Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
I'm still standing in the middle of this clusterfuck of a party, hands shoved in my pockets, jaw tight. The music rattles the walls and my skull in equal measure. People are laughing, shouting, spilling drinks, grinding into each other like it's some contest to see who can make the most noise.
Cole's beside me, waving a beer like he's trying to get me to snap out of whatever funk I'm in. "Yo, Ty! Chill. You're scowling more than usual."
"I'm fine," I mutter.
He snorts, obviously not believing me, but doesn't push. Good. Let him stew in his own lack of tact.
Girls have been circling me all night, hands brushing my arms, eyes flashing like they know exactly how to get under my skin. I should care. I don't. Or at least, I try not to.
Except... I can't stop thinking about him. Aaron.
Fucking Aaron Hawkins.
Across the room. His head buried in some girl's neck. Lips moving. Hands... God, hands everywhere. I don't even want to think about where they're touching now. My chest twists, stomach knots, and for some reason, I can't stop imagining that by this point she's probably bent over the sink in the bathroom or something.
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts.
It shouldn't bother me. He's a fucking idiot. Always sticking his nose in everyone else's business. Always criticizing Lexi, telling her how to behave, how to dress, how to act. And now... now he's doing exactly what he shits on his sister for. I'm definitely not exaggerating.
I glance at Cole. He's mid-laugh, not paying attention, holding a bottle like it's a lifeline.
"Want some?" he asks, and I just nod. My throat is tight anyway. The liquor burns a little when I swallow. Good. Makes the gnawing easier to ignore.
But it doesn't go away. Not even close. I take a long swig, glare at the crowd like it's their fault they exist, but my eyes keep looking for him. Aaron.
I try to tell myself it's just the anger talking.
Maybe it's that. Maybe it's more than that. Maybe it's the fact that I can't stand watching him, for once, take control of something like he's not the guy who always screws everything up.
"Dude, relax," Cole says again.
I scoff. "I am relaxed."
He snorts, shakes his head. "Yeah, sure. You look ready to throttle someone."
I take another drink, let it sting. Try to push the image away. My thoughts spin, looping through the night, through the way Aaron looks when he's focused, the way he's always trying to prove something, always fighting for something... and somehow it all lands on this moment. This one.
I've never cared about him like this. Not really. Not consciously. And I'm definitely not starting now.
And yet here I am. Fuming. Hands tightening around the bottle.
I drink. Again. Let the sharp burn mask the twist in my gut. I glance back toward the bathroom, toward where he disappeared, and my stomach tightens.
I don't know what the fuck this is.
Cole laughs at something I don't hear, slaps me on the shoulder. I don't even react. Not really. My mind is elsewhere. Looping. Obsessed. Angry.
Because I can't stop thinking about Aaron, about what he's doing, about the fact that I can't touch it, can't stop it, can't... something.
I take a deep breath, slam the rest of the beer, and shove the empty bottle aside.
I don't know how to fix this. I don't even know what "this" is.
And that's when I realize I don't care to figure it out tonight.
Not tonight.
After some time, that I spend drinking all the alcohol I could find, I'm leaned back on the couch, half-sprawled, bottle still in hand, vision blurry, thoughts slurred even to myself. Cole's beside me, leaning into some chick who's laughing way too loud, passing a joint back and forth like it's oxygen. I don't care. Not really. My head feels like it's splitting in half anyway.
I can barely hear anything over the pounding bass and the warm, fuzzy haze of booze, but then... voices.
Aaron. Mason.
My stomach twists. Even through the fog, I can tell Aaron's pissed. Every syllable from him cuts through the haze, sharp, accusing. Mason's trying to smooth things over, voice lighter, more detached. "Just leave the idiots there, Aaron," he laughs, though I catch the tension underneath.
"No," Aaron snaps, and I feel it more than hear it. "Better take them before they make a mess of something."
I blink, trying to focus, my head spinning. Aaron's still barking orders. Mason's sighs. I can hear them negotiating like it's some war council.
"Cole, you go with Mason," Aaron says, and the way he says it makes my chest twist. He's delegating. He's organizing. He's... controlling.
My drunken brain latches onto that, and I grit my teeth.
Aaron's moving toward me. Every step makes my stomach churn. He's pissed. I can hear it in his tone, sharp and low, a growl meant for me.
