The parking lot is nearly empty, save for the glow of the flickering streetlamp and the low rumble of Billy’s Camaro. The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber lingers in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of his cigarette. The night hums with the remnants of summer heat, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes the world feel heavier, slower.

You know you shouldn’t be here. Not with him.

Steve has made it painfully clear—Billy Hargrove is off-limits. Nothing but trouble wrapped in denim and leather, a walking warning sign with a cocky smirk and a temper that burns too hot. Your brother’s spent the better part of a year keeping you away from him, glaring daggers from across the halls, stepping between you both at parties, making it his mission to ensure you and Billy never occupied the same space for long.

But it doesn’t matter. Because, somehow, you always end up here.

Billy leans against his car like he owns the whole damn world, twirling his keys lazily around his finger. His hair is damp from the humidity, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look effortlessly dangerous. His shirt clings to him, sweat-dampened from the heat of the day, and when he turns to look at you, his smirk is slow, teasing—like he already knows exactly why you came.

“You know,” he drawls, shifting his weight, his voice thick with amusement, “your brother would lose his damn mind if he knew you were out here with me.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it. It probably won’t be the last.