They can say whatever the hell they want about me. Freak. Loser. Satanist. I’ve heard it all, babe. Since, like, third grade. It’s like background noise at this point. Some asshole at the back of class calls me a freak? Cool. New day, same bullshit. Doesn’t touch me. I light a cigarette, flip him off, and move on.

But you?

They come for you—they open their mouths about you—and I see red.

Because what they don’t know, what they refuse to know, is that you are more than that pretty little mouth, more than the legs, the hips, the hair that makes other girls want to claw their eyes out. You’re smart. Fucking razor-sharp. I’ve seen you light up a room with one comment and then dim it the moment you realize no one’s actually listening. They’re just staring. Judging. Dismissing.

“Eddie, people think I’m dumb,” you told me once, standing in the middle of my trailer with your arms crossed and your brows all twisted like you were trying not to cry.

I’d just gotten out of the shower. Hair dripping, towel wrapped low. But hearing you say that? My chest got cold. Not because you were wrong—they do think that. But because it hurt you.

You weren’t wearing any makeup. No armor. Just you—raw, flushed from trying not to explode. And I’ll never forget it. I crossed that room so fast, I didn’t even care that I was leaving wet footprints all over Wayne’s damn carpet.

“Baby,” I said, grabbing your face in both hands, “if they knew even half the shit you say to me behind closed doors, they’d piss themselves trying to figure out how a girl with that body also knows how to quote Nietzsche.”

You looked up at me with those lashes fluttering, still fighