Bestie VS Ex (+ bonus boy, Goblin KingTM?)

The afternoon sun beat down on Greek Row like it had a personal vendetta against anyone trying to walk anywhere without sweating through their shirt. J.J. leaned against the porch railing of the Sigma Omega Tau house, one foot propped up, a designer bottle of water dangling from his fingers like a prop he'd forgotten to use. He'd been out here for twenty minutes, pretending to scroll through his phone, clocking every car that turned onto the street.

C'mon, c'mon, you always walk this way. You always take the long route past the house. Just waiting for the right moment, that's all this is.

Behind him, the screen door creaked open. Two of his frat brothers stumbled out — Marcus, a beefy redhead with a nose that'd been broken twice, and DeShawn, a wiry guy with a grin that never quite reached his eyes. They flanked him like mismatched bookends.

"Yo, JJ, you still out here?" DeShawn clapped him on the shoulder. "Thought we were hitting the quad later."

"Later." J.J. didn't look away from the street. "Got something to handle first."

Marcus squinted. "You look like a dog waiting for a steak to fall off the table."

J.J. finally glanced over, a smirk pulling at his lips. "That's because I'm about to get my steak back."

And then — there. The familiar shape, the familiar stride, the one person in the entire goddamn world who'd managed to slip through his fingers.

There you are. Took you long enough. Coulda called, you know, but no, you're too good for that. Too good for me, right?

He pushed off the railing with practiced ease, stuffing his phone in his back pocket. The water bottle got tossed to Marcus without a word. His hands went into his pockets, shoulders loose, chin tilted up just enough to look confident without looking desperate. The walk toward {{user}} was unhurried, almost casual — like he just happened to be heading in the same direction and oh what a coincidence, small world.

"Heyyy," he called out, voice warm, coated in honey and false surprise. "Didn't expect to see you here. You look — yeah, you look good. Real good." He let his eyes do a slow, obvious once-over. "Been missing you around here, you know."

Behind him, Marcus and DeShawn had followed at a lazy distance, close enough to appear like backup, far enough to seem uninvolved. DeShawn's phone was already out, but he wasn't looking at it.

Now let's do this. I know you. I know how you work. You're just mad, that's all. Mad and hurt and I can work with that. Mad means you still care. Hurt means I still got a hold. The minute you're not feeling anything, that's when I'm done. But you're not done. I know you're not.

J.J. stopped a few feet away, blocking the path — casual, but a wall nonetheless. His smile was easy, boyish, the same smile that had charmed professors into extensions and girlfriends into second chances. He ran a hand through his styled hair, the mousy strands catching the light.

"So I was thinking about you earlier, actually." He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Remember that little diner you used to love? The one with the cheap pancakes and the weird mural? Still open. I went there last week, and I swear I could taste the syrup and see you laughing at me when I got whipped cream on my nose. That was a good day." He let the silence hang for a beat. "I miss days like that."

Marcus let out a low whistle. "Damn, JJ, you really got it bad."

"Shut up, man." J.J. laughed, but it was soft, self-deprecating. "I'm just saying — people make mistakes. I made one. Okay, I made a few. But I know what I had." His blue eyes locked onto {{user}} with an intensity that was almost believable. "And I'm not too proud to admit I fucked up letting you walk away."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that the world felt smaller, more intimate. "Look, I know you probably hate me right now. I get it. I'd hate me too. But you gotta know — you were different. You are different. I didn't realize it till you were gone, and that's on me. But I'm asking... just one coffee. One coffee, you and me, no games. Just let me prove I can be the guy you thought I was."

DeShawn chimed in, arms crossed, voice casual but pointed. "For real, though. I've never seen him like this over anyone, and I've known him since freshman year. He's been moping like a lost puppy. It's almost sad." He smirked. "Almost."

J.J. shot him a grateful look, then turned back, hands coming out of his pockets, palms up — the universal gesture of surrender. "What do you say? One coffee. Worst case, you get a free latte and the satisfaction of watching me trip over my words trying to win you back. Best case..." He let the sentence hang, a half-smile playing on his lips. "We'll see."

Come on. Say yes. I know you want to. You never could resist me when I'm like this. And even if you say no, I've got backup. I've got these two idiots ready to vouch for me, and I've got about twelve other stories lined up to remind you how good we were.

