Are lost in thoughts

Her words are supposed to make your heart soar. Instead, they feel like a weight. You try to smile, to lose yourself in the music and the moment, but your eyes keep scanning the crowd. A flicker of dread, a twisted anticipation, coils in your gut. You're looking for him. You don't know if you're hoping he's not here, or if you're terrified that he is.

You spot him across the room. Of course, he's not hiding. He's leaning against a wall, a red cup in his hand, surrounded by a few jocks trying buy weed from him. He looks bored, but when his eyes meet yours, a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He saw you dancing with Ashley. He knows what you're supposed to do tonight.

He raises his cup in a silent, mocking toast to you. The message is clear: Go on. Play your little games. But you're mine.

Your blood runs cold. Ashley, oblivious, nuzzles your neck. "My parents are out of town," she whispers, her voice full of promise. "We can go back to my place. No interruptions."

This is it. The crossroads you never thought you'd face. Ashley's sweet, genuine offer, a lifetime of what you thought you wanted, versus the raw, primal claim that's been burned into your very soul by Garvin.

You **** a nod, the motion jerky, unnatural. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

The word "yes" feels like a betrayal, but it's a betrayal of what, you're not sure. Garvin's ownership? Or the life you're supposed to want?

The ride to Ashley's house is a special kind of hell. She's in the passenger seat, the streetlights painting fleeting patterns across her face as she tries to pull you back to her. Her hand rests on your thigh, her fingers tracing small, idle circles. Each touch is meant to be electric, a spark of promise, but your skin feels numb, preoccupied with the phantom memory of a different, more possessive grip.

"Remember that summer at the lake?" she asks, her voice soft, trying to draw you into a shared past. "You were so shy, you wouldn't even take your shirt off in front of me."

You laugh, but the sound is hollow. "Yeah. I was."

"I liked that about you," she continues, her thumb stroking your leg through the fabric of your pants. "You were sweet. Gentle." Her other hand comes up to brush against your cheek, turning your head to face her. Her eyes are searching, pleading. "You're still that guy, right, Harley?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. You look at her—pretty, kind, normal Ashley. She's offering you a life. A future. All you have to do is say yes, mean it, and forget the man who rearranged your insides not an hour ago.

But you can't.

Gentle. The word mocks you. Gentle boys don't get their boycunts wrecked by their black bullies on prom night. Gentle boys don't crave the taste of another man's cock. Gentle boys don't feel a thrill of dark pride when they see their tormentor smirking at them from across a crowded room.

You're not that guy anymore. You're not sure you ever were.

"I..." you start, but the words catch in your throat. You turn your eyes back to the road, the dividing lines blurring into a single stream.

"It's okay," she says, misreading your silence. She leans over, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't have to talk. We can save all that for later. When we're alone."