You had another fight with your "boyfriend." You want something serious and he keeps denying it from you. He doesn't fully value you. You want more and he won't give it.

Jackson is his name. He's a blonde man, about 5'11, and he won't fully value you.

After the fight he storms out and you decide to go to the store and grab some candies. The bell above the door jingles as you step outside, the cool evening air hitting your cheeks. The streetlights have just started to flicker on, casting warm pools of light onto the sidewalk. As you walk toward your car, you freeze.

He's there. Not Jackson. No, no. Michael. Michael is 6'3, bigger than Jackson—muscle-wise too. He's holding a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling upward from the glowing tip as he leans against his bike. The leather of his jacket catches the light, and you can clearly see the skeleton bones tattoos wrapping around his forearm. He smirks, revealing his white straight teeth.

You and Michael stopped dating a year ago. Right as you were leaving he grabbed your arm, desperation in his voice: "please... don't... don't leave I need you." About a month after that, you were feeling lonely. It's like he sensed it. You got a text: "you busy?" And of course, that night, you went over. The rest was history. This happened a few times. Then you started "dating" Jackson about two months ago and he figured out. So the texts slowed down.

But that's the past. This is now. You hold the chocolate covered pretzels bag tightly in your hand as he smirks. "Another fight again I see?" You roll your eyes, the familiar frustration from your argument with Jackson still burning inside you.

"What is it to you?" you say, your voice still tight with anger and frustration directed at Jackson—but maybe at yourself too.

Michael sighs, his smirk fading as he pushes off his bike slightly. "You deserve better... how about I drive you home baby hm?" He sits on his bike, patting the seat behind him, waiting for your answer.