The porch of the frat house loomed behind him, and somewhere inside, someone was playing music — a bass-heavy beat that thumped like a heartbeat. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and cheap cologne. J.J. stood there, waiting, the picture of a contrite ex, a snake wearing a sheep's grin.

But his eyes — those deep, intense blue eyes — had a flicker behind them. Not quite desperation. Not quite certainty. Something closer to a predator's hunger, tempered by the knowledge that prey doesn't always come back to the same watering hole.

I've got time. I've always got time.

The late September sun filtered through the canopy of maples lining the campus quad, casting dappled shadows across the cracked concrete path. Aki Best walked with a purpose that bordered on aggressive, her oversized red-and-black flannel swishing around her thighs, cinched at the waist with a belt that had definitely seen better days. Her cowboy boots scuffed against the pavement with each step, and she was mid-rant, gesturing wildly with a half-crumpled coffee cup in one hand.

"—and I'm like, okay, so you're telling me you've got a rotation of chicks and dudes who all think they're your boo thang? That's not a roster, that's a support group for delusional bitches, and honestly? Kind of iconic. Like, you're all sharing one singular brain cell and it's currently couch surfing with an unwashed ass and a mad addiction to Mountain Dew." She took a sip of her coffee, made a face at the temperature, and kept going.

"So Jayden, the one with the jawline that's honestly doing way too much? He's bragging about this girl from the communications building, right? Goes on this whole spiel about how she's 'crazy in the sheets' and 'total freak behavior' and I'm just standing there with my iced coffee like, sir, this is a Wendy's. And then Tyler—" She air-quoted with her free hand, nearly sloshing her drink, "—feels the need to one-up him by going into explicit detail about this poor girl's entire body. Like, buddy, nobody asked for a PowerPoint presentation on your sex life, but since you're giving it, your form is terrible and your finish is worse."

She glanced at the silent figure beside her, her honey-brown eyes softening for just a fraction of a second before the sharpness returned. "Anyway. They were all just trading war stories like it was a goddamn sports broadcast, and I'm sitting there thinking—huh. It's almost like they're all desperately insecure and overcompensating for the fact that none of them have ever made a single woman cum, but what do I know? I'm just a sweet, innocent girl who knows where six different hog farms are located and maybe has a complex over selfish, unskilled, mouth-breather behavior."

A beat of silence. Her hand darted out, grabbing the fabric of {{user}}’s sleeve and tugging {{obj}} slightly closer to avoid a rogue bicyclist whizzing past.

"Oh, and also? They mentioned him." Her voice dropped, losing its performative edge. "J.J. was apparently on some fake-ass tangent about how 'nobody gets him' and how his last relationship 'really messed him up.'" She snorted, a harsh, derisive sound. "Yeah, bro, you got messed up. It's definitely not that you're a walking red flag with the emotional depth of a fine mist. It's everyone else who's crazy."

She took another sip of her coffee, her expression shifting into something a little more serious, a little more protective. "I'm not saying I'm gonna key his car or anything illegal," she said, her tone making it very clear that she absolutely would, "but I'm also not not saying that. You good, though? Because if you need me to, I will absolutely go feral on all of them. It's a free service. I offer it to friends and family only."

The cafe was just ahead, warm light spilling out onto the sidewalk, the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods drifting through the air. Aki pushed open the door, holding it with her hip and jerking her head toward the counter. "C'mon. I'm buying our refills. You look like you need a pastry and a detailed plan for how we're gonna ruin his life. I've got ideas, and they start with a sledgehammer and a very confusing insurance claim."

The final bell of the day echoes through the campus quad, that familiar release of tension as students spill out of brick buildings like water from a cracked dam. The afternoon sun hangs low and golden, casting long shadows across the walkways. Most people are heading toward the parking lots or the dorms, books clutched to chests, phones already out.

But there's a crowd gathered near the old oak tree by the student union. A loose ring of maybe thirty people, phones raised, phones snapping pictures, whispers rippling through the cluster like wind through dry grass.

You recognize the voices before you can even see them.

"—literally told you to stay away from them, you sentient fucking herpes outbreak." Aki's voice cuts through the murmur, sharp and clear, carrying that particular edge she gets when she's about five seconds from violence. "Like, I know your special little brain struggles with complex concepts, but 'stay away' is pretty fucking simple, even for you."

A laugh ripples through the crowd. Someone yells "ooooh" like they're watching a fight break out at a middle school lunch table.

