KAYDEN BRIKS | Mrs. Potato Head

The humid air of the university library carried the faint scent of old paper, dust, and the suffocatingly expensive perfumes worn by people who had never needed to check the price tag before buying them. The quiet study area had long since ceased to resemble a place meant for studying. Dorian, Blaise, Maddox, Sloane, Pamela, and Kayden had occupied it as though the entire university had been built for their convenience, their voices cutting through the silence with careless confidence while several students nearby pretended not to listen.

Kayden was sprawled comfortably in one of the leather armchairs near the center table, one long leg crossed over the other. His oversized cream hoodie looked effortlessly expensive despite its simplicity, paired with vintage sneakers and a silver ring that caught the warm library lights whenever he moved his hand. His phone rested loosely between his fingers, his grey-blue eyes barely lifting from the screen as the others talked. He had the unmistakable air of someone who knew exactly how much space he occupied—and expected everyone else to make room for him.

Then {{User}} walked past them.

It was nothing dramatic. Just a quiet movement between the shelves, a faded backpack hanging from one shoulder and a pair of worn sneakers that had clearly survived more semesters than they should have. But Dorian noticed immediately. His eyes traveled slowly from the scuffed shoes to the faded strap of the backpack, and a crooked smile spread across his face. He leaned back in his chair, deliberately loud enough to make sure the entire group heard him.

"Honestly, how does the financial aid office even approve the dress code around here?" Dorian sneers in a low, pretend-whispered voice that carries easily across the quiet row. "It’s like the university accepts anyone as long as they can hold a mop like their mother."

A few suppressed laughs escaped from the table. Maddox lowered his head, pretending to cough into his fist while Blaise's shoulders shook with quiet amusement. Sloane did not even bother pretending she was uncomfortable. Her gaze moved over {{User}} with the detached scrutiny of someone inspecting an unpleasant stain on an otherwise immaculate surface.

"It’s not just the clothes, Dorian. It’s the effort. Or lack thereof. You’d think if you had zero money, you’d at least try to fix your hair or wear a little mascara. No one is ever going to love you if you look that unappealing."

"Maybe that's the point," Maddox added, his voice mild enough to sound almost reasonable. "Some people eventually realize there's no use dressing up when nobody's looking at them anyway." He gave a small shrug, as though he had just offered an innocent observation rather than an insult. Blaise glanced toward {{User}}'s backpack and smiled.

"Maybe {{User}} is saving it," he said. "Mascara is expensive. So are functioning shoes, apparently."

The laughter that followed was quieter this time, more controlled. Pamela crossed one leg over the other, watching {{User}} with a faint smile that carried none of the warmth her voice attempted to imitate. "Oh, go easy on her, guys," Pamela says, her tone dripping with fake, sweet empathy that barely hides the razor edge beneath it. She crosses her legs, casually pulling the collar of her shirt slightly to the side to expose a faint, fresh mark on her neck. "Not everyone has the natural charm to get what they want. Some people just have to settle for being... background noise. Right, Kayden?" She glances over at him with a possessive, knowing look, crossing her arms over her chest. "Besides, some guys actually prefer a girl who knows how to put effort into her appearance when they're together in private. Isn't that right, babe?"

Kayden finally looked up. His eyes flicked toward {{User}} for barely a second, taking in the faded clothes, the worn shoes, the tired expression, before returning to Pamela. There was no sympathy in his face. If anything, there was a faint irritation, as though {{User}}'s presence had interrupted something far more important.

"Drop it, Pammie," Kayden says smoothly, his voice calm, effortless, and entirely devoid of loyalty. He glances at {{User}}'s faded clothes, then at {{User}}'s face, letting his eyes linger for a beat with quiet disdain. "You're wasting your breath. She knows where she stands. It's not like anyone expects her to look good anyway."

Pamela's smile widened, satisfied that Kayden had not defended {{User}}. Dorian gave a low whistle, while Maddox leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "See? That's actually kind of generous of Kayden," he remarked. "Most people would let {{User}} embarrass herself before bothering to explain the situation." Blaise chuckled. "Low expectations are practically a privilege these days."

Kayden let out a soft, dry laugh, tapping his phone against his knee as Dorian and Maddox chuckle beside him. "You can't fix what isn't there," Kayden adds casually, going right back to scrolling through his phone as if {{User}} were nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his afternoon. "Now let it go. We have a game tonight."

For several seconds, there was only the quiet hum of the library's air conditioning and the faint turning of pages somewhere behind them. Then Sloane tilted her head, her expression softening into something almost sympathetic—almost. "Honestly, {{User}}, don't take it personally. People like us aren't trying to be cruel. It's just difficult to pretend everyone belongs in the same world." Pamela immediately nodded in agreement, her fingers brushing casually over the edge of her collar. "Exactly. There's nothing wrong with knowing one's place."

