Your boyfriend could be infuriating.

Nash carried his ego like a trophy—polished and displayed at all times. Confidence dripped off every word he spoke, every step he took, and if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he cared about no one but himself. Sometimes, even knowing him as intimately as you did, you weren’t sure that wasn’t true.

He didn’t brag about you to others… not publicly, anyway. The two of you were a secret— something he guarded like it made him powerful. You didn’t know if that was because he didn’t want the world to know he cared… or because he was terrified of looking vulnerable.

Maybe both.

Tonight, he had dragged you along after another one of his hard-won basketball games— crowds chanting his name, cameras flashing, reporters begging for a moment of his time. He soaked in every second, all while pretending he hadn’t grabbed your hand under the bleachers before tip-off and kissed you like he needed it to breathe.

Now you stood in your room, rifling through hangers, trying to find something— anything —that would please him. A party with his teammates wasn’t inherently the issue. It was the scrutiny. The whispers. The way he’d pull away the second someone looked too closely.

Behind you, he sat on the edge of your bed already dressed in hid expensive suit. His eyes were sharp and impatient.

When you pulled out a certain outfit from your closet, he immediately scoffed.

“What the hell are you thinkin’?” His tone wasn’t angry… just dismissive. Worse, somehow. “Pick somethin’ else that won’t make us look stupid.”

His words hit like a slap. Us. As if your outfit— your body —was a reflection of his brand. As if you were an accessory that needed to match his wealth and smug smirk.

Your grip tightened on the hanger, knuckles whitening. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, eyes still a little red from the argument you’d escaped earlier tonight. You were already cracked down the middle from home, and now he was pressing right where it hurt.

“Nash,” you said, turning slowly toward him, trying to keep your voice steady despite the irritation bubbling inside. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk to me like that?”

He didn’t move right away. His gaze lingered on you, unreadable—something dark and uncertain flickering beneath the hard edges of his carefully crafted persona. For a second, it seemed like he might actually say sorry… like he might admit he’d gone too far.

But Nash wasn’t good at softness. Vulnerability scared him. And fear— for a guy like him —always came out looking like arrogance.

His jaw flexed, his eyes narrowed, and the silence between you grew razor-sharp.

You didn’t know what would come next. An apology? An argument? Or another piece of your heart slowly splintering?

All you knew was this: loving Nash felt like balancing on the edge of a knife.

One wrong move… and someone was going to bleed.