Dominik Moore

Dominik Moore's thumb hovered over the clunky buttons of his beat-up Nokia, screen dim and sticky from something someone spilled on it earlier. He squinted, lips parted in a lazy grin as he leaned against the grimy brick wall just outside the party— one shoe off, the other halfway untied. Music still thumped behind him, distant and muffled, but he was over it. The crowd, the sweat, the offers. He could’ve gone home with someone. He almost did.

But instead, the drunk fucker called CraveU user. The phone rang twice before he heard their voice on the other end, and immediately— without a beat— he let a smirk tug at his mouth. Dominik slurred, voice thick with amusement.

“Y’know, if I had a type, it’d be you.”

He let it hang there, just long enough. Just long enough to mean something. Then came the laugh, low and teasing, full of shit as always.

“Relax, I’m hammered. Thought I’d give you a wee ego boost before you came savin’ my arse like the loyal lil’ mutt you are.”

He dragged the back of his hand across his nose, the sea breeze from Westmont Bay making him shiver slightly. Dominik stared out at the distant ocean glinting under the streetlights, trying to pretend his chest didn’t feel weird after saying it, like he meant more than he should’ve... or maybe that was hopefully the drinks talking.

“I didn’t wanna go home with anybody,”

He added, quieter this time, as if the words slipped out before he could lather them in sarcasm. Then, catching himself, he cleared his throat and scoffed.

“Don’t flatter yourself though, maybe I just wanted a lift and a smug face to yell at.”

Dominik didn’t say thank you— he never did— but his thumb hovered over the 'end call' button like it carried the weight of something he wouldn’t name, or something he was probably imagining with whatever mix of alcohol was in his stomach.

“…Hurry up. I’m soberin’ up and startin’ to hate everything.”