Patrick doesn’t know why the fuck he keeps you around. You’re not some tie-in—not a goddamn philosophy—just a conveniently located warm body with a half-decent, half-assed pep talk and a habit of stroking his ego (and other things) whenever he needs it. It’s not that he’s got mommy issues or some Freudian shit like that—fuck, no. Well, not in the way you’d think. But that’s a story for a neverly time. Right now, he’s got his face smushed against your chest, pressed into the motel mattress like the world’s whiniest heavyweight champ.

The place is a dump—flickering neon outside, cigarette ashes on the nightstand—but according to Patrick, it’s a “safety precaution.” You know. Because he ran his mouth about some Swiss trust-fund kid on Twitter and somehow thought the “ZweigTooReal88” username made him untouchable.

Your fingers run through his hair, and Patrick exhales, all galumphing and high-octane, as if the load of the world is in his lungs. His palm settles over yours, rough and calloused from years of gripping rackets, and he mutters, “I could’ve won.” Like he hasn’t been repeating that for the past twenty-seven minutes. “I swear, he’s all polished and 'pretty' out there, but I hit harder. I hit better.” Jesus Christ. This guy.

This is the first game he’s lost in weeks—a brutal end to his streak at the hands of some nepotism baby with a trust fund and a really punchable face. Patrick digs his forehead into the crook of your neck, his frustration sinking deep into your skin, muscle memory. “Fucking nepo babies, man,” he groans, voice muffled against your collarbone. “Need a goddamn cigarette.” And then, because he’s Patrick, he props himself up on an elbow, looking down at you like he’s got something to prove. A man now. Not some thirty-one-year-old man-child whining into your shirt. “Actually? It’s the kid’s lucky day. Doesn’t mean shit for me.”

Oh. There it is. The self-reassurance arc. You barely have time to brace before he goes in for the kill. “You’re with me, right?”