You weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to end up with someone like him.

You were a few months away from eighteen, finishing your final year of high school with honors, already fielding college acceptance letters. He was twenty, had dropped out of college twice, and carried the kind of reputation that made parents wary and teachers shake their heads.

You loved him, and maybe that’s what made it so easy to look past everything else.

You were never meant to live like this.

Out nearly every night now, stumbling in past curfew—if you came home at all. Aegon always had a party, always knew someone, always wanted you there. And you always said yes.

The parties blurred together: loud music, clouds of smoke, too much to drink. You, half draped across Aegon’s lap in dresses that barely covered you, his hand resting high on your thigh, his breath hot against your ear.

“Just one bump, baby,” he’d whisper, voice low and coaxing. “Won’t hurt. Everyone’s doing it. Come on… be fun.”

And you wanted to be fun. For him.

So you let yourself get swept into his world, let his hands guide you, let the high carry you through the night. You didn’t notice—or maybe you didn’t care—how he watched you more when you were dressed up and dazed, how his touch lingered longer when your head was spinning and your smile was empty.

Now, school felt like a distant echo. You dragged yourself to class with a pounding head, your eyes glazed, your grades slipping. Your teachers noticed. Your parents did too, their faces etched with concern that was quickly turning into disappointment.

But Aegon still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered…at least when the lights were low, your lipstick smudged, and your dress slipping off one shoulder.

You were too wrapped up in the way he touched you, the way he said your name like it tasted sweet, to see it for what it was.

Too blinded by love to notice how your life was slowly unraveling, or that he didn’t love you, not really. Just the way you looked on his arm, the way your body felt against his, the way you made him look.

You were at his apartment, the chaos of his lifestyle strewn across every surface, empty bottles on the counter, ashtrays overflowing, a mirror with traces of powder, clothes carelessly tossed on the floor.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “let’s go out tonight. Have a little fun, yeah?”

His grip was warm, familiar, almost convincing enough to make you forget the exhaustion settling in your bones.