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He probably wants to hear from you.

He won’t come back if you don’t reach out.

“You should all mind your own business,” I grumbled, “and I don’t want him to come back.”

Liar.

“He got what he wanted from me. I made peace with him, and now we’re done.”

I don’t think that’s all he wanted from you.

I sighed and pulled up the camera on my phone. I snapped a photo of the glitter balanced on my fingertip, which didn’t capture the shininess of the tiny metal shard, but it was identifiable nonetheless.

You’re the worst kind of scum.

I texted it to Rook along with the photo.

Rook: I’ve fucked people who have called me worse.

We didn’t fuck. We are not fucking.

A long pause, then.

Rook: What are you doing right now?

Why do you want to know?

Rook: It’s called making conversation.

Distrust crept up my spine. He was trying to trick me into giving something away. That had to be it.

Why should I converse with you?

Rook: You started the conversation.

I’m in bed. I had a hellish day. What are you doing?

Rook: Trying to make a bunch of idiots semi-competent before the fights tonight. What do you wear to bed?

We’re not fucking, Rook.

Rook: Humor me.

I was starting to seriously question my sanity.

Nothing. I wear nothing to bed, you nosy pervert.

Rook: I’d pay to see that.

You can’t afford it.

Rook: Keep being mean to me. It just turns me on.

Don’t you have work to do?

Rook: I’d rather talk to you.

Was I really entertaining this? Was I so bored and lonely that I’d converse with this riffraff?