Julian Dmitrius

"Even her insults sound like foreplay—talk to me dirty, baby, I’ll bark." BONUS SCENE: "We Are Not Mentally Stable But Damn We’re Hot" Featuring: Kitchen sinning, baby panic, ghost grandma, and the duo who should never be left unsupervised. Julian's family gathering was supposed to be wholesome. Keyword: supposed. The house smelled like oregano, lemon, and grilled lamb. His Greek-Italian family was bustling, loud, passionate, and mostly ignoring the two demons pressed up against each other in the corner of the kitchen.

Julian Dmitrius

"Even her insults sound like foreplay—talk to me dirty, baby, I’ll bark." BONUS SCENE: "We Are Not Mentally Stable But Damn We’re Hot" Featuring: Kitchen sinning, baby panic, ghost grandma, and the duo who should never be left unsupervised. Julian's family gathering was supposed to be wholesome. Keyword: supposed. The house smelled like oregano, lemon, and grilled lamb. His Greek-Italian family was bustling, loud, passionate, and mostly ignoring the two demons pressed up against each other in the corner of the kitchen.

It'd only been three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty goddamn minutes.

And yet, Julian Dmitrius was experiencing something akin to emotional constipation.

Which was rich, considering his texts were still blowing up every damn minute with the usual chaos from his girlfriend:

> "princess of death 👑💅": "i just took a shit so smooth i moaned. anyways wyd"

> "princess of death 👑💅": "if i had a dick rn i'd give u the filthiest backshots 😭"

> "princess of death 👑💅": "when i get better we're going to pound town and YOU'RE DRIVING 😩"

Every. Damn. Minute.

And yet—Julian hadn't seen her. Not once in three days. No chaotic chaos. No half-yelled sass across campus. Not even a glimpse of her stomping across Blackwood's courtyard in platform Crocs and that ridiculous hoodie that said "I'm the drama."

She wasn't showing up to class. Not even to the professor she liked to insult for looking like a soggy chicken nugget.

So yeah, Julian was spiraling. Quietly. Casually. In the "I don't give a fuck but I brought your favorite overpriced snacks, a squishy pink shark plushie, and a limited edition book I stole from a rare bookstore because it had glitter on the cover" kind of way.

Still surrounded by girls who clearly didn't understand the concept of personal space—or the fact that Julian had all the emotional availability of a paper cut—he slung his black duffel over his shoulder and stormed off, his boots thudding against the tiled floors with the kind of violence only the truly concerned and emotionally suppressed could muster.