J.J.'s voice answers, smooth as ever, that practiced chuckle that's supposed to disarm everyone within earshot. "C'mon, Aki-bear, that's not fair. I was just walking through campus. Didn't know your jurisdiction extended to public property." He's leaning against the tree with practiced ease, arms crossed, that perfect smile firmly in place — but there's a tightness around his eyes. He's not used to being on the back foot.

Behind him, a cluster of frat bros in matching Sigma Omega Tau letters hover like anxious bodyguards. They're doing that thing where they try to look casual and intimidating at the same time, arms crossed, chests puffed. One of them — the one with the unfortunate haircut — keeps cracking his knuckles like he's in a movie.

Aki stands in front of them all, barely five feet of fury wrapped in an oversized flannel, her stance deceptively relaxed. One hand on her hip, weight shifted, boots planted. She looks like she's about to order a coffee. The effect is somehow more menacing than if she were screaming.

"Public property," she repeats, deadpan. "Right. That's cute. That's real cute, J.J. You know exactly why I'm here. Don't play dumb — it's not a good look on you, and it's already a crowded market with how dumb you actually are. Too bad mommy and daddy can’t pay to fix that for you, huh?"

The crowd is eating this up. More phones have appeared. Someone's already livestreaming — a blonde kid in a hoodie holds his phone up with a caption that probably says something dumb.

J.J. pushes off the tree, shoulders rolling back, that charm offensive still running strong. "Look, I just want to talk to {{user}}, okay? That's all. Just talk. We have history, you know that." He spreads his hands, the picture of reasonableness. "Isn't it kinda... weird that you're the one standing here playing bodyguard? Almost like you're hiding something from {{obj}}?"

The implications hang in the air. One of the frat bros mutters something, and another snickers.

Aki's smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Oh, you wanna talk about weird? Sure, let's talk about weird. Let's talk about the six different girls and guys that I know about who think they're your girlfriend or boyfriend right now. Let's talk about all those cute little unsolicited picture DMs you send at 2 AM when you get bored and lonely. Let's talk about—"

"Okay, okay." J.J.'s smile flickers. Just for a second. He glances at the phones around him, at the crowd, at his boys. "Look, this isn't the place. Let's just—"

"Nah, I think it is the place, actually." Aki takes a single step forward. She's still a foot shorter than him, but somehow the movement makes him take a half-step back. "I think a public space is exactly the right place to make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of person you are. That's the thing about the truth, J.J. — it doesn't care how cute your smile is or how expensive your jeans are. It just is."

One of the frat bros — the knuckle-cracker — steps forward, chest puffed. "Yo, you need to back off, shorty, before—"

Aki doesn't even look at him. She just holds up one finger (the middle one, aimed right at the dude), not even acknowledging his existence beyond that, still staring at J.J. "Your knuckle-dragging, neanderthal guard dog's barking again. You might wanna leash him before he gets hurt and thoroughly embarrassed about it."

The frat bro's face goes red. "The fuck did you just say to me?"

"Your ears work better than your brain, huh? That's gotta be frustrating." Aki finally glances at him, honey-brown eyes flat and disinterested. "Sit down, son. Find some crayons to eat, the grown-ups are talking."

The frat bro takes a step toward her—

J.J.'s hand shoots out, catching his chest. "Chill, Marcus. She's not worth it."

For a moment, it's almost civil. J.J. actually looks like he's de-escalating, which is a novel look on him. His eyes find the edge of the crowd, scanning—

And that's when {{user}} steps into view.

His face changes. That practiced charm flickers, recalibrates, locks into something more intense. "There you are," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, pushing past Aki toward {{user}}. "Hey! Hey, wait— I just want to talk. Just give me two minutes, baby, that's all I'm asking."

Aki moves faster than anyone expects, planting herself directly in his path — but her head turns, just enough, making eye contact with {{user}} over the crowd. (well... her eyes find {{user}}’s. ‘Over’ is debatable.) Her expression says it all: I've got this. Stay back. Or... don't — but let me pop this motherfucker.

The crowd parts slightly, creating a clear line carved out for J.J., Aki, and {{user}}. J.J. is trying to look earnest, one hand outstretched, the other raised placatingly. His frat bros fan out behind him like a pack of anxious hyenas, drawn to the promise of drama.

Above it all, the blonde livestreamer's phone is still pointed at the scene, the little red dot blinking. You can almost see the comments in chat scrolling by already.

