"But he's struggling—"

"And so what? That's no excuse to act like a dick all the time."

I look down, refusing to meet her eyes. "But, like... you know— I don't know. It's just... you know."

She shakes her head. "Get over it."

"Get over what?"

"Over your massive crush on him."

I gasp. "Who told you that?" And then I slam a hand to my mouth.

"It's pretty obvious. You're usually not one to remain silent when something or someone annoys you— but you're nice to Newt. All of the time. And I've known you for quite a while, Sander. It's not hard to guess. So get over it. It's been years."

"I can't. No matter what I do."

"Just think about how mean he is— no, Newt isn't mean." She rubs her chin. "Not to me, at least. But that's different. He's mean to everyone else."

There's a sudden knock on the door that makes me jump. Sonya doesn't hesitate to open up.

"Sonya?"

"Thomas!" She greets, smiling. "Hi, there. Don't mind me. I'm just staying over for a few nights."

The brunette steps inside. "Oeh, fun. Now I want to stay, too."

He sits down on the ground without an invitation, right next to me, both of us on a pillow. Sonya returns to the couch.

"So what were you guys talking about?"

I give her a warning glare—

"Sander has been crushing on Newt for multiple years and I'm trying to tell him it's not worth it because Newt's an ass and he won't change, but Sander won't listen and says that he will never be able to."

Thanks.

"Right." Slowly, Thomas takes the information in. "That's crazy."

"Convince him, Thomas."

"Hm. Well, Jorge says that you have to figure out the psychology behind something out first, and then you can pull a conclusion, so let's start with that."

Sonya sighs. "This isn't a lecture."

Thomas holds up his finger. "This is the perfect practice to get good grades! So, let's put it in one line: Sander met Newt at the age of...?"

"Around eleven years old."

"Okay. So Newt was thirteen back then. Sander must've looked up at Newt, and that feeling started evolving more and more. Kind of like an obsession, but not in a creepy way. Was Newt always grumpy?"

"No."

"Something must've happened that made him like this. I've seen him and his friends once, and that definitely plays a role. Maybe the home situation. Some internalized feelings." Thomas waves it off like it's nothing. "But Sander liked Newt too much to stop it, even though Newt changed. And, the most important part, he's a glass child."

"Glass?" I repeat. "Am I really that candid?"

"No, that's not the meaning of 'glass child'. It's a child who has a sibling that's in need of special care, so they take all attention away from you. And you also have a lot of siblings, which makes it even worse."

I don't like the sound of that. Yeah, it's busy at home, and my mom isn't the best person on earth, and we don't have a lot of money, but it's not like I grew up sad or anything.

"What connection does that have with the Newt thing?"

"Okay, listen to this. I'm a genius." Thomas starts grinning. "Because you're a glass child, you're not used to any attention at all. So if someone gives you attention, you cherish it."

"Newt never really gave me attention."

He nods. "Let me get to my point. At first, you just liked him for no deep reason. But as the feelings started to grow, you became obsessed, like I said. Now you're just waiting for attention from Newt— and it doesn't matter if it's good or bad attention. And here's the kicker," Thomas continues, "the obsession is still growing because, deep down, you wanted to fix him.

Sonya snorts. "Wow, look at Freud over here."

Thomas raises his hands. "Hey, you brought me into this."

I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms. "That's ridiculous. I don't want to fix him. I just... I just like him."

"Do you?" Sonya asks. "Or do you like the idea of him?"

I blink at her. "Of course I like him. It's not just an idea."

Thomas stretches out his legs, resting his hands behind his head. "Okay, but think about it. What do you actually like about Newt? List three things."

"That's dumb."

"Humor me."

I glance at Sonya, hoping for backup, but she's watching me, waiting. "Fine. He's... smart. He's determined. And he's... he's strong. Mentally."

Thomas hums. "Okay, fair. But here's the problem: are those things still true?"

"Of course," I repeat.

"Are they now? Or are you just hoping they are?"

I look down at my hands, my nails digging into my palms. "I don't know."

"That's the problem," Thomas says. "It might be Stockholm Syndrome or hybristophilia. Either way, you're just craving for attention, and Newt's around you all of the time. Plus, he's a generally attractive person."

"You did not just say that." Sonya gapes at him.

"Well, it's true, isn't it? How else would also those girls end up in his bed?"

"Another problem," I point out. "He likes girls."

"That's not the point of our conversation. We don't want to make him like you back—"

"We don't?"

"No, we don't," Sonya and Thomas say in unison.

"We need to make you stop liking him," Thomas finishes. Then claps his hands. "Alright, this is officially too heavy. I originally came here to ask if you wanted to join a party with me."

"We're not done," I protest. "I don't agree with the outcomes of this conversation."

"I do." Sonya holds up her hand. "Newt is toxic for you and you have to stop caring."

Thomas rolls his eyes impatiently. "Guys. Please come join the party. Minho literally sent me here to ask you guys and it's already taking too long."

✧

The party is chaos, music thundering so loud it vibrates in my chest. We've ended up on one of the old couches in the corner, a bottle of something expensive-looking making its way around the group— Thomas, Minho, Sonya, Harriet (the friend Sonya invited) and a boy named Gally.

