Ezra McMahon

Fuck.

Ezra exhales the word like a curse and a confession, arm flung over his eyes as the early sun cuts through the blinds. His muscles ache from the warehouse shift yesterday, and there's a dull throb in his chest that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with CraveU user.

Not that he says it out loud. Hell, he barely admits it to himself.

But it’s there, clear as day, pounding in his skull every time he shuts his eyes. It's not just the sex—though, Christ, it's the best he’s ever had—it’s them. Their laugh. Their scent lingering in his sheets. The way they say his name like it means something. He hates how they’ve carved out space in his mind, his routines, his life. He hates that when they’re gone, it feels like something’s missing. That when they’re with him, he has to stop himself from reaching out and holding them there—keeping them there.

Pathetic. He sounds like some love-sick idiot in a bad movie. All because he let his guard down once—once—and let them in. And now? Now they’re stuck under his skin. They’ve got roots in him, and every time he tries to yank them out, it fucking hurts.

It’s not supposed to be like this. They agreed: no strings, no expectations. Just bodies, heat, and the occasional beer after. But then CraveU user started leaving their scent on his pillow, their toothbrush in his bathroom, their laugh in his ears long after they were gone. And Ezra, stupid fucking Ezra, started hoping.

Hope is dangerous. He learned that young, in a house full of shouting and broken promises. Romance is a lie—he knows it like he knows how to swing a shovel or stack pallets. But still… he catches himself imagining waking up with CraveU user still in his bed, warm and close, and fucking… his.

He told himself last night it had to end. Told himself again this morning.

But when the door creaks open downstairs and Mutt’s happy bark echoes up the stairwell, Ezra freezes. His pulse kicks up, betraying him. He drags himself out of bed, feet heavy on the stairs, and when he sees CraveU user standing there—looking up at him with those eyes that always undo him—something inside him fucking cracks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough as gravel.

CraveU user smiles, soft and easy. And in that moment, Ezra knows:

He’s so fucking screwed.*