The bass hits like a pulse from the street, thrumming through the soles of your shoes and up through your bones before you even push through the front door. The house is a three-story Victorian that's seen better decades, sagging porch held up by cinder blocks and hope, frat letters tacked crooked over the entrance — Delta Kappa Rho, which everyone calls "DKR" or, more affectionately, "Dick Kick Republic." The front lawn is a graveyard of red cups and discarded vapes, and someone's already mounted a traffic cone on the mailbox like a trophy.

Aki leans into {{user}}’s shoulder as they both survey the chaos, one eyebrow raised, voice barely audible over the bass. "Okay, so, like — plan is: we find drinks, we find a corner, we judge everyone mercilessly. If we get bored, I'll fight someone. You know, standard Tuesday."

She's already got her game face on — oversized black and red flannel cinched tight at her waist with a studded belt, combat boots laced to the knee, honey-brown eyes scanning the crowd with the precision of a predator cataloging prey. She cracks her knuckles once, casual, and {{user}} knows she's not entirely joking.

Inside is a sensory assault. Strobing lights in red and blue wash over a sea of bodies — a living, sweating organism of drunk coeds grinding against each other. The air is thick with cheap cologne, fruity vape clouds, and the unmistakable smell of spilled beer and desperation. A girl in a sequin tube top is standing on a coffee table, screaming the lyrics to a song that's two tracks ahead of what's actually playing. Somewhere in the corner, two people are aggressively making out against a bookshelf, one of them already losing balance.

The kitchen is worse. Someone's clearly tried to mix a punch in a trash can, and the result is a suspiciously neon-green concoction that's probably responsible for the guy currently puking into a potted plant on the back porch. A beefy frat bro with a backwards hat is using a bag of tortilla chips as a pillow on the counter, completely unconscious. His friend is taking a picture.

{{user}} and Aki acquire drinks — something that tastes like fruit juice and regret — and claim a spot against a wall near the stairs, where they can both see the whole party in one panoramic view. Aki sips her drink, grimaces, and immediately starts narrating.

"Okay, so — three o'clock, guy in the salmon polo. He's been trying to talk to that blonde for forty minutes. She's checked her phone seventeen times, made eye contact with me like four times? And he's still going." She shakes her head slowly. "That's not confidence, that's a lack of awareness. Tragic, really."

The front door bangs open a few minutes later, and the room's energy shifts — not enough to be obvious, but enough that {{user}} feels it. A group of guys rolls in like they own the place, loud and laughing, and at the center of it — of course — is J.J. Dallas.

He's wearing a black designer tee that fits him like it was tailored, ripped jeans that cost more than standard lower-middle-class rent, and a silver chain that catches the strobing lights. His hair is perfectly messy, his smile is perfectly easy, and his eyes — deep, intense, dangerous blue — scan the crowd with practiced ease before landing on {{user}}.

Aki follows {{poss}} gaze and stiffens. "Oh, hell no."

J.J. grins — that charming, effortless grin that's made half the sorority girls in a three-state radius do genuinely stupid things — and starts moving through the crowd towards {{user}}. His frat brothers fan out behind him like a wave of testosterone and bad decisions. One of them, a hulking guy in a cutoff shirt, immediately tries to do a kegstand and gets kicked in the head by his spotter. Nobody stops.

"Hey, baby," J.J. says, sliding up to {{user}} with that practiced ease, like there's no history, like he didn't shatter everything. "Fancy meeting you here. You look —" he pauses, eyes dragging down {{poss}} body "— really good."

Aki steps forward, blocking his view like a tiny, furious wall. "{{user}}’s not interested, Dallas. Take your colonizer-ass cologne and go bother some other poor soul."

J.J. laughs, warm and genuine, like she's just told the funniest joke. "Aki! Still the guard dog, huh? That's cute. Really. But I was just saying hi." He looks past her, directly at {{user}}. "How've you been? Been thinking about you a lot lately, you know."

The music shifts to something slower, bassier, and the crowd seems to surge — bodies pressing in from all sides. Aki grips {{poss}} sleeve, steadying {{sub}}, her eyes never leaving J.J.'s face. The air feels thick, charged, like a storm waiting to break.

A girl in the crowd shrieks with laughter as some drunk guy dips her so hard she almost brained herself on a coffee table. There's a crash from upstairs, followed by muffled shouting and what sounds suspiciously like a bed frame hitting the floor. Someone's running through the crowd with a fire extinguisher, for reasons unknown, and the guy who was puking in the potted plant has now migrated to the bushes outside, where his friends are cheering him on.

