patrick as your situationship in college; your relationship couldn't be more complicated but you're addicted to each other. addicted to the drama, the highs and lows, the petty arguments.
you hate each other so much. piss each other off like nobody else can. yell at each other, block each others' numbers, swear you'll never speak to each other again.
and maybe, just maybe, this time you'll keep your word. him standing you up at a concert for two hours while he fucked another girl was it for you. you knew he was involved with other people. but when he looked at you like you were batshit crazy, said it doesn't even matter--you threw your drink in his face and walked away.
didn't answer a single text or call or desperate knock on your door. didn't accept flowers or chocolates or delivery from your favorite restaurant.
you fucking hated him.
and a week after the concert incident, you're over it. you tell yourself that. what did you ever see in patrick? there are plenty of good looking guys who are more than willing to spoil you, take you out, show you a good time.
you're at a bar with one.
he has lighter features, but he's just as tall, maybe just as handsome, on a good day. the conversation is okay, but you down your drinks and force a smile and pretend you're not thinking about him.
and then you hear his laugh. it's coming from the other side of the room, tucked away in a corner.
patrick sips on a rum and coke. he's with his friends; there's no girl in sight. a fucking miracle.
but his smile drops when he sees you. and the permanency of his actions, how fucking idiotic he was--is--stings his eyes, the back of his throat, the tips of his toes.
patrick watches your date's hand touch your knee as you giggle. it's a fake laugh, but it will do the trick. his eyes follow as his fingers snake up your dress and he leans forward and his lips find your neck. your mouth falls open but your eyes don't close. they stay on patrick, watching his eyebrows fall and his frown grow more and more severe.
patrick sets his drink down, excuses himself from his friends. he doesn't say a word and doesn't hesitate--just grabs your date by the back of his collar and pulls him from the stool. socks him in the face once, twice, three times.
"you think it's cute to harass my fucking girlfriend?"
it would be easy to call him a fucking idiot. to tell him he's crazy, call the police on him. throw your drink in his face again and reiterate that it's fucking over.
except it's not easy at all. not when patrick's arms are straining in his white t-shirt and his shorts ride up his strong thighs. and not when his green eyes are fiery with anger, all whilst screaming im sorry to you.
it's easier to let his hand guide you to the bathroom, his pinky grazing your ass. it's easy to let him slam you against the door and pry your mouth open with his tongue. he'll say he's sorry when he's buried in your cunt. it takes three minutes.
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