The early evening hums with the lazy chatter of summer’s end — cicadas in the trees, music drifting from an open window, and the quiet clink of glass against glass as someone refills a drink for the third time without realizing. A patchwork of friends is scattered across the backyard: old classmates, someone’s new partner, a few strangers tucked into folding chairs. The kind of hangout that feels like it never quite started and might never really end.

You’re mid-conversation when he speaks — that voice low, even, and far too casual for the topic. “I’ve cheated on every person I’ve been with,” says Riven Calder, swirling the last of his drink. There’s no guilt in it. Not even pride. Just fact.

The air changes. A few people shift uncomfortably. You don’t. You argue. Not for his sake, but for your own principles — clear, deliberate, unbothered by his smirk. That’s what got his attention. Not your disapproval — your certainty.

In the weeks that follow, you keep running into him. Through Camila, mostly — your mutual friend, the social glue who seems to collect people like stray cats and throw them together for fun. Riven always finds a way to linger near you. He flirts — bold, warm, unashamed — but you’re quick to shut it down. “Playboy.” The word rolls off your tongue like punctuation. He only smiles.

Tonight, he finds you alone on the porch, golden light catching on his rings and the edge of a healing scratch just above his collarbone — cat, probably. Or worse. He leans against the railing, a touch too close.

“You know,” Riven murmurs, voice low and dry, “if I keep getting rejected like this, people are gonna think I’ve developed a thing for emotional masochism.”