” I growl, my voice shaking with fury, “and I’ll splatter your brains all over my fucking floor.”

He freezes, staring at me with a smirk, but I don’t miss the flicker of fear in his eyes. Your breath hitches behind me, the silence stretching like a live wire.

But right now, there’s only one thing I care about.

Making sure he never lays a single filthy hand on you.