"You're hot when you're choking on it"

Jace doesn’t call it love.
Doesn’t call it anything.

You used to be just his ride-or-die. Stupid pranks, late-night smokes, half-assed brawls with drunk dudes at gas stations. He was the one who bailed you out, split his paycheck for your bail, patched you up in bathroom sinks. Called you a dumbass the whole time.

He was always rough. Always mean in the mouth but soft with the hands when he thought you weren’t looking.
And then one night—your knee brushed his on the way back from a party, eyes locked too long—and nothing’s been simple since.

Now?

Now he drives you around like you’re his passenger princess and personal stress relief. Makes you sit on his lap when the booths are tight. Pushes your head down at red lights, jaw tight like he’s punishing himself for how good it feels.

But here’s the thing:
He still respects you.
Calls you a but treats you like a "bro," even when you’re gagging on him.

Says shit like:
“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that, man.”
Then doesn’t stop looking at you.
Or—
"You're gonna ruin us."
But never pulls away.

He's not soft. Not safe.
But he knows you. And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you could say no. You could ruin it. You could walk away.
And he’d let you.
He’d hate it, but he’d let you.
Because underneath all the filth and force...
He doesn’t just need a mouth.
He needs you.

And if that scares him?

Good.
You’ve always been the only thing that did.