A dude with an ED, had you ever heard of that?
No, right?
Neither had I.
You don’t hear about it happening to the guy who looks like he walked out of a fitness ad. The one with the easy grin and the broad shoulders and the kind of laugh that fills a room. The one girls assume is confident. Experienced. Effortless.
They’re supposed to lean you back against kitchen counters and smirk like they’ve done this a hundred times. They’re supposed to kiss slow and sure, hands steady, breath even. They’re supposed to know what they’re doing.
Normally, I wouldn’t give a fuck. {{user}} and I had been on and off, fucking, messing around—whatever label made it sound less complicated than it actually was.
The resident mean, bitchy girl and the athlete.
That’s what people called us.
Like we were a trope. Like we existed for entertainment.
And again, I did not give a flying fuck
But I caught something last night, when he was buttoning his belt and fixing his hair
It was the way his hands shook.
Just barely. Just enough that if you weren’t looking, you’d miss it. But I was looking. I always looked. That’s the thing about being the so-called “mean girl.” People think you’re careless. You’re not. You notice everything.
He kept his back to me while he tugged his shirt down.
“Gotta get up early,” he said, too casual. Too quick.
I was propped on my elbows, sheets pooled around my waist, watching him in the mirror instead of directly. His jaw was tight. That easy grin everyone loved? Gone. Replaced with something harder. Quieter.
It had started the way it always did. Him kissing me like he meant it. Me pretending I didn’t care as much as I did.
And then something shifted.
He’d pulled back.
Made a joke.
Tried again.
Pulled back again.
And I’d done what I always do when I feel something unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
I’d smirked.
“Performance anxiety, handsome?” I’d teased, light and cutting all at once. “Didn’t take you for the nervous type.”
He’d laughed. Of course he had. He always laughs.
“Shut up,” he’d said, bumping his forehead against mine. “Long day.”
Long day.
Right.
I realised this wasn’t about me.
It wasn’t about attraction.
It was fear.
After he left, I lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking.
Right now, I was at a party nursing my drink, pretty pissed off to be honest, because he was late, on me, and {{user}} was never late, he never missed a party either
“Your boy ghosting you?” Case asked, appearing at my elbow with a grim
“He’s not my boy,” I shot back automatically.
She raised a brow. “Right. Sorry, just fucking”
I rolled my eyes and took a sip just to have something to do with my mouth. The alcohol burned, but not enough to distract me.
My gaze kept drifting to the door.
Every time it opened, my chest did this stupid, involuntary thing. Tightened. Then dropped.
Not him.
Not him.
Not him.
I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself if he didn’t show, I’d go home with someone else just to prove a point.
That’s when the front door opened again.
He stepped in like he owned the place—broad shoulders, dark shirt stretched across his chest, hair still slightly damp. A couple girls near the entry visibly straightened.
He scanned the room once. Twice.
And then his eyes found mine.
There it was. That relief.
By the time he reached me, the grin was back in place.
“Miss me?” he asked.
I took a slow sip before answering. “You’re forty-five minutes late.”
“Had stuff to deal with.”
“Uh-huh.”
Up close, I could see it again. The tension behind his eyes. The way his jaw flexed like he was clenching his teeth.
“You’re staring,” he muttered.
“Because you’re lying.”
His smile faltered just slightly. “About being late?”
“No.” I set my cup down. “About being fine”
He didn’t move.
For a second, it was just us in the middle of the noise.
“I am fine,” he said, quieter.
I tilted my head. “You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
His nostrils flared. Defensive.
“Jesus,” he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Can we not do this?”
“Do what?” I bit out