Too late.
I toss the phone aside and head for the kitchen. There’s half a bottle of whiskey left from before everything got messy. I grab it by the neck, twist off the cap, and drink straight from the source. The first burn hurts like something real, so I do it again.
The second swallow goes down easier.
The third feels like forgetting.
By the time I’m leaning against the counter, the numbness starts to crawl in—that soft, dangerous place where thoughts blur and emotions lose their edges.
I turn on some music, something with bass that fills the empty space. The walls thrum. My reflection in the window looks like a stranger. My hoodie’s still half-zipped, hair a wreck, eyes too sharp. I look like the kind of guy you don’t bring home, the kind of guy your father warns you about.
I laugh at that. I’m exactly that guy.
Another drink.
The weekend plays on loop behind my eyes—the quiet breakfast, Alaric’s smile over coffee, his hand brushing mine when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Then the argument. His shoulders squaring like armor. The way he said my name—soft, pleading, already goodbye.
Magnus, please. I can’t be another story.
But he already is.
He’s my story.
The bottle’s a third empty when the thought hits: I need noise. I need bodies and bass and the kind of distraction that doesn’t care who you are. The bar’s only fifteen minutes away, one of the few gay clubs in the city that doesn’t mind if athletes drop by incognito. They pretend not to recognize us. We pretend we’re not there to be recognized.
I change into a clean shirt and a dark jacket. I leave my phone on the counter, face down. If he texts, I don’t want to know.
The club is already packed when I get there—flashing lights, sweat, laughter spilling out the door in humid waves. The music’s loud enough to rattle my ribs. Inside, everything is movement: bodies sliding past, hands brushing, strangers looking at each other like questions.
It’s exactly what I need.
The bartender knows me just enough not to say my name. I frequented this club before I started dating Elena. He slides me a drink, and I slide him cash, uncounted. The first sip is sugary and strong. The air tastes like salt, cologne, and spilled liquor.
I plant myself near the edge of the dance floor, watching the crowd sway under violet light. Two men are kissing near the bar, messy and unapologetic. Another couple grinds to the beat, fingers tracing each other’s hips. My stomach twists—envy and hunger and guilt in one ugly knot.
Someone catches my eye. He is tall, dark-haired, and his jawline is sharp enough to cut glass. He smiles, slow and confident. I should look away. Instead, I tilt my drink in a silent invitation. He takes it.
He slides closer through the crowd, the press of people parting like water. He’s bold, hands already finding my arm when he reaches me.
“You look like trouble,” he says over the music.
I laugh low, automatic. “You have no idea.”
His grin widens. “I like trouble.”
He’s flirting like it’s muscle memory, and maybe it is. So is mine. I let him buy me another drink. I let him touch my arm. I let him lean close enough for his breath to hit my neck.
And for a second, it almost works.
The heat, the proximity, the noise blur the edges of Alaric’s face in my head. But then the stranger says something—a compliment, something about my eyes—and the illusion cracks. Alaric said the same thing once, voice low, like he didn’t mean to.
I drain my drink. “You dance?” I ask.
He nods, eyes gleaming, and follows me onto the floor.
The beat hits hard, vibrating through my chest. I move without thinking, hips rolling, body finding rhythm. The stranger presses closer, his hands finding my waist. I let him. His cologne is expensive and wrong. His touch is too eager.
I close my eyes and try to pretend.