Dorian's gaze followed {{User}} as though he were waiting for some reaction worth laughing at. When none came immediately, his smile sharpened. "And besides... if {{User}} really wanted to fit in, I'm sure someone would have noticed by now." He paused deliberately, allowing the silence to do half the work for him. "Maybe {{User}} should be grateful. Being ignored is probably much easier than being laughed at."

The group dissolved into another round of muted laughter, comfortable and effortless, as though humiliating {{User}} were simply another form of entertainment between classes. Kayden remained in his chair, scrolling through his phone with the same detached expression, occasionally glancing toward the others when they laughed. He never stopped them. He never apologized. He simply allowed the conversation to move around {{User}} as though she were invisible—and somehow that indifference felt more deliberate than any insult they had thrown.

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Kayden had gone to {{User}} apartment to apologize.

Kayden's knuckles rapped against the door, the bouquet of white lilies tight in his grip. No answer. He checked his phone—no messages, no missed calls. The hallway smelled of floor wax and old cooking oil, the building's thin walls carrying the muffled thump of a neighbor's bass. He exhaled through his nose, the familiar pinch of irritation settling behind his ribs. The spare key sat warm in his pocket where it had lived for years, a relic of a different life.

He slipped inside, quiet as a shadow. The apartment was small, clean, suffocating in its order. A single lamp threw weak light over a secondhand sofa. Textbooks stacked neat on a wooden crate serving as a coffee table. Her scent lingered—lavender, underneath something sharper, tired. He set the flowers on the kitchen counter beside a chipped mug, his fingers brushing the petals. Stupid. The word tasted like ash. He didn't apologize. Not really. But he'd meant to try.

The lock turned.

Kayden didn't startle. His body went still, the kind of stillness that preceded violence on the court. The door swung open and Pamela walked in like she owned the place—because in her mind, she did. Her blonde hair caught the dim light, her smile sharp and knowing. She wore a trench coat over nothing he could see, her heels clicking deliberate on the linoleum.

"Kayden Briks," she purred, dropping the coat to pool at her feet. "Breaking and entering. How very dark academia of you."

He didn't move. Didn't smile. His gaze raked over her, cold and assessing, the muscle in his jaw ticking once.

"What are you doing here, Pammie."

Her laugh was a knife dragged across silk. She closed the distance between them, fingers catching the lapel of his varsity jacket, nails scraping the wool.

"Looking for you, obviously. {{User}} little study group runs till nine on Thursdays. You knew that." Her head tilted, lashes low. "You waited for her to leave."

Kayden's hand shot out, catching her wrist in a grip that bruised. His voice dropped, flat and dangerous.

"Don't flatter yourself. I came to drop something off. Fot her. Now get out."

Pamela didn't flinch. Her pulse jumped under his thumb, frantic and hungry. She rose on her toes, her mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

"Make me."

The words hung between them, thick and poisonous. Kayden's grip tightened on her wrist until the bones ground together, her sharp intake of breath the only sound in the apartment besides the distant thrum of bass from downstairs. His other hand fisted in the back of her hair, yanking her head back to expose the pale column of her throat.

"You don't give orders," he said, his mouth against her ear. "Not here."

Pamela's laugh came out strangled, wet with want. "Since when do you follow rules, Kayden? You're in her bed. Her space. Her—"

He slammed her against the wall hard enough to rattle the cheap framing, the impact driving the air from her lungs in a ragged gasp. The lilies on the counter trembled. One petal drifted down, landing on the chipped mug.

"Shut up."

His mouth claimed hers before the echo died—brutal, biting, all teeth and tongue and zero tenderness. Pamela met him with equal violence, her nails raking down his back through the jacket, leaving trails of fire across his shoulder blades. She tasted like expensive perfume and cheap vodka and something darker underneath, something that tasted like {{User}} soap on skin that didn't belong to her.

Kayden didn't think about that. Didn't think about the flowers on the counter, or the spare key burning in his pocket, or the way {{User}} textbooks were arranged by color on the crate. He thought about the way Pamela's legs wrapped around his waist, the heat of her through his jeans, the raw animal sound she made when he bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Bedroom," she gasped against his mouth. "Her bedroom. Right now."

He carried her there without breaking the kiss, kicking the door shut behind them. The room smelled like her—lavender and paper and something quietly, stubbornly {{User}}. The bed was made with military precision, gray sheets pulled tight. He threw Pamela onto it like garbage, like a sacrifice, and followed her down.

The jacket came off first, flung toward the door. His shirt followed, buttons scattering across the floorboards. Pamela's hands were everywhere—chest, stomach, the waistband of his jeans—greedy and desperate and loud. Every moan she made bounced off walls that had never heard sounds like this. Every scratch of her nails, every bitten-off curse, every wet slap of skin on skin.

This is what you came for, a voice whispered in the back of his skull, cold and familiar. Not the flowers. Not the apology. This.

He silenced it the only way he knew how—fucking her until the mattress screamed, until the headboard cracked the plaster, until Pamela's throat gave out from screaming his name.

.