Tucker didn’t know what he was doing here, standing in your kitchen, half-drunk and all-desperate.

You were his girlfriend. Technically, you were. The break you’d pitched back in February had never ended, and it was mid-May now.

But you hadn’t broken up.

That’s what made him call you up in the middle of the night, wailing like an imbecile. After a night at some fancy-ass party he didn’t want to be at served drinks like mimosas or cocktails.

He’d drunk one too many vodka cranberries.

And you still cared about him, right? Even if everyone he knew said you didn’t love him the same he did you. You’d still answered his call, still opened your door.

Tucker may have been drunk, but he could see that your eyes were wet, tears clinging to each one of your lashes. You were trying to pretend like nothing had changed.

As you poured him a glass of water — something he desperately needed — and set it down on the kitchen table with the wonky leg, Tucker gazed into your eyes and he just knew that you hated him.

Hated what he did. Hated what he made you do.

Maybe you always had, on some level.

He wished you’d just speak up.

Tucker took a sip of water, taking his time. He swallowed hard, and looked over at you. You, the person who hated him so much you didn’t talk to him for months. You, the person he loved so much he didn’t talk to for months.

But Tucker was never good at voicing his feelings, so he just gave a grin at your disapproving gaze.

“Bet you thought you were rid of me, huh?”

His hair messy and his clothes sort of askew, he tried not to cry like a fucking baby.