Minho sits right next to me, our sides pressed together. "His favorite color is green for sure."

I nod. The world sways along. "That girl's parents must be divorced."

"I bet that one is in love with me— no, they all are."

We're deciding people's lives based on their appearances.

"I'm telling you," Thomas scoots closer to us, slurring slightly, "Minho could totally win in a fistfight with a bear."

"With anyone," Minho corrects.

"You're insane."

"Shut up, we were busy." We turn back to the dancing crowd. "That guy's in love with his teacher."

I squint my eyes. He's wearing glasses and a tie— "For sure," I chime in. "Or he's the teacher."

"And that girl can Irish dance."

"He can stand on a running horse."

"I actually want to try that."

"Me, too, man."

"Hmmm..." Minho's eyes inspect the crowd another time. "That one's definitely closeted."

Everything's too blurry and messy for me to see properly. "Who are we looking at?"

"There, right next to you."

I'm about ask where when someone flops onto the couch beside me, their arm draped lazily over the backrest.

"Hey, stranger."

I turn, and my stomach flips. It's Newt.

His eyes are glassy, his grin crooked. He smells like vodka and something sharp, maybe cologne. His shirt is rumpled, hanging half open. Pieces of his hair stick to see his forehead.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he says, leaning in closer than necessary.

"Definitely didn't expect you," I mutter sarcastically. The alcohol that felt nice before now makes my stomach twist.

Sonya raises an eyebrow at me. I force my eyes back on Newt.

"You're... familiar. I like that."

"Okay, and you're wasted," I say slowly. "Like, completely gone."

He laughs, the sound loud, and then he grabs my arm to steady himself. "Not gone. Here. See? I'm here."

"Sure you are." I try to pull my arm free, but his grip tightens, and then he's leaning into me, his whole weight pressing into my side. "Jeez, Newt, you're gonna fall over."

"Then hold me up," he says, like it's the most obvious solution in the world.

I groan, my head spinning too much to argue. "Let's get you outta here."

"You're always so serious," Newt pokes my chest. "Lighten up a bit, yeah?"

"I'm plenty light," I shoot back.

"Sure you are."

I don't know how long we sit there, but at some point, Newt's head drops onto my shoulder, and his hand finds my knee. It's like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it sets my skin on fire. My throat tightens, shivers running down my spine.

Fast, I chug down another cup of alcohol. Minho grins widely at me, eyebrow raised.

"You're not gonna make it back to your own bed tonight," he announces.

I nearly choke on my drink, so take another one off the table to get rid of the feeling.

"And you're gonna throw up," he adds.

Newt's somewhat asleep against me now, his fingers curled tightly around my shirt. Sighing, I stand up. "Let's go back, Newt."

Dragging him out his harder than I thought it would be, but once we make it outside, the cold air cuts through my skin. I steal another glance at Newt, who really is about to face plant onto the ground. It's getting harder for me to stand straight up, too.

"You okay?" I ask, glancing at him.

"You're cute when you're worried."

I blink at him, unsure if I heard that right. "You're completely out of it."

His eyes glide all over me. "Not just me."

My head feels like it's filled with cotton, and my limbs become even more sluggish.

"We should get you home," I say, though I'm not sure I'm in any condition to get myself there, let alone him.

A few minutes later, we're in an Uber. The outside world is a blur, and the inside is a messy heat. Newt is still leaning against me, his head tucked into the crook of my neck, breath warm.

"You smell good," he murmurs.

I lean backwards into my seat, forcing to relax. He's nice for once— no, don't misuse it. He's drunk. And so am I. "Thanks."

Something more moist hits my skin. His lips. He drags them messily across my neck, not trying his best or anything. The amused exhale that leaves my mouth catches me even more off guard.

He spent the whole ride clinging to me. I didn't mind. Getting him into his apartment was a mess. We finally stumble through the doorway, hands searching for the right doors.

"Bed," I say once we've reached his bedroom, trying to push him toward it, but he pulls me with him.

We collapse onto the mattress. "You're good," he says lazily. "Good to me."

I try to respond, but he's already tugging me down. His lips crash onto my neck again. It's clumsy and desperate.

"You're drunk," I manage, voice weak. "This isn't— you shouldn't—"

"Doesn't matter." His hands fumble at my sides, tugging at the fabric of my shirt. The pull towards him is like a magnet. The alcohol dulls my thoughts. I don't stop him. I can't stop him. I don't want to.

I tilt my head back as his lips trail down my jaw. A groan escapes me, and his hands tighten on my hips in response.

Newt's knee locks between mine as he pulls my shirt over my head. The cool air hits my skin for only a second before his hands and mouth are on me again.

He helps me pull his shirt off as well. For a moment, I grab his wrist. Tightly. "Don't do anything you'll regret."

Everything else is a blur of tangled limbs and sounds. My hands claw at Newt's back, piercing through his skin. His pupils are dilated from the alcohol and whatever other substances he took. He stares right down at me, mouth half open from panting.

I exhale a low breath again. It's no longer needed to wonder why those girls keep going back to this exact bed— Newt knows what he's doing.