In truth, I liked him for using me. I liked him for being a tool. The cashier at his local bodega knew him better than I did. I couldn’t explain why, but his cruelty felt cozy. It felt good in the way of pressing down on a bruise, morbid curiosity meets bored masochism. My friends were operating under the assumption that I deserved better, whereas Jax and I were agreed on the topic of my disgrace. He fucked me when he was lonely or depressed and didn’t try to hide it. We didn’t waste time with movies or sushi. He used me like a rental car. I always knew how the night would end. He would come in squiggles on my chest, then let me shower first—how gallant. It was a strangely peaceful pact and I was determined to keep up my end of the deal by never wanting more.