My first crush (COMPLETED)√

PART 2:Chapter 67: She takes advantage

Stiles stepped out of the car, the night air cool and heavy against his skin. The driveway lights cast long shadows across the pavement as he moved to the passenger side and tugged the door open. The sharp scent of whisky spilled out with Stephen, who slumped against the seat, glassy-eyed and unsteady.

Stiles grabbed his arm, trying to lift him. Stephen barely responded — his body loose, his grip still clinging to the half-empty bottle resting on his chest.

"Come out, Stephen," Stiles pleaded, straining to pull him upright.

Stephen shook his head sluggishly. "No... I don't want to go inside that house without Sharon." His voice was thick and broken, words slurring together as he tightened his hold on the bottle.

"She's not coming. Please — just come out."

Stephen's eyes watered, and a choked sound escaped him. "I'd rather die, Stiles. I love her... I don't want her to leave me." His shoulders trembled as he cried openly.

"It's too late. Just come out."

Stephen pushed against him weakly, anger flaring through the haze. "I told you I didn't want to do it anymore. I told you I didn't want to hurt her. I told you I wasn't interested, but you guys said no — no! If I didn't, you'd tell her everything. Look what happened now." His voice cracked. "Tell me... would you have done that to your own girl?"

Stiles sighed, running a hand over his face. "Stephen, there are plenty of girls out there. Better, hotter — just forget about her. Be a man. She's gone."

"You don't get to choose who I want!" Stephen snapped, forcing himself out of the car at last. He stumbled forward, collapsing into Stiles's arms. "I love her... I love her, bro. I'll do anything to get her back. I swear."

"It's okay." Stiles steadied him and guided him toward the house.

Inside, the living room was dim and silent, the soft glow of a lamp spilling across the cushions. Stephen dropped onto the sofa, immediately raising the bottle to his lips again. Stiles watched him for a moment, uneasy, before slipping into the kitchen.

He dialed quickly.
"Hello, Patricia. Are you free right now? ... Okay, come over to Stephen's house. He's going crazy. ... Thanks."

He hung up and returned to the living room. "I hope he feels better." He grabbed his keys. "Stephen, I've got to go. My girl's been calling."

Stephen didn't look up. "I understand. Leave me here to bear the burden alone." He drank again.

"Stephen..."

"It's fine."

Stiles hesitated, then left. The house fell into a hollow quiet once the door shut behind him.

Minutes later, the front door opened again.

Patricia stepped in, her heels clicking sharply against the tile. She froze when she saw Stephen sprawled on the couch. "Oh my God — Stephen, what happened to you? Stop drinking. You're drunk." She took the bottle from his hand.

He looked up at her, eyes red. "She's gone. Sharon is gone." His voice cracked, and tears slid down his cheeks.

"Oh..." she murmured softly.

"I don't know what to do to get her back. She's all I have." His words faded into despair.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Patricia's face — jealousy mixed with something darker.

Patricia's POV

Isn't this perfect? I don't have to fight anymore.
The thought thrilled her. She reached for the drink instinctively, then paused, remembering. Pregnant. She set it aside, a small, satisfied smile curling on her lips.

He's mine now.

⸻

She moved closer, lowering her voice. "Stephen... let me help you feel better." Her fingers began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

He stirred weakly. "No... we can't."

"Just a little comfort," she coaxed. "It won't take long."

"It'll only make things worse... especially with you." His resistance was faint, slipping beneath the haze.

Isn't he supposed to be completely out of it? she thought.

She grabbed the whisky bottle she'd dropped earlier and pressed it back toward him. "Drink more. It'll help." She urged him until the last of his awareness dulled further.

Then she pulled him upright, struggling under his weight as she guided him down the hallway. His footsteps dragged against the floor until she managed to get him onto the bed.

She stood over him, breath uneven, watching his stillness.

"There's nothing you can do now," she murmured, her voice edged with possession rather than comfort.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, shadows pooling in the corners as her intentions unfolded — her satisfaction evident in the way she looked at him, convinced the moment had finally turned in her favor.

"You're mine now," she whispered.