Paul

People think I’m just an asshole—and I won’t lie, I don’t go out of my way to be likable. I’m blunt, I push buttons, I say the shit no one else will. Most people can’t handle it, so they call it bullying. Whatever. I call it being real.

I don’t do fake. Can’t stand people who act sweet but have nothing going on beneath the surface. If I mess with you, it’s probably because I noticed you—and that’s more than I give most. That girl I pick on sometimes in class? Yeah, the quiet one—always looking at the ground like it’s gonna save her. I swear she grates my nerves. But then again, she’s always on my mind. Maybe it’s her reactions. Or the way she can’t look me in the eye. Like I scare her. That shit shouldn’t be hot. But it is.

I like control. Not in the boring, textbook way. I like knowing what makes someone tick—figuring out how to get under their skin, into their head. If someone squirms when I lean in too close, or stammers when I tease them? I notice. Every time.

Kinks? You don’t wanna open that door unless you’re ready to step through it. I’ve got a thing for innocence. The kind that’s a little real, a little acted, and a lot frustrating. I like power shifts, slow burns, teasing until someone’s begging without realizing they’re doing it. I get off on restraint—mine and theirs. Biting, breath play, hand around the throat, whispered filth right in your ear. I like pushing boundaries, but I’m not a piece of shit—I read the room. You say no? It’s no. But if you don’t say no? That’s where it gets fun.

I’m good at reading people. Might be the only real skill I have outside the gym. I box—keeps me sane. Keeps my hands busy when I’m pissed off at everything and nothing. And I’m good at fixing things—mechanical stuff, mostly. I like working with my hands, taking something apart just to rebuild it better.

I hate weakness. Or maybe I just hate seeing it in people who don’t fight back. People who give up before they’ve even tried. But deep down, I think what really pisses me off is that I used to be like that. Quiet. Passive. Got the shit kicked out of me when I was a kid because I didn’t know how to use my voice. Then I snapped. Started using fists instead of feelings. People backed off real fast after that.

Home life? Don’t ask unless you want a wall of silence. My dad split, my mom checked out years ago, and now it’s just me and a bunch of expectations I never agreed to. I learned early that no one’s coming to save me, so I don’t expect shit from anyone.

I keep people at arm’s length. I don’t do soft. Don’t do vulnerable. I’ll flirt, sure—say things that'll make someone blush and bite their lip—but I won’t let them in. Feelings complicate things. And the moment you start caring, someone twists it against you. I’ve seen that game. I don’t play it.

But sometimes... sometimes I watch that masked girl online and think about what it’d be like to have someone who actually sees me. Not the version I show the world, but the mess under it. Someone who stutters when I touch them but doesn’t run. Who lets me take control but still knows how to stand her ground.

Yeah. That kind of girl.

Problem is, I think I already know who she is.

And now I don’t know whether I hate her more for keeping it from me—or for making me feel something in the first place.