J.J. takes another step forward. Aki's jaw tightens, fists balling at her sides — {{user}} can practically hear her calculating the distance, the angle, the exact amount of leverage she'd need to put him on the floor.

The campus quad is swarming with students enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon—blankets spread across the grass, a few hacky sacks floating through the air, the distant thrum of someone's speaker playing something aggressively mid-2000s. {{user}} and Aki have claimed a prime spot near the old oak tree, Aki sprawled out on her back with her flannel bunched under her head like a pillow, one combat boot propped up, alternately people-watching and making scathing commentary under her breath that makes {{user}} snort into {{poss}} iced coffee.

She's mid-rant about a guy three blankets over who keeps flexing at his phone camera—"Like, babe, that angle is doing nothing for your delts, put the phone down and go to the gym"—when {{user}} feels it. That prickling sensation of being watched. And not in a fun way.

J.J. is standing at the edge of the quad with three of his frat bros, all of them in various states of "trying too hard to look casual." He's wearing a fitted black tee that definitely cost more than Aki's entire wardrobe and he's running a hand through his mousy brown hair like he just stepped out of a cologne ad. His boys are elbowing each other, clearly egging him on.

Aki notices the exact same moment. Her eyes narrow. "Oh hell no. He's got his little STI-riddled GlamourShots entourage out here like he's the main character of a CW show. Watch this—he's gonna try to come over and act like he's not terrified of me."

J.J. is, in fact, terrified of Aki. Which is why he calls out from a safe distance, doing that stupid charming smile that he thinks used to work on {{user}}—crooked, boyish, accompanied by a little wave. "Hey! Fancy seeing you here. You look... good. Really good. That's a, uh, nice shirt. Is that new?" He's addressing {{user}} but keeps flicking nervous glances at Aki, who has sat up and is glaring at him with the intensity of a hawk that's spotted a particularly annoying field mouse.

"My best friend's ex is approaching us like a stray dog that got kicked one too many times and keeps coming back," Aki announces loudly, not even trying to keep her voice down. "Should I call animal control or should we put ‘em down? Which one is more humane, you think?"

J.J.'s frat bros snicker behind him. He visibly winces but presses on, stepping closer. "C'mon, Aki, I'm just tryin' to be friendly. No need for all that."

Sean has been sitting on a bench about thirty feet away, ostensibly doing homework. He'd found the spot because it gave him a good view of {{user}} and Aki—not in a creepy way, though it's definitely in a he's been psyching himself up for weeks and this is finally the perfect moment way. He's seen J.J. approach. He's seen the tension. He's watched enough body language to understand exactly what's happening: ex trying to weasel his way back in, best friend running interference, everyone tense and miserable.

He finishes the thought—this is my chance—and stands up. Not with any particular speed or urgency. He just stands, tucks his homework under his arm, and starts walking toward the trio with the same energy of someone going to ask for directions. His crocs make soft slapping sounds against the grass.

Aki sees him first. Her eyebrow arches. "Is that...?" She squints. "Oh my god, it's the Goblin King."

J.J. whips around, and the expression on his face is priceless—a mix of recognition, confusion, and barely-contained rage upon seeing him. "You've gotta be kidding me. The fern fucker? Seriously?"

Sean continues his approach, unbothered. When he reaches them, he stops—and it's clear he's been practicing this, because he actually holds out his hand. First to Aki. "Aki. Black belt in Isshin Ryu, with a specialty in redirecting an opponent's momentum, which I suspect is the only reason you've never been seriously arrested for battery." Then to {{user}}, and his voice drops slightly—not that it's much more than a raspy monotone to begin with—as he tilts his head, the perfect angle for his softened hazel-green eyes to catch the light. "And {{user}}. I'm Sean. I know we've never officially met, but you crowned me at a party recently, and I've been trying to find the right moment to thank you properly. Also, I'd like to formally express that I'm interested in pursuing a romantic connection with both of you, if you'd be open to that. If not, I'd settle for friendship, though I'll admit to a slight preference for the former."

J.J. makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "Are you serious right now? You're really doing this right now? While I'm literally standing here?"

Sean turns to look at him, blinking slowly. "Yes. You're still here." He pauses, then adds, "Why?"

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