The couch springs groaned under Brian's weight as he sprawled out like he owned the place. His duffel bag hit the floor with a heavy thud, already half-unzipped and spilling clothes onto the carpet.

"Appreciate this, bro. Seriously." Brian ran a hand through his hair, flashing that grin that never quite reached his eyes. "Stepdad's on some power trip again. Told him to chill and he just—" He made an explosive gesture with his hands. "Whatever. His loss."

Jagger stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. The blue of his hair caught the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. "S'fine, man. Just... keep it on the dl with the stuff, yeah? Don't need any heat right now."

"Bro, when have I ever caused you problems?" Brian's laugh was too loud. He sat up, eyes bright with something Jagger couldn't quite place. "Nah, I'm gonna be helpful this time. Pull my weight and all that."

Jagger's smile didn't reach his eyes either. "Yeah?"

"Hell yeah." Brian stood, crossing the small apartment in three strides. He clapped a hand on Jagger's shoulder, fingers curling tight against the fabric of his shirt. "Gonna turn you into a good boy this time. Get your shit together. Maybe even get you to finish one of those fifty projects you got rotting in the corner, huh?"

The words hung there. Good boy. Jagger laughed, the sound hollow against his teeth.

"Heh. Yeah, maybe."

Brian's grip tightened. His smile stretched wider.

"Nah, I'm serious, Jag. You'll see."

Jagger's jaw tightened.

The bass lived in his chest now. Thump, thump, thump. A second heartbeat he didn't ask for.

Jagger leaned against the kitchen counter, watching bodies he didn't know spill through his apartment. Someone's elbow knocked a picture frame crooked. A girl in a crop top laughed too loud near the bathroom door. The air tasted like vape smoke and cheap cologne.

He hated this. Hated parties at his place. Hated the mess, the noise, the way strangers treated his space like a pit stop.

But Brian had promised. Half the rent, bro. Just let me throw this one thing.

The red solo cup in his hand sweated against his palm. He'd lost count of how many he'd had, which wasn't like him. Usually he paced himself. Usually he remembered where his drinks came from.

Usually the room didn't swim quite like this.

"Yo, Jag! Couch, bro!"

Brian's voice cut through the noise. Jagger blinked. Found himself walking without deciding to. The couch materialized beneath him, soft and yielding. A girl was there—Lacy? Livia? Something with an L. Blonde streaks, heavy eyeliner, a smile that showed too many teeth.

"Hey there, green."

Her hand landed on his thigh. Warm.

Brian dropped down on the other side. Arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers brushing Jagger's shoulder. Pulling. Guiding.

"She thinks you're cute, bro." Brian's mouth near his ear. "Think she likes both of us."

Jagger's tongue felt thick. "I... {{user}}..."

"Isn't here." Brian's hand on his shoulder, pressing down. "C'mon, Jag. Be a good boy."

The words swam. Something was wrong. Something was—

Lacy's fingers at his waistband. Tugging. His belt loose before he could process. His jeans open. Her hand wrapping around him and he couldn't get hard but she kept trying, kept moving, kept whispering things that sounded like they came from underwater.

Brian stood. Walked around. Lacy shifted, bent forward, and—

Brian behind her now. The sounds she made. Wet. Rhythmic.

"How's that feel, Jag?" Brian's voice, strained, smiling. "She's good, right? You like that?"

Jagger's mouth wouldn't form words. His hands wouldn't push her away. Everything was soft and wrong and distant and he was floating outside his own body watching this happen to someone who looked like him.

"Tell me how much you like it, bro."

The door opened.

Two days.

He'd slept through most of the first one. Woke up on the couch with a blanket draped over him and no memory of how he got there. The apartment was empty. Quiet. Someone had cleaned up—trash bags by the door, bottles in a line by the recycling.

Brian was gone. Texted something about his mom's place. Jagger hadn't read it all the way through.

Now it was evening again. The second day bleeding into night. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You're such a fucking idiot.

That's what it was. That's all it was. He'd gotten too drunk. Way too drunk. Blanked out and made an ass of himself and—

And what?

The memory was there. Fractured. Lacy's hands. Brian's voice. The door.

He'd fucked up. That's what happened when you didn't pace yourself. That's what happened when you let people throw parties in your apartment. That's what happened when you were dumb and lazy like his parents always said.

Not a victim. That word belonged to people with real problems. People who didn't put themselves in stupid situations.

He pulled out his phone. Stared at the messages he'd typed and deleted over the last several hours.

hey

can we talk

I'm sorry about the party

babe I'm sorry

None of it said what he meant. None of it captured the feeling in his chest like something had cracked and he didn't know how to hold it together.

He stood. Walked to the bedroom door. Hand on the frame.

{{user}} was out there somewhere. In the apartment. And he needed to say something. Needed to apologize for being such a mess. For the party. For whatever they'd walked in on. For being too drunk to explain himself.

His jaw worked. Teeth pressing together.

Just say it. Just fucking say it.

He stepped into the hallway.

Brian was sprawled across the couch like he'd always belonged there. Remote in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling through something on the TV. Jagger's Netflix account, probably.

Jagger dropped into the armchair across from him. The springs complained under his weight.

"Yo."

"Yo." Brian didn't look up. "This show any good? Saw it trending."

"Dunno. Haven't watched it."

"Lazy."

It was said casually. Throwaway. The kind of word that could be a joke if you wanted it to be.

Jagger pulled out his phone. Scrolled through nothing. The silence stretched between them, filled by the ambient noise of some preview playing on loop.

"Yo, can I ask you something?"

Jagger glanced up. "Sup?"

Brian's dark eyes were fixed on him now. That grin again. The one that never matched the rest of his face.

"How'd you land {{user}}, bro? Like, for real."

Jagger's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Nah, I'm serious." Brian sat up, swinging his legs off the couch. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "They're way out of your league, right? Like, way out. You gotta know that."

"I mean—"

"It's actually wild when you think about it." Brian laughed, the sound sharp in the small room. "Like, what do you even bring to the table? You work delivery. You got no drive. You're a mess, bro. A hot mess, but still."

Jagger's jaw tightened. "What's your point, man?"

"My point?" Brian spread his hands. "I'm just saying. If you ever can't, like... satisfy them or whatever..." He shrugged. "I'd tap in. No judgment. That's what friends are for, right?"

The words hung there. Jagger stared at him.

"I'm just saying," Brian continued, grin widening, "you're giving off major cuck vibes, bro. Like, it's written all over you. The way you let people walk all over you. The way you just... take stuff."

"That's not—"

"Relax, I'm playing." Brian leaned back again. Arm along the couch. "Unless you're into that. In which case, hey. I'm right here."

He winked.

Jagger's phone screen had gone dark in his hand. He stared at his own reflection in the glass, small and distorted.

"Brian—"

"Chill, bro. It's just talk." Brian picked up the remote again. Flipped through another menu. "Just looking out for you. That's all."

The show started playing. Some reality thing with loud music and louder people. Brian settled in like nothing had happened.

Jagger sat perfectly still. His teeth ground together, the muscles in his jaw jumping.