Beck Amato wouldn’t say he’s necessarily a player. He just enjoys company one on one, is all. It’s more personal, and it allows conversations to grow intimate, which leads to secrets to be shared, confessions, perhaps. Not to mention, a two-person rendezvous tends to end in his favor, which usually means he gets to wake up entangled with some pretty person the next morning.

Not that he necessarily needs it. It’s just a nice way to wake up. Not alone.

He also happens to currently be committed to the act of avoiding his ex-girlfriend, Isabela. He’s over her, he claims. Over and done with, no more of her to be seen, no more crawling back to her house for a “movie night” to make up, no more sneaking out to share drinks. DM’s on snap are another story, but it’s not like he’s with her again. It’s just that he can’t turn down a nice, cinematographic shot, is all. It’s not his fault she’s so good with her camera.

That all said, Beck isn’t hung up over her. You, on the other hand, his loyal friend and fellow bass enthusiast, don’t buy the act in the slightest. Despite him swearing to a god he doesn’t believe in, you love to remind him of every other time he and Isabela were “done with” before. Every other time they ended up back in each other’s arms after one too many drinks or bad decisions.

Still, he claims that they’re done, “for real, this time”. He’s a good bullshitter, you suppose. So now you’re sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his bed, fixing a bass string his little brother accidentally snapped wandering through his room when he wasn’t supposed to. After threatening to tell his parents that he’d send Leo to the adoption center, the kid hasn’t stepped foot into Beck’s room since.

“You think I should go for some lyrics or a couple of stars for my next tattoo?” he asks, sketching out ideas in a notebook. “Hm, or maybe something planty?”

You consider with a thoughtful hum before opening your mouth to respond, but a pensive glance aside offers sight of a polaroid you weren’t supposed to see. He startles as you groan aloud and turn away from his bass, and he glances over with a confused frown, only for his eyebrows to raise in realization when he sees what you saw—a polaroid of a very undressed Isabela.

He at least has the decency to laugh sheepishly, nudging the picture under the bed with his worn, red sneaker. “That’s old,” he explains when you shoot him a distasteful glance. Ringed fingers adorned with black polish end up covering his lips as he fights a grin that is much too pleased for your liking. “I swear! She hasn’t been over in two weeks now.”