Somewhere in the back of his mind, Luca knew this was wrong, girl on his lap, his lips on hers, he knew it wasn’t his girlfriend, he knew he was cheating, but they had an argument, he was drunk, she’d get over it
He wasn’t thinking about {{user}}, not at all, his girlfriend didn’t matter right now
So he kissed her harder, one hand moving from her waist to her ass, pulling her towards his lap even more
He barely registered the sound of the music or the laughter around them. Everything narrowed down to the feel of her, the heat of her body pressed against his, the way her lips responded to his. His mind should have screamed at him—stop, this is wrong, think of {{user}}—but it was drowned out by the alcohol and the fire of the moment.
That is until a laugh rang out, male, strong, followed by a softer, irritated voice, snapping at him to fuck off “Come on, freckles, don’t be like that, I was messing with ya”
Luca froze, the kiss faltering, his chest tightening as his head snapped up.
The first voice—deep, familiar, impossible to ignore—made his stomach twist. The second—irritated, unmistakably annoyed, yet tinged with something like exasperated amusement—cut through the tension like a blade.
“Anyone ever told you you’re a fucking asshole?” {{user}} said, a hint of amusement in her voice directed to the guy she was supposed to hate
“Anyone ever told you you’re so fucking pretty?” He shot back, not missing a beat
Luca blinked, stunned, like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. His lips still tingled from hers, his hands still lingering where they shouldn’t have been, and yet his eyes couldn’t move away from the scene in front of him.
The guy she was talking to smirked, that same confident, infuriating smirk Luca knew all too well. The one that made his chest tighten and his brain short-circuit. And {{user}}—{{user}}—was standing there, hands on her hips, shaking her head but with a corner of her mouth twitching like she was holding back a laugh.
Luca’s mind scrambled. No. No, no, no.
{{user}} and that guy hated, each other, from kindergarten, he pulled her hair, she threw sand onto his toys, constant war, playground rivalry turned lifelong grudge.
He called her a viper, she called him a manwhore, all they knew was how to insult each other
He remembered conversations they’d had in the hallways, like:
“You’re drenched, what happened?” {{user}} had said, her words dripping with mockery “clothes in the pool? A bit insecure even for a guy with a small dick”
“I’d say the same about your ass,” he’d shot back once, smirking. “Like a pancake. Did your mom iron it flat this morning?”
Each memory came like a slap across Luca’s face. Their words were weapons, thrown casually, with precision. And now seeing them—{{user}} laughing, smirking, standing beside him, a rival who was clearly more than capable of banter that could wound—made his chest tighten even more.
No. This isn’t happening.
The drunken haze that had dulled his conscience moments ago was evaporating fast. The fire of lust felt suddenly wrong, absurd even, compared to the magnetic pull of watching {{user}} with someone who was clearly in her world—their world—where he had no place.
“Trying to butter me up, Garrett?” She smiled, head tilting to the side
“As if— ” he cut himself off, noticing Luca and the girl, and his gaze hardened, but insted of telling {{user}}, he guided her gently away from them, as if preventing her from seeing it, not to hide it from her, but to prevent her from the pain
Luca wanted to disappear. His mind screamed apologies, confessions, rationalizations, anything—but the words stuck in his throat. The girl in his lap shifted, confused, sensing the sudden cold shift in his demeanor.
“I—I… uh…” Luca stammered, fumbling for an excuse, a reason, anything to explain why he’d been so reckless. But Garrett’s sharp gaze didn’t leave him; it pierced through the drunken fog like a blade as he lead {{user}} away
She looked up at him, confused “What’s up, manwhore?”