Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
The car smells like alcohol and sweat and something sour I can't place. Tyler's passed out halfway against the window, mouth slightly open, breathing heavy like he ran a marathon instead of drank himself stupid.
I grip the steering wheel harder than necessary.
Unbelievable.
I can still hear his voice in my head.
What happened to the girl?
Like it was any of his business. Like he didn't say it just to get under my skin. Like I didn't already feel weird enough about the whole thing without him dragging it back up and poking it with a stick.
I tell myself I'm pissed because he was drunk. Because he was reckless. Because he could've hurt someone. Because he's an idiot.
I do not think about the way my chest tightened when he said it.
I do not think about why it mattered that he noticed.
Streetlights blur past as I pull into his block. Trailer park. Same shit, different arrangement. Everything here always feels temporary. Like it could disappear overnight and no one would be surprised.
I park roughly and kill the engine.
"Tyler." I shake his shoulder. Hard. "Wake up."
He groans, face scrunching like I've personally offended him. "Fuck off..."
"Get up," I snap. "We're here."
He blinks blearily, eyes unfocused. "Home?"
"Yes. Unfortunately."
He fumbles with the door handle like it's a complex puzzle. I get out, walk around the car, and yank it open before he falls on his face. Again.
As I haul him upright, he leans into me, all dead weight and heat. I grit my teeth.
"Anyone home?" I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.
He shrugs weakly. "Dunno. Probably not." A pause. Then, quieter. "She's... busy." His talking about his mother.
I glance at him. "Busy how."
He lets out a humorless breath. "You know how."
Yeah. I do.
Drugs.
Something tight twists in my chest. Something I don't want there. Pity. Recognition. That awful mirror feeling when you see someone else's mess and it looks a little too familiar.
I shove it down immediately. I don't have room for that. Not tonight.
"Keys," I mutter, steering him toward the trailer.
He pats his pockets uselessly before I find them myself.
Inside, the place is dark and stale. No lights on. No noise. No sign of anyone sober or otherwise. Just the quiet hum of a fridge that sounds like it's barely hanging on.
I drag Tyler to the couch and let go.
He collapses face-first into the cushions with a surprised "oof."
"Asshole," he mumbles.
I don't even bother replying.
I stand there for a second, breathing hard, taking him in. His hair's a mess. There's still dried dirt under his nails. A faint bruise on his jaw from the last race, already turning yellow at the edges.
He looks wrecked.
Good.
"Next time," I say tightly, "don't drive if you're gonna drink like that."
He rolls onto his back, squinting up at me. "You care now?"
Of course not.
I laugh, sharp and humorless. "Don't flatter yourself. I care about not scraping your body off the road."
"Liar," he mutters.
"Go to sleep," I snap. "Before you say something else stupid."
He smirks faintly, eyes already drifting shut. "You're still mad about the girl."
I turn away before he can see my face.
"Shut up, Tyler."
I grab a blanket from the chair and throw it over him harder than necessary. It lands half on his chest, half on his face.
He doesn't complain.
I stand there a moment longer than I should, listening to his breathing even out, my pulse still racing like I'm the one who drank too much.
I hate him.
I hate this.
I hate that I didn't just leave him there.
With one last glare at his unconscious form, I head for the door.
Tomorrow is going to be a disaster. And somehow, I already know this isn't over.
I'm already halfway to the door when he mumbles it.
"Don't... don't go yet."
I stop.
Of course I do.
I close my eyes for half a second, jaw tightening. "What now."
He shifts on the couch, eyes barely open, words slurring together. "In case I... y'know. Throw up or something."
I turn back slowly, irritation flaring hot and immediate. "That's your excuse?"
He shrugs, winces like even that takes effort. "Better than puking alone."
I scoff. "You're unbelievable."
But I don't leave.
That pisses me off more than anything.
I stand there arguing with myself for a beat. I could walk out. I should walk out. He's drunk, annoying, and still somehow managing to get under my skin without even being fully conscious.
Instead, I sigh through my nose and gesture sharply. "Sit up. Properly."
He blinks at me. "Bossy."
"Do it, Tyler."
Something in my voice must cut through the fog, because he pushes himself upright, groaning, feet planting clumsily on the floor. I grab a pillow and shove it behind his back so he doesn't tip over like an idiot.
I sit down at the opposite end of the couch, deliberately leaving space between us.
Safe distance.
Necessary distance.
I run a hand through my short hair, exhausted, annoyed, still buzzing from the party and the drive and him. "You good?"
"For now," he mutters. "World's still spinning though."
"Congratulations. That's called consequences."
He lets out a quiet laugh, then winces. "You were mad back there."
"At the party?" I wask. "Yeah. You were wasted."
"No," he says slowly, eyes drifting to me. "Mad-mad."
I look away. "Drop it."
Silence stretches. The trailer creaks softly as it settles. Somewhere outside, someone laughs, distant and careless.
Tyler breaks it again. "You didn't have to take me home."
"Yes, I did," I say flatly. "Because you were a danger to yourself and everyone else."
