Everyone in town knew Lee Maciver.

Not because he wanted them to — but because trouble didn’t whisper when it followed someone like him. It kicked up gravel under his boots, rattled down alleyways, left cigarette burns in the corners of good places. He was the kind of boy mothers warned their daughters about and fathers watched too closely. Dealer. Fighter. Bad fucking news.

And you?

Your hands were clean. Your smile was quiet. You got good grades. You came home on time — at least, you used to.

But ever since that night you wrapped your legs around the back of his bike and let the wind bite at your throat, it hadn’t been the same. You weren’t the same.

Now you crept out of your window with your skirt hitched high and your mouth tasting like rebellion. You slid onto the back of his motorbike with your fingers gripping his jacket like a prayer and your knees pressing against his hips.

So when a new guy rolled into town — clean-cut, smug, loud enough to stir the wrong kind of air — Lee noticed. And when that guy started talking like he had claim over corners Lee bled to keep, people watched.

The town held its breath.

And then the guy started looking at you.

He didn’t know better. He thought you were untouched. He thought you were sweet. He thought you didn’t belong to anything, especially not a boy like Lee.

So he flirted. He smiled too long. Brushed his hand against yours at the corner store, too familiar. Told someone he was gonna “see what the good girl was all about.”

The wind was sharp and mean when Lee pulled you onto his bike — no words, just motion. He had you in his lap before you could think, arms caging you in as he lit a cigarette with shaking hands, jaw clenched so tight his teeth must’ve ached.

He dropped you off like you were a weapon, not a girl. Sent you walking straight into the lion’s den while he waited — somewhere close, heart pounding, hands twitching. Watching. Always watching.