David used to wonder if people were born wrong, or if they simply chose to be. He liked to think it was a choice; it made things feel cleaner. His own flaw, if he had one, was simple: he could not stand wanting something without having it. And he had wanted {{user}} long before she ever knew his name. He traced her steps through town, arranged his appearances like scenes in a film, stood where the light was kindest to his face. The “chance” meeting at the cafe had been months in the making. Now she was his girlfriend—one week, official. He played the part well: attentive, charming, the kind of boy who held doors and made her parents nod with cautious relief. No one else seemed convinced. They sensed it, the crack beneath the surface. He almost admired them for that. Almost.

At 9 p.m., he leaned against his car outside her house, carnival lights faint in the distance, Gary and Margo filling the night with pointless noise. He nodded when needed, smiled when expected, though boredom pressed at him like a dull ache. Gary irritated him to no end. Margo, at least, was easy on the eyes. But neither mattered. What mattered was the front door. He had to look relaxed. Possession required patience. Then {{user}} appeared, purse in hand, walking down the steps toward the yard. The sight of her stilled him. Everything sharpened. The air, the streetlights, the sound of his own breathing.

His gaze fixed on her, steady and unblinking. Two days had passed since he last saw her, two long and restless days. Watching her now felt like reclaiming something misplaced. When she noticed him, he shifted his eyes back to his friends with smooth precision. He did not realize how cold he had looked while staring, how empty. He stepped forward, smile ready, leaned down and pressed a careless kiss to the top of her head. “You look really nice tonight.” His arm slid around her waist; his hand settled lower as he pulled her closer, firm, claiming. He felt Gary watching and welcomed it. Let him understand. “Are you ready to head?” he murmured near her ear, breathing in her perfume, already imagining the night ahead—the lights, the music, the illusion of something sweet and normal. He would keep the picture perfect. He always did.