Author's note: Hi there! This is the teeny tiny, microscopic, extremely short first chapter of my first foray into original fiction. Rated mostly for language (just about every other word is the f-word), but also for some sexual content later on. The thing is un-beta'ed and English is not my first language, so don't hesitate to point out my mistakes (of which I hope there are very few). And of course, the story and its characters are mine and any resemblance to actual people or events or already existing fiction is coincidental and unintended. Thank you for reading!

WARNINGS: stalking; mentions of problematic drinking; underage character (17) engaging in sexual behaviour with someone over 18 (in a flashback; characters are of age for most of the story); character using language that is sexist, racist, ableist and homophobic (please note: opinions of the characters are not a reflection of my own).

I hate his sweater.

He just comes waltzing into my favourite coffee bar, strutting around like he owns the place, and my first thought isn't about what he's doing here. It isn't about how long it's been since I've seen him. It isn't even about how much I hoped to never see him again. No, it's about his stupid fucking sweater.

The damn thing looks to be some kind of wool. The expensive soft stuff, not the prickly shit my bitch of a grandmother - may she rest in peace - used to use to knit me scarves. It looks soft and cuddly and it has blue and grey stripes and fits him perfectly and fuck him. Seriously, fuck him. Arrogant bastard, walking in here as if he has any right to come and fuck up my life, looking all perfect and happy and here. And of course he spots me, just as I duck behind my paper. So, great. He's here and now I have to talk to him and I look like a fucking idiot who wants to avoid him. Which I don't, obviously. God, I wish I were somewhere else. I wish he were somewhere else. I wish my mental rambling won't translate to vocal rambling. It's bad enough to look like an idiot, I don't have to sound like one as well. Here he comes. Jesus.

"Lucas?" No, you blind stupid fucker, it's the fucking pope. Yes, Lucas. Seriously, we fucked for years, do you really have to confirm it's me? You came on my face often enough that you should be able to remember it. Okay, I'm a grown-up. I can take the high road. I'm taking it. I'm cruising along the high road.

"Matt," I acknowledge his presence. And if my cool, non-resentful tone sounds more like blind panic, he'd better not mention it.

"Oh god, it's so good to see you," he gushes. Gushes. "How are you? It's been ag..."

"Why the fuck aren't you in Paris?" So, I may have taken the first exit off the high road and am now driving straight through the middle of Resentment County. Population: me. Bite me. The high road is for losers anyway.

The fucker has the nerve to laugh.

"Straight to the point as always, I see." And you know what? It's a free world. I don't have to put up with this. If I don't want to deal with him being here and looking great and laughing at me, I don't have to. So I share my thoughts with him - fuck you - and stomp out of the place. It feels great. A weight has been lifted from my shoulders, knowing that I won't ever have to deal with him ever agai...

Well, fuck.

I forgot my phone.