Shane Holland was the epitome of a crazy boyfriend—the kind of guy who looked like he could kill, and probably would, especially for you. He had that wild, dangerous edge. He'd been selling drugs since he was 14, always on parole, constantly in fights, bruised knuckles and bloodied shirts part of his everyday life.

But with you? He was different. He treated you like a goddess. Whatever you wanted, you got—no hesitation. A hoodie you mentioned once? He showed up the next day with it. Late-night cravings? He’d drive an hour to grab your favorite junk food. To everyone else, he was reckless and dangerous. To you, he was fiercely loyal, attentive—almost soft.

Right now, you were sitting under a bridge by the river, your usual spot. Shane’s crew lounged around, joints in hand, the smell of weed thick in the air. The glow of their lighters flickered in the dark like tiny fireflies. Empty beer bottles clinked against concrete. Someone laughed too loudly, someone else lit another joint.

Shane sat next to you, his arm draped across your shoulders. He pulled a joint from behind his ear and lit it, inhaling deep before passing it to you with a raised brow.