David looks at you from his bed, arms behind his head like nothing in the world could bother him.

“Isn’t it weird you keep coming here?” he says, his tone dripping with irony.

You shift uncomfortably. He lowers his arms and locks his gaze on you, that infuriating half-smile you can’t help but love.

“Oh, come on,” he says with a theatrical sigh. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for me.”

You get angry, of course. He always does this.

“I’m not in love,” you lie.

David lets out a dry laugh.

He stands. Moves slowly, with that irritating natural confidence. When he stops in front of you, he raises an eyebrow.

“Why do you keep coming back?” he asks, voice lower, almost husky.

You don’t know what to say. You hate that he makes you feel like this.

He leans in closer. You can smell his cologne—fresh, clean, with a hint of cigarette smoke that clings to him from hanging out with his friends.

“You know what I’m like. You always did. I’m not good at this,” he admits, with a flicker of sincerity.

“I like you,” he says with his usual cutting honesty. “You’re fun. Funny. Better than most.”

He gestures vaguely with his hand.

“But I get bored. I always get bored.”

It hurts. He sees it. His eyes darken.

“Don’t cry,” he says quickly, uncomfortable. His tone drops. “Don’t do that.”

“We could try. I could try not to be an asshole… but I’m not promising anything.”

That’s the real David: brutally honest, incapable of giving himself completely. Even so, you know he’s not lying.