I try to push myself up, trying to make him go away, muttering, "Go... go handle... whatever..." But my body refuses to cooperate.
He's right there before I can even get vertical.
"You came in a car?" he demands, voice tight, cutting through my fog.
I squint at him, trying to make sense. My tongue feels heavy. "...keys... here," I slur, fumbling in my pocket.
He grabs them before I can protest. "You're lucky I'm even here," he mutters, voice low, angry.
I try to lean back, but my legs betray me. He's already pushing me upright, holding me steady, muttering something about getting me home. I can feel his anger and frustration radiating like heat, mixing with my own spinning rage and booze-addled haze.
He keeps talking. Complaining. Shoving questions at me like I'm sane enough to answer. "What the hell were you thinking? You were planing on driving drunk? Are you stupid?!"
I barely comprehend him. My brain keeps ping-ponging between disorientation, annoyance, and some twisted sense of pride that he's even worrying about me.
Finally, he mutters, "You're a mess, Tyler..."
And then he's dragging me toward the door, lecturing, complaining, muttering a storm of curses I can't entirely process.
I stumble after him, half-laughing, half-grumbling, and the music fades behind me.
Because no matter how drunk I am, no matter how messy my brain feels, Aaron's anger is like a spotlight cutting through the fog. And somehow... I can't stop it from getting under my skin.
The cold night air slaps me in the face the second Aaron shoves me out of the house.
"Watch it," I slur, even though I'm the one stumbling over my own feet.
He doesn't. He just keeps dragging me across the gravel like I'm dead weight. His grip is tight on my arm, fingers digging in, and even through the alcohol haze I register it. Strong. Angry. Controlled in that way that means he's two seconds from losing it.
The parking lot spins. The world tilts sideways.
"You're a fucking nightmare," Aaron mutters, yanking open the passenger door and practically throwing me inside.
I laugh. Or I think I do. It comes out crooked. "Missed you too, Hawkins."
He slams the door harder than necessary and stalks around to the driver's side. The car dips when he gets in. He smells like sweat and cheap alcohol and something sharper underneath. Adrenaline. Anger. Him.
The engine roars to life.
We sit there for a second in tense silence, the bass from the party thumping faintly through the walls, my head pounding in time with it.
Then my brain, traitor that it is, drifts.
I turn my head slowly, squinting at him through half-lidded eyes. "Hey," I say, voice thick. "What happened to the girl?"
His jaw tightens instantly. I see it even through the blur.
"What girl."
I grin, lazy and mean. "Bathroom girl. The one you were about to—" I make a vague hand gesture. "You know."
The car jerks forward.
"Shut the fuck up," Aaron snaps.
I snort. "What? I interrupt something important?" I tilt my head, studying him. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Vein standing out in his neck. He looks ready to kill me. "She hot at least?"
"Jesus Christ, Tyler."
There it is. My name in his mouth, sharp and pissed off. It sends something hot and stupid straight through my chest.
"What?" I push, because I can't not. "You drag me out like I'm some drunk asshole and don't even finish your night? Kinda rude."
He slams his palm against the steering wheel. "You were wasted. Cole was barely conscious. Someone had to act like an adult."
I laugh again. "You? Acting responsible?" I shake my head, the movement making the world lurch. "That's new." I know I'm not even making sense, he's pretty responsible, but I won't admit it to him.
He doesn't look at me. Just stares straight ahead at the road, streetlights flashing across his face. For a second, I think he might actually explode.
Then he exhales. Long. Slow.
"This is pointless," he mutters. "You're drunk. I'm not doing this."
I open my mouth to fire back, some half-formed insult already bubbling up, but he cuts me off.
"Just shut up," he says, quieter now. Tired. "Please." Please? Wow.
That stops me.
Not the words. The tone.
I lean back against the seat, suddenly aware of how heavy my body feels. My head falls against the window. The glass is cold, grounding.
I watch the lights slide past outside, my thoughts sluggish, messy. I still feel irritated. Still want to poke at him. Still want to say something that'll make his blood boil.
But even my drunk brain can tell.
There's no winning this one.
So I close my eyes, jaw clenched, and let the silence stretch between us. The engine hums. The road unfolds.
And somewhere under the alcohol and the anger, the image of Aaron at that party still burns in my head.
"Fuck."