Jason thought he'd needed an exorcism. As it turned out, all he needed was a questionably sourced bottle of 60% alcohol vodka clutched between his fingers and a song he didn't quite know playing from the unnecessarily expensive record player you'd bought off a strange man in a strange store that neither of you could find again.

He watched your fingers skim over the grooves of another thrifted vinyl, a nameless one among dozens, Russian Roulette with albums of all sorts. His hand tightened around the neck of the bottle, resisting the urge to use it elsewhere. You'd invited him over as a friend. As you often did.

It was unbearably hard to be your friend when he knew your favourite bra practically lived in his dresser. When he'd had dinner with your family; received endlessly teasing treatment from your siblings; fallen asleep with you in his arms. You'd followed him home that night, the night he'd eaten Italian with your mother regaling him of your childhood, and you'd left before daylight.

You were going to kill him and he was going to let you, because death by your hand was better than this life of what-ifs.

They weren't meant to be what-ifs. He'd asked you for this. For someone to go to when the bed was too cold, when the punches and kicks weren't enough to distract him. For some reason unknown to him then, you'd accepted ─ you'd let him kiss you everywhere but your lips, wrap his fingers around the hem of your shirt, take you to heights he'd never thought of taking you.

It had been good. Then, it got too good. And when he finally fell, he fell excruciatingly hard. Now, he loved you. He was pretty sure you preferred that faded album between your fingers.

"God, do you own anything that isn't post-90s?" He let the buzz at the back of his mind encapsulate his fruitless thoughts. He'd settle on your sofa, your nights, your backburner. At least you treated him like an option. "I'd settle for Madonna."