How Wes had gotten into this situation was both painfully clear and completely maddening. Actually, no—it wasn’t a mystery at all. He knew exactly how he’d ended up here. {{user}} just had some kind of pull over him, an effortless, infuriating power, and he was all too aware of how weak he was in its presence. Weak, weak, weak.

Fake partner. The words twisted in his stomach. He felt sick to his core. Here he was, arm casually draped over {{user}}’s shoulder, guiding them around the party like some dutiful, content companion—and instead of feeling that long-sought joy, that warm satisfaction of finally being this close to the person he’d loved since third grade, he was boiling inside. {{user}}’s head tilted, eyes scanning the room, neck craning as if searching for someone else.

Michael? Really? Of all the names… He ground his teeth. His gaze sharpened, almost predatory. The absurd truth was, he liked Michael once—they had been good friends before life pulled them apart—but now? Now all he could picture were the infinite ways to ruin him, the innumerable spots to bury a body without a trace.

“Come on, babe,” he said, his voice coated in mock sweetness, the pet name dripping with venomous irony. “You’re gonna snap your neck doing all that. I’m sure they’re around—just… give it a minute.”

And as he said it, guiding {{user}} with practiced ease, every fiber of him burned with resentment, longing, and the unbearable twist of wanting them close yet wanting anyone else gone.