He hums. "You always like playing the hero?"
I shoot him a look. "You always like pushing until someone snaps?"
A pause.
Then, like he can't help himself, he smirks faintly. "So... the girl."
My patience finally cracks.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, rubbing my face. "Why are you obsessed with that?"
"I'm not obsessed," he says. "Just curious."
"Curious about what," I snap, turning fully toward him now. "Who I hook up with? Since when is that your business?"
His eyes meet mine. Dark. Unsteady. Too focused for someone this drunk.
"You criticize Lexi for it," he says. "Then you do the same thing."
"That is not the same," I fire back. "Don't even start."
"Why," he pushes. "Because she's your sister?"
"Yes," I say sharply. "Because I care about her."
"And no one cares about you?" he asks, voice low.
The words land heavier than they should.
I go quiet.
He seems to realize what he said a second too late, his expression flickering. "That's not— I didn't—"
I hold his gaze. The anger is still there, but something else creeps in underneath it. Something uncomfortable. Something that makes my chest feel tight.
We're too close now. Not physically, but something else. The air between us feels charged, like before a storm.
"Don't," I warn quietly.
His jaw clenches. "You looked fine with her."
"Stop," I say again.
He doesn't. His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. Just for a second. Long enough for me to notice.
Long enough for my pulse to spike.
I swallow. "You're drunk."
"Yeah," he murmurs. "And you're still here."
We stare at each other, the tension thick and stupid and dangerous. I can feel my own breathing, can feel the couch beneath my hands, can feel how wrong and unavoidable this moment is.
I break eye contact first, standing abruptly. "I'm not doing this."
"Doing what?" he asks.
"Whatever this is," I sigh. "Get some sleep."
I grab another blanket and toss it at him, harder than necessary. He catches it clumsily, blinking up at me.
I head for the door again, heart pounding for reasons I don't want to unpack.
I'm yy uy hi ya hi hi uyy
Behind me, his voice is softer. Almost sober.
"Night, Aaron."
I don't answer.
I just leave, the door clicking shut behind me, my thoughts louder than anything he said.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click that feels way too final.
I stand there for a second, staring at the peeling paint, breathing in cold air like it might reset my brain. It doesn't. Nothing does.
I shove my hands into my jacket and step off the porch, boots crunching against gravel. The night's quiet in that fake way, like the neighborhood's pretending nothing ever goes wrong here. A couple of trailers lit up. Music somewhere far off. Life moving on, uncaring.
My head's still buzzing.
Tyler. Drunk. Slurring. Looking at me like that.
I grind my teeth and walk faster.
I shouldn't have stayed. I shouldn't have sat down. I definitely shouldn't be thinking about the way his voice dropped when he said my name, or how his eyes didn't look like they usually do when he's trying to piss me off.
He's an asshole.
He's a rival.
He's nothing.
I repeat it like a mantra, like that'll make it true.
The image of him on the couch flashes again. Barely holding himself upright. That stupid half-smirk. The way he kept bringing up the girl from the bathroom like it mattered.
It didn't.
It really didn't.
So why does my chest still feel tight?
I kick a rock across the road harder than necessary and wince when the jolt shoots up my leg. Pain grounds me. Familiar. Simple. Better than whatever the hell that was back there.
I keep walking.
Hands shoved deep into my jacket, head down, breath fogging up in front of me. Every step feels heavier than the last, like the night's clinging to me on purpose. Like it knows I'm trying not to think.
Doesn't work.
My brain replays everything anyway. The party. The noise. The heat. The girl's mouth on mine, her hands pulling me closer like this was supposed to be easy. Automatic. Something I've done a hundred times without thinking.
Except I did think.
The whole fucking time.
I squeeze my eyes shut as I walk, jaw tight.
In the bathroom, with her pressed against me, fingers tugging at my shirt, I kept waiting for my body to catch up. Kept telling myself to relax. To focus. To just feel it.
Nothing.
Just this awful, buzzing emptiness. Like my body had checked out and left me alone with my thoughts.
And my thoughts wouldn't shut up.
Tyler's face.
Tyler's eyes locked on mine across the room.
Tyler drunk, pissed, looking at me like he wanted to tear something apart.
I swallow hard.
It pissed me off. Embarrassed me. Freaked me the hell out.
I'd pulled away, muttered some bullshit excuse, left her standing there confused while I stared at my own reflection like it had personally betrayed me.
That's what bothers me the most.
Not the fights. Not my dad. Not even Lexi.
It's that my body didn't react the way it's supposed to. That it didn't react at all. And that the only thing my brain seemed interested in serving up was fucking Tyler.
I drag a hand down my face, fingers pressing into my eyes until I see stars.
This is nothing.
It has to be nothing.
I walk faster, like I can outrun the thought before it settles in too deep. The trailer park comes into view, dim lights, familiar shapes. Home. Or whatever passes for it.
I don't slow down.
I just keep moving.
Because if I stop, I might start asking myself questions I'm not ready to answer