BFDI AND II ONESHOT BOOK!

Trife: I Hate That I Love You: Part 1

Trophy is hopelessly infatuated with Knife, no matter how hard he tries to push the feelings away. He hates that he likes him—wishes he'd never even met him. But one night, when Trophy's had too much to drink, the truth slips out... and from that moment on, everything between them changes.

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It was close to 11PM at the hotel. Trophy sat alone in his room, the glow from the bedside lamp casting soft light across the walls. For once, he had the place to himself—Tissues had actually gotten dragged out by someone to go do something social. Not like Trophy ever got invited to anything. People barely noticed him, like he cared, he didn't want to hang out with them anyways.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, a large manila folder resting on his lap—the portfolio he'd been putting together over the past few weeks. Page after page of carefully curated photos, each shot taken with painstaking attention. He'd been trying hard to improve, to build a real collection, something he could eventually send off and maybe land a gig as a photographer. It was one of the few things he felt proud of, the only thing he really poured himself into lately.

Beside him on the nightstand sat an open bottle of Shiraz, nearly half gone. He wasn't even bothering with a glass—just took swigs straight from the neck between page turns. It was Friday night, after all. No friends, no plans, no messages lighting up his phone. May as well drink.

His fingers flipped slowly through the folder, the wine warming his chest, dulling the edges of the night. Until he froze.

A certain page stared back at him.

Trophy's chest tightened as his foggy gaze locked onto the photos—ones he had forgotten he'd included, or maybe just tried to pretend weren't there. His heart thudded violently in his chest. There, across the page, were a dozen candid shots of him. Knife. Caught in moments he definitely didn't know were being captured—standing near the vending machines, leaning against the railing during sunset, mid-laugh when someone else said something dumb.

Trophy's hands trembled slightly as he turned the page slowly, revealing even more of those secret, stolen frames.

His stomach twisted. Shame swelled in his throat like a lump he couldn't swallow.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He hated this. Hated himself. Hated Knife. Hated how the guy seemed to live rent-free in his brain. It was an obsession—an ugly, tangled mess of longing and resentment. Knife was cocky, rude, unpredictable... and ridiculously attractive. And it infuriated Trophy how often he thought about him. How often he imagined dumb scenarios where Knife looked at him the way he looked at other people. How often he caught himself wanting something that would never happen.

He hated how hot he thought Knife was. He hated that no matter how many times he told himself to stop, he couldn't stop. It made him feel sick. Twisted. Weak. He took another burning gulp of wine to push it all down. What kind of freak takes this many photos of someone who barely even talks to him?

He stared down at the page, his eyes glassy and red, a twisted mixture of lust and loathing swirling in his gut. These were feelings meant to rot in the dark, shoved away in silence, never spoken aloud.

Trophy slipped one of the photos out from its plastic sleeve with unsteady fingers, the glossy edge catching the light as he brought it closer. Knife's face stared back at him—captured mid-smirk, lips curled into that stupid, cocky grin he always wore after cracking some godawful joke.

Trophy's stomach turned.

He hated that smile. He loved that smile.

His breathing grew heavier as he stared down at it, the alcohol swirling in his veins, sharpening the sick ache in his chest. That feeling again. That awful, gnawing, unbearable feeling. Why couldn't it just go away?