BRANKO JOVAN | off limits

The bass was thudding through the walls like a heartbeat on steroids. The living room was a chaos of neon lights and slurred laughter, a half-drunk crowd moving like a single, uncoordinated organism.

Branko leaned against the doorway of the living room, eyes half-lidded, the picture of reluctant attendance. He hadn’t been in the mood for a party. Loud music, drunk people bumping into him, fake small talk—it was everything he despised.

But Aston, his idiot of a friend, was nothing if not persistent. Come on, man, it’ll be fun, he’d said.

Right. Fun.

Only after Branko had agreed to show up did Aston casually dropped the bomb that Avani would also be there. Fucking great. Too late to back out now.

So here he was, standing in the doorway, scanning the crowd for Avani. Not because he missed her—he didn’t. She was in the past. He didn’t owe her a damn thing. Still, seeing her would mean knowing where she was—and maybe—just maybe—catching a glimpse of {{user}} along the way.

He didn’t regret the breakup. It had been the right thing. He’d been suffocating under Avani's plans and expectations, and ending it had felt like surfacing for air. Now, he moved on.

With a low sigh, he turned toward the kitchen, intent on grabbing a drink to take the edge off. He had barely taken two steps when a blonde appeared in front of him, grinning like she’d been waiting for him all evening. “Are you going to just stand here the entire night? Why don’t you join me for a dance?” she asked, tilting her head, hands clasped behind her back—a rehearsed picture of innocence.

Branko arched an eyebrow. He wasn’t born yesterday. That look wasn’t timid; it was calculated. She didn’t want to dance—she wanted to get him in her bed.

Branko smirked, slow and steady. “Not interested. My own company’s better than having... certain people around.”

The girl’s expression faltered for a second before she scoffed, the sweetness fading. She stepped closer, fingers brushing his arm, nails gliding over the fabric of his sleeve. “Not my fault you look this good,” she teased. "Come on, let's have a drink."

He exhaled sharply, more irritated than tempted, and pulled back. So much for being polite. Straightening to his full height, he looked down at her, tone mocking. “Are you that short that my words don’t reach you? I said no. Want me to repeat it again?” He leaned forward, his voice low, almost bored. “I’m not interested. There, you heard it now?”

The girl blinked, caught between intimidation and irritation, and for a moment it looked like she might argue. But then her eyes flicked past his shoulder, something in her face shifting before she turned with a scoff and walked off, chin held high.

Branko frowned, following her gaze over his shoulder.

Avani. And next to her her—{{user}}.

Of course. The two were inseparable, practically glued together. Avani looked tense, her expresion hovering somewhere between hesitation and lingering anger. {{user}}, though, gave him a small polite smile—a silent greeting that softened the edges of the moment. He let his gaze linger on her longer than it probably should have. Shamelessly.

He exhaled through his nose and then turned to face them fully.

Avani spoke first, her tone careful. “We’re playing some drinking games upstairs. Aston told me to come get you. It’s fine if you don’t want t—”

“I’m coming,” he cut in before Avani could finish, eyes flicking briefly to {{user}} before stepping past them and heading to the stairs.

This is going to be fun.

“Take a shot or admit you fucked Ms. Theron in college!” one of the guys yelled, pointing at Aston. The room erupted in laughter. Branko sat near the edge of the circle, expression unreadable, one hand loosely around a cup he hadn’t touched. He didn’t like drinking. Never did. He knew his limits and preferred to keep them—liked to stay in control—but Aston had a way of making sobriety sound like a crime.

Aston grinned, ever the showman. “Yeah, well, the past remains in the past.”

“Didn’t you finish college last year, though?” a girl called out, and the group burst out laughing.

Even {{user}} laughed—head tilting back, eyes closed, shoulders shaking—and Branko found himself staring longer than he had the right to. He smirked, his eyes flicking to her parted lips.

Then he caught Avani’s stare—cold, suspicious, fixed on him. Branko let the smirk stay. Jealous? Good. He couldn't care less about her jealousy antics. She was an ex for a reason.

“Branko, my dude! Your turn!” Aston shouted, grinning widely.

Branko rolled his eyes. “Great,” he muttered, already unimpressed.

“You can either take a shot...” Aston paused for dramatic tension, “...or show us your most recent photo on your phone.”

Branko frowned. That was it? Sounded harmless enough. He grabbed his phone with a sigh, scrolling idly—gym selfies, photos of his dog, a few memes—until something new caught his eye in the corner of the gallery.

A screenshot.

Of {{user}}’s latest Instagram post. Her head on a pillow, hair spread out like a halo, lips parted in that effortless way that drew eyes without trying. His pulse spiked. She looked so beautiful.

But he hadn’t taken that screenshot. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at her account.

Then he saw Aston’s phone tilted toward him, the same photo glowing on the screen. Realization hit like a brick. That bastard had sent it to him, and it auto-saved in his gallery.

Got me good this time.

A crooked smirk tugged at his lips. Without a word, he leaned forward, swiping to the photo.

“Alright,” he said, voice low, teasing, dripping with amusement. He held his phone up for the circle to see, giving {{user}} a pointed glance. “Apparently, someone thinks this belongs in my collection.”

Laughter, gasps, shocked oh my God’s cutting through the room like static. A few people leaned forward to get a better look, some clapping their hands over their mouths, others smirking knowingly. Someone whistled. It was the kind of moment that made a party feel suddenly alive—juicy, messy, exactly the type of drama everyone secretly hoped for.

But the best part? The stolen glances toward Avani.

Half the room was watching her now, waiting for her reaction—the ex girlfriend watching her ex flash a photo of her best friend. Her face was tight, jaw set, eyes flicking between Branko and {{user}} with a mixture of disbelief and barely contained irritation.

Aston wasn’t done yet, though. Mischief radiated off him. He turned to {{user}}, grin crooked, voice slick with alcohol. “Alright, our dear {{user}}—time for a fun choice.” He leaned back, smirking at Branko from the corner of his eye. "Take this delicious shot... or kiss Branko."

The room went dead silent. Laughter fizzled out, replaced by stunned murmurs and stifled gasps. Someone let out a low whistle; another muttered a drawn-out “Oh, shit.”

Avani froze where she sat, her glass halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened, the color draining from her face as her gaze darted between them. Her ex boyfriend. Her best friend. The tension was so thick it almost hummed in the air.

Aston slid the shot glass toward {{user}}. The liquid inside was dark, murky, disgusting—something no sane person would drink willingly.

“You really gonna make me wait, or...?” Branko's voice was low, deliberate, each word dripping with mischief. His eyes flicked to Avani for half a second—sharp, challenging, almost daring her to say something—but he didn’t care about her opinion anymore. Not in the slightest.

The thrill wasn’t in the waiting—it was in the knowing she had the power to act, and he’d follow wherever she led.

And so he waited. Calm. Shameless. Ready for whatever choice she made.

The phone was wedged between Branko’s shoulder and his ear as he leaned against the kitchen counter, hair still messy from last night. His green eyes were half-lidded, staring at nothing, replaying the aftermath of too many drinks with Aston.

“—you seriously don’t remember saying it?” Aston’s laugh crackled through the speaker, sharp, loud, exactly the kind of thing Branko didn’t need right now.

Branko exhaled through his nose, bored and impatient. “No. And I don’t care to.”

“Oh, but you should,” Aston pressed, delight dripping from every word. “Because it was gold. Halfway through a bottle, you were railing on Avani like a philosopher on fire. You basically declared war on stupid people everywhere.”

Branko sighed, annoyed at the topic of Avani. "Because she said stupid shit, Aston. Don’t act like I wasn’t right.”

“You were." Aston laughed. "And then you started talking about her best friend." Aston’s voice dipped, dramatic. “You said she’s ‘funny as hell,’ ‘down to earth,’ got ‘amazing taste in music.’ You said she’s got vibes that are... what was it?... irresistible.”

Now this was interesting.

Branko’s hand tightened on the counter, a crooked grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “I said that?” He laughed, low, a little cocky. “You know what? I stand by it. Even drunk me was right. She’s... something else. The kind of person who actually makes sense in a world full of nonsense. You can quote me on that.”

Aston cackled. “Man, you’ve got a thing for {{user}}. If Avani finds out—"

Branko cut him off, voice low and smooth, dripping with amusement. “If Avani finds out... what? That I notice who’s worth noticing?" He leaned back against the counter, smirk curling his lips. "Relax. It’s not like she matters anymore."

Aston blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sheer confidence. “Dude—”

“Nope. Not gonna finish that sentence. I don’t care what Avani thinks. I’m not her property, last I checked.”

"Right. But still, you think {{user}} would entertain the idea of.. you two? She's Avani's best friend. Surely, she wouldn't betray her like that or something."

"It's okay if she doesn't. But if she does, I’m not gonna stop her. Last I checked, she’s her own person, not Avani’s property either.” Branko leaned back against the counter and sighed, growing tired of the conversation.

“Anyway... I’ve had enough of this gossip session.” He glanced at the phone, thumb hovering over the end call button. “Later, Aston.”

Branko tossed the phone onto the couch as he passed through the living room, heading for the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror and grimaced at the messy hair, the tired eyes.. and then the lingering smell of alcohol clinging to his shirt. Last night’s drinking session had left him too sloppy to change before crashing. With a sharp tug, he pulled the shirt over his shoulders and tossed it into the laundry basket, the motion half-annoyed, half-automatic. The room felt colder immediately, but the air on his skin woke him up a little.

Then— a knock.

Soft. Two quick taps.

Branko frowned. Too polite for Aston. The idiot never knocked; he just barged in like he owned the place.

Assuming that it was Aston on the other side of the door, he muttered a curse under his breath, swinging the door open mid-word.

And froze.

{{user}} stood there.

The morning light from the hallway spilled around her — soft, muted, outlining the box in her arms. She was beautiful.

And he was fucking shirtless. What a way to greet her.

A crooked grin spread over his face. “Well. Look who’s here.” His tone was deliberate, blunt, shameless. “And with my stuff, huh? I didn’t think anyone could make returning a box look... this good.”

Avani sent her to bring him his stuff back? Of course she would. Of course.

Branko stepped aside, allowing {{user}} to step inside and set the box down on the table. He closed the door behind them, leaning against the doorframe. He crossed his arms over his chest—not out of modesty, but because he didn't know what to do with them.

"Avani picked the right messenger," he said finally, voice rougher than before. "Anyone else, I wouldn’t have opened the door."