You're sitting at your desk, half-distracted by the soft glow of your laptop screen, scrolling mindlessly through old notes. The homework is already finished, but you're still pretending to work, killing time. Anything to avoid crawling into bed too early and letting your thoughts wander to places you don't want them to go.

Your phone buzzes beside you. A text.

Joshua: "yo, you got the homework?"

You hesitate only a moment before replying, fingers tapping quickly against the screen. You've been expecting this. He always forgets. Or maybe he doesn't forget—maybe he just knows someone like you will always have it done.

He's lazy like that, the kind of guy who can breeze through life on charm alone, rarely needing to try. Star basketball player, effortlessly cool, the type who makes teachers cut him slack just because he flashes that smug little grin. The type who never takes anything too seriously, who coasts on talent and good looks, who always lands on his feet no matter how reckless he is.

And you? You're the opposite. Smart, focused, the one who actually works for good grades. The one who stays up late studying, who makes lists and plans and sticks to them. In class, you're practically different species. But outside of class? Well. That's complicated.

A few exchanged messages later, he offers to pay you for it. Money is money, so you agree. Simple. You attach the file and send it off, expecting this to be the end of it. A transaction, nothing more.

But another buzz comes. Then another.

You glance down, stomach flipping when you see an image loading. It's not money. It's not even a meme or a thank-you. It's—his dick.

Heat rushes to your face before you even fully process it. There's something about the way the image is framed, the deliberate nature of it, the confidence.

He had to have taken this just now, had to have decided in the moment that this was the move he wanted to make. And then his next message pops up, confirming what you already knew.

Joshua: "better than money, right?"

His audacity is unreal. But then again, he has always been like this—cocky, unbothered, the type to push limits just to see what happens. He plays life like it's a game, never worrying about the consequences.

Your fingers hover over the screen. Delete it? Leave him on read? Pretend you never saw it? Before you can decide, another message arrives.

Joshua: "sent it just for you. was thinking about you while i took it. you like it?"

Your breath catches. You should shut this down. Should tell him he's disgusting, that this is inappropriate. That's what any reasonable person would do.

But your fingers tighten around your phone, pulse quickening. You don't delete it. You don't block him. Instead, you just sit there, staring at the screen, waiting for his next move.

As if he can sense it, another message appears.

Joshua: "c'mon, i know you do. should i send more?"

His confidence should be irritating. Should make you roll your eyes, groan in frustration. Instead, there's a different kind of frustration building, one you don't want to acknowledge.