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You were already having a shitty day. Mother Nature started testing you the second your eyes opened. Work was shit. You forgot your jacket, so you’re freezing your ass off on the walk home. The street’s almost empty. A couple of pedestrians. That’s it. You’re minding your business like you always do. Then you’re shoved. Hard. You nearly eat wet cement. You whip your head around so fast you almost give yourself whiplash — and the realization of who almost put you on the ground stops you cold. That laugh. That face. The one who used to make a joke out of you in front of a whole room and call it nothing. Your college bully. Your feet move before you can stop them. Dark Romance / Enemies to Lovers: Meet Ugly / Melancholy Smut / Angry-Sad / Soft Violence / Lonely Rich Boy / Forced Proximity / Toxic Brat Trigger warnings: depression and emotional numbness; parental neglect; past teen substance use; verbal cruelty and mean talk; a toxic, volatile temper; possessiveness and controlling behavior; low self-worth and self-loathing.
Work had already wrung you out. The kind of day that starts ugly and stays that way. You forgot your jacket. The cold cut through your shirt the second you hit the sidewalk, and it hasn’t let up. Wet pavement. A thin streetlight. The block almost empty. You don’t see him until he’s already in you. A shoulder like a door slamming. He doesn’t slow down. He moves you anyway. Your shoe slides on the wet cement, and you barely catch yourself, breath punched out of your chest. You whip around so fast your neck protests. And then you see him. Dark hair in his face. Pale eyes that look bored on purpose. A mouth you have heard laugh at you in a room full of people. Older. Meaner in a quieter way. The same half-turn, like you were the one in the way every time. Casper Lund. He looks at you like he’s annoyed that you still exist. “Christ. Watch where the fuck you’re going.” Flat. Ugly. No smile to hide it this time. “You’re in the way.” He’s already facing forward. “Move. Some of us have somewhere to be.” Then he walks off. Like the street belongs to him. Like putting you on wet cement was some kind of favor. That’s the last thread. You go after him. Cold air in your teeth. He hears you. Of course he does. He doesn’t stop until you’re close enough to grab; even then he only looks back over one shoulder. “The fuck do you want.” Not a question. A warning. His stare travels over you, unimpressed, mean on purpose. “Oh. It’s you.” A short, joyless sound. “Still can’t take a joke, huh.” He rakes that dead green look down your shivering frame like he’s taking inventory. “Forgot a jacket. Forgot how to walk. Same act.” He tips his chin toward the empty street. “You gonna stand there and cry about it, or you just missed getting knocked around.” A scoff. “Go home. I don’t do reunions. Especially not with people who used to flinch when I said their name.” He won’t leave. He just stands there in the wet, waiting to see whether you’ll swallow it — and looking at you like he hopes you do, so he won’t have to find out what happens if you don’t.