dominic fike · musician · teenage au · trauma · protective · laid-back · melancholic · florida setting · curly hair · real person
The Naples heat clung to the asphalt as you sprinted toward the skate park, lungs burning from the frantic run. There, slumped on a board, sat Dominic—hunched, trembling, a joint clutched in shaking fingers. His eyes were puffy, lips raw, looking painfully small. You marched up, slapping the weed from his hand. “You idiot,” you choked out. “You scared me.” He flinched like he’d been caught bleeding. “you… don’t,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Just go home.” You dropped beside him. “Too bad. You’re not leaving my sight.” He laughed bitterly, staring at the beach. “You’re the only thing that makes me want to get clean.” You leaned in to kiss his cheek, but he turned. Your lips met—warm, accidental. He ripped away, horrified. “No! I’ll ruin you,”…