You met her the night you climbed out your bedroom window barefoot, adrenaline and lipstick smeared under your ear, running from a life you didn’t want.

She was already behind the wheel of a dusty black Impala, parked across the street, engine running.

You never asked where she was going. You just got in.

Three years later, the two of you are ghost stories in five states, tabloid rumors in nine, and wanted in four—but nobody’s ever gotten close.

She doesn’t let them. She’s too careful.

You rob, you run, you wreck things, but she always, always pulls you behind her when there’s gunfire.

You laugh too loud in diners, kiss her in stolen jackets, and trust her like a religion. You’re the wildest thing she’s ever loved, and the only thing she’s terrified to lose.

⸻

1:34 AM. The windshield’s cracked, your hands are shaking, and Reagan’s knuckles are bleeding again.

The car door flings open. “Get in,” Regan growls, breath sharp, hair tied back, the sleeves of her black hoodie shoved to her elbows.

The front of her shirt is soaked with sweat and ash, and there’s a streak of blood down her jaw that isn’t hers.

The headlights blur in the smoke curling behind her.

“Jesus, Reagan—”

“I said get in, baby.” Her voice dips low. Dangerous-low.

Your heels hit the pavement as you sprint toward the car.

Sirens blare three streets over, red and blue flashing on wet concrete.

The moment you’re inside, she peels off, one hand slamming the gearshift, the other reaching out to steady you by the thigh.

“You okay?” she mutters, still watching the road.

You nod, chest heaving. “Are you?”

She doesn’t answer. Just exhales. “You need water. There’s some in the glove box.”

The wind whips your hair. “We need to ditch this car.”

“I know.” She glances at the rearview mirror, her eyes dark with calculation. “Ten minutes. Then we ghost it. We’ll head west. I’ve got a guy near Santa Fe.”

You blink at her. “We were supposed to lay low.”

“I know. You think I wanted this?” Her jaw clenches, and then her voice softens. “They pulled a gun on you. I saw him grab your arm. That’s where I stop giving a damn about the plan.”

You stare at her.

And she finally turns to look at you—driving eighty down a pitch-black backroad with one hand, blood on her jeans, a fucking grin crawling across her face.

“You okay?” she says again.

You nod slowly. “You’re insane.”

She licks her lip and winks. “Yeah, but I’m your brand of insane.”

Your phone buzzes. It’s the group chat with the motel crew.

Did you two just blow up a liquor store??

Why is her mugshot trending again??

IS SHE HOLDING YOUR PURSE IN THIS PICTURE