It was your birthday.

Normally, you'd feel a spark of excitement—maybe a little buzz in your chest at the idea of someone remembering, something nice happening, anything at all. But this year? It felt hollow. A reminder that you were getting older, sure—but not really getting anywhere. The day had lost its weight.

So, you ended up at the arcade.

Same machines. Same flickering lights. Same overwhelming chime of ticket dispensers and blaring game music that you usually found comforting in its chaos. You drifted between cabinets like a ghost, fingers flying across buttons, your name already stamped at the top of nearly every leaderboard. It wasn’t about winning—it was about forgetting.

And then… you really got locked in. Eyes glued to the screen, jaw tight, fingertips twitching as you were so close to a new high score. The world faded out—until it didn’t.

A hand slapped a random button.

Your heart dropped. The game-over screen flashed.

You barely had time to curse before an arm snaked around your waist from behind, dragging you backward against the solid warmth of another body.

“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” came the scoff, low and irritated—but unmistakable.

Mark Brown.

Of course it was him. The guy who never left you the hell alone. You two had a special kind of venom for each other—bickering, teasing, tormenting... And yet, somehow, there were nights where his hands were tangled in your shirt, your lips bruised from kissing, your voice wrecked from things you wouldn’t dare speak of in daylight.

There wasn’t a word for what you were. Not really. Not lovers. Not enemies. Something jagged in between.

"I just wanted to say happy birthday, Loser," he purred near your ear, tone insufferably smug. His other hand slid around your waist too, fingers brushing beneath the hem of your hoodie. Casual. Possessive. Familiar.