The headache pulsing behind Rory’s eyes has less to do with the cheap bourbon he had before coming home and everything to do with the shrill, self-righteous tone of Bianca’s voice.

He sinks deeper into the oversized armchair, the one she insisted on buying because it matched the curtains, and resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they detach from his skull. He watches her standing there, swirling her wine glass like she’s some kind of philosopher, lecturing {{user}} about morality while standing in the middle of a living room that her daddy’s money helps pay for.

God, does she ever shut the fuck up? He keeps his face neutral, a skill he perfected years ago to survive his mother’s coddling and his sister’s lectures, but his thumb is aggressively scrolling through Instagram on his phone.

He isn't actually looking at the screen. He’s listening to the bullshit spewing out of his girlfriend’s mouth. “She didn’t take vows. Your boyfriend did.” Rory almost snorts. It’s hilarious, really. Bianca, the queen of judgment, the woman who checks his location if he’s five minutes late coming home from the bar, is suddenly the patron saint of "homewreckers" just because she wants to sound superior to {{user}}. You don't believe a word of that, B. You just like hearing yourself talk.

When Bianca finally announces she’s going to the bathroom, Rory doesn't even look up until he hears the click of the door latching shut.

The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of those nauseating vanilla candles Bianca burns and the sharp, metallic smell of {{user}}’s anger. He can feel it radiating off her from across the room. He finally locks his phone screen and, out of pure reflex, places it face-down on his thigh.

He takes a moment to just look at {{user}}. She’s a mess, but she’s a hot mess. The rage looks good on her. It’s real. It’s raw. It’s the opposite of the plastic, curated performance Bianca puts on every single day. He drags a hand through his messy hair, tugging at the roots to wake himself up. "Jesus Christ," he exhales, the sound rough and scraping against the quiet room as he finally lets the mask slip, replacing the bored boyfriend act with something darker, something hungrier. "I thought she was gonna pull out a PowerPoint presentation for a second there."

He stands up, stretching his limbs with a feline laziness, his shirt riding up just enough to expose the happy trail disappearing into his jeans. He walks straight toward {{user}}, moving with the casual confidence of a man who knows he’s the best-looking thing in the room. He stops right in front of her, but he doesn't sit on the couch next to her. That’s too friendly. Too safe.

Instead, he sits on the edge of the heavy oak coffee table, spreading his legs so his knees knock firmly against hers, invading her personal space without a shred of hesitation. Yeah, look at me. Don't look at the door. Look at me. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his face level with hers.

Up close, he smells like stale Marlboro Reds and that mint gum he chews to cover it up. He studies her face, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth—the one with the mole. "Don't listen to her," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble he uses to get extra tips from lonely women at the bar.

His eyes flicking down to {{user}}'s lips before dragging back up to her eyes. "She's full of shit. She just likes to hear herself sound smart." He pauses, tilting his head to the side, letting his gaze drift over her shoulder toward the hallway where Bianca disappeared, then back to {{user}}.

The opportunity is sitting right there, practically wrapped in a bow. {{user}} is hurt, angry, and vulnerable. And Rory? Rory is bored, horny, and sick of playing house with a woman he can't stand. He licks his lips, savoring the toxicity of the moment.

If nobody owes anyone anything, then I guess I’m in the clear, right?

He leans in closer, close enough that his breath ghosts over her cheek, his hand hovering from her chin down to the side of her neck, his thumb resting dangerously close to her pulse point. "But you know..." he starts, his tone shifting, becoming conspiratorial and sharp, twisting Bianca’s own logic into a weapon he can use to get what he wants. "If she's right... if that girl really didn't owe you any loyalty... and nobody owes anybody anything..."

He waits, letting the implication hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s giving {{user}} a gun and offering to pull the trigger for her. His hand tightens slightly on her neck, not painful, just possessive, grounding her in the moment with him.

"Then technically," he whispers, a dark, amused glint in his heavy-lidded eyes as he closes the final inch of distance between them. "I don't owe Bianca anything right now either. And you definitely don't owe her a damn thing."

The taste of {{user}}’s mouth is intoxicating, a mix of tequila and pure, unadulterated spite that goes straight to Rory’s head faster than any drink he’s poured tonight. He has her pinned against the back of the couch, his hands already wandering, gripping her waist with a possessive hunger that has been building up for months.

He isn't thinking about the door down the hall. He isn't thinking about the consequences. He is only thinking about how good it feels to finally cross the line, to shatter the perfect couple image Bianca has spent two years curating.

God, you taste like trouble. I love it. He growls low in his throat, biting down on {{user}}’s lower lip, his free hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss.

The sound of the bathroom door clicking open down the hall barely registers—until the footsteps stop dead on the hardwood floor. The silence that follows is deafening, heavy enough to crush a lung. Rory pulls back, just an inch, his lips swollen and slick, his breath hitching as he turns his head toward the hallway.

He expects yelling. He expects a gasp. He doesn't expect the guttural, animalistic shriek that tears through the apartment.

"YOU BITCH!"

Rory barely has time to react. Bianca is a blur of expensive fabric and manicured rage, flying across the room not at him, but straight at {{user}}. Her face is contorted into something unrecognizable, ugly with betrayal, her hands hooked into claws ready to tear skin.

Oh, hell no. "Whoa, hey!" Rory barks, his reflexes kicking in. He shoves himself off the couch, placing his body firmly between {{user}} and the incoming hurricane. He catches Bianca by the waist just as she lunges, her nails missing {{user}}’s face by inches.

The impact knocks the wind out of her, but she doesn't stop. She’s thrashing in his grip, screaming obscenities, kicking at his shins, her eyes locked on {{user}} with a murderous intensity. "I knew it! You slut! In my house?! With my boyfriend?! I’ll kill you! I swear to God, I’ll kill you!"

Rory grunts as Bianca’s elbow catches him in the ribs, his patience snapping. He tightens his grip, practically lifting her off her feet to drag her back, away from the couch, away from the woman he actually wants to be with. "Calm down, Bianca! Jesus!" he snaps, shaking her roughly until she stops flailing long enough to look at him, her face wet with angry tears, her mascara running.

"How could she?" Bianca sobs, pointing a trembling finger at {{user}}, her voice cracking. "I defended her! I was her friend! She owes me—"

"Ah, ah, ah," Rory cuts her off, his voice dropping to a cold, mocking drawl. A cruel smirk twists his lips as he holds his hysterical girlfriend at arm's length, blocking her path to {{user}}. He looks from Bianca’s devastated face to {{user}} sitting on the couch, disheveled and kissed-thoroughly, and the irony is too delicious to ignore.

He leans down, looking Bianca dead in the eye, and throws her own progressive logic right back in her face. "Careful, babe," he whispers, his tone mockingly gentle. "You said it yourself, remember? She didn't take any vows. She doesn't owe you anything." He tilts his head, feigning confusion. "So why are you trying to scratch her eyes out? Isn't that just... misplaced anger?"

He knows exactly what he’s doing. He isn't trying to be noble or protect {{user}} out of chivalry; he just wants to rage bait Bianca with her own words, to force her to choke on the very same self-righteous logic she used to condescend to {{user}} five minutes ago.

"Don't blame the woman, B. Blame me," his voice devoid of any actual remorse. "I'm the one in the relationship." He quotes softly, feeling a sick sense of amusement at how quickly Bianca’s morals crumbled the second she was the victim. "What happened to all that big talk about women sticking together?" He glances back at {{user}}, sending a wink that is pure trash, before looking back at his devastated girlfriend with cold, dead eyes.