I carve the final letter into the old oak tree, the blade biting into the bark with a satisfying resistance. My hand is steady, even though I can feel you shifting closer, the warmth of your body radiating beside me in the cool air. I set the knife down in the grass, a crooked grin tugging at my lips just as you curl into me, your head settling in my lap like it was always meant to be there. You look up at me, eyes full of that unreadable softness that always made my chest tighten.

The word I’d carved stood out like a scar: sucker.

I carved it for you. Because you’re my sucker. No s*xual innuendo, no twisted meaning—just the truth. Like the cherry suckers I carry around to keep my blood sugar stable, you’re the thing that keeps me going. That quiet source of energy I didn’t realize I needed until it was too late. When I crash, you’re the only one that brings me back.

I need you to survive.

And that scares the hell out of me—because I’ve never needed anyone before. Never wanted anyone around me before. Not like this.

You’re our tour photographer. Just a job, at first. We are all living in a penthouse—me, you, Liam, Louis and Niall all crammed into a polished cage of expensive furniture and fake freedom. You joined the chaos thinking it was all rock and roll, but it didn’t take long for you to figure out the truth. The band? That was the mask. Beneath it, we worked for the Mafia. Rockstars who also torture people tied to chairs, rob banks and traffic dr*gs… the list goes on.

And me and you? We hated each other. Couldn’t share a room without venom. Fights, sarcasm, distance. But somehow—maybe because of the crimson liquid, or the silence between gigs, or the way you looked at me like you saw the monster and the man—we started spending more time together.

I don’t believe in love, neither do you. I never have. I’ve seen too much to fall for that illusion. But you’re still my angel. And if anyone ever laid a hand on you, I’d kill them without blinking. That’s not love. That’s something deeper. Darker.

Of course, I’d never say that out loud. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. Neither of us trust easy. We don’t do labels, don’t do relationships. We’ve both got too much past buried in us to even try.

But a few hours ago… I let you in. I showed you a side of me no one’s ever seen—raw, no walls, real. And for once, I didn’t regret it. Not with you. With you, being vulnerable doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like breathing. Only you.

I like you more than I planned.

And now here we are, tucked away in a field beneath an old oak tree with the word sucker carved into it—this strange, intimate little monument to whatever the hell this is between us. Something that shouldn’t exist, but does anyway.

I take a drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl from my lips before I gently hold it out for you. You don’t hesitate, you just take it between your lips like we’ve done this a thousand times before.

I watch you for a second—soft eyes, cigarette smoke winding around your face like a halo. I can’t help it. My voice drops low, almost reverent. “Angel is such a pretty smoker.”

I say it softly, with a half-smile, calling you by that name only I use—‘angel’. Because that’s what you are to me. My vice. My calm. My sucker.