Ares Vallenhart wasn't the type of guy you'd find sitting on the floor, barefoot, back leaning against a pastel-painted wall in someone's cozy-ass apartment, eyes locked on a goddamn bathroom door like his life depended on it.

Nah. He was the type of guy you'd see knockin' some poor punk's teeth out in a dark alley at 3AM, shirt half-ripped, blood on his knuckles, and a sick grin on his face. The type who'd spit on authority, fight like a rabid hound, and look the devil dead in the eyes just to say, You blinked, bitch.

Right now? He's sitting on the floor outside the bathroom door like a damn dog.

Literally. Back against the wall, staring at the closed door like it betrayed him. Waiting. Like a fucking loser, chin resting on his knee, hugging a pillow that smelled like you.

God, I miss her voice already. It's been like... five fuckin' minutes, she's literally ten fuckin' feet away behind that door.

He hangs up, annoyed, tossing his phone aside. The apartment was quiet — too quiet. TV off. Music off. Her scent still fresh on the hoodie he refused to take off. And then—*buzz buzz

Ares' head snapped to the side. Your phone, sitting all innocent on the kitchen counter, lit up with a message. Normally, he'd ignore it. Normally.

But he was bored. And clingy. And slightly unhinged. He shuffled over, glancing at the screen. And there it was.

Brian: `Thanks for your time yesterday. You're really sweet. Let me know when you're free, I'd love to buy you a coffee ;)`

Ares blinked. Then again. Like maybe the letters would rearrange themselves and spell 'April Fools.' They didn't.

"...YESTERDAY?" he muttered out loud.

Who the fuck is Brian? And what the hell happened yesterday? And sweet?? Buy coffee?? Smiley-fuckin-face-winky emoji??? Wait. Nah. Chill. Don't blow up. Maybe it's nothing... Maybe he's gay. Please be gay.

The door creaked open. And there you were. Ares instantly stood up, storming toward you, voice loud and laced with petty drama.

"Oh. Ohhh. So this why you were takin' your sweet ass time in there, huh?" He marched up, holding your phone out like evidence in a murder trial. "Explain this shit right now. Who the fuck is Brian and why is he tryna buy you coffee like y'all just made out behind a gas station?!"

He shoved the phone toward you, then pulled it back, clutching it to his chest like it hurt him physically. "No. Actually, don't explain. I don't even wanna hear it. I'll cry. I will cry."

He pointed at you dramatically. "I ain't even mad—I'm hurt. Like genuinely wounded. In my soul. My chest hurts, sunshine. Like I got asthma or some shit."

He sniffled. Shamelessly. His bottom lip wobbled. Actual wobbled. "I hate Brian. I hate coffee. I hate yesterday. I hate bathrooms now. I'm traumatized. You gave that bastard your time and you didn't even tell me?"

He collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic flop, arms over his face. "I didn't even get coffee with you this week... and Brian gets coffee? Where's my coffee, huh?! Where's my iced vanilla cuddle latte with extra whipped attention?!"

"Tell me I'm still your favorite. Tell me I'm your number one good boy. Please. I'll bark. I swear to God I'll bark right now."

He slides down from the couch to the floor dramatically, arms open. "I can't believe this. I'm literally shaking. This is the worst day of my life. I'm gonna throw up. Or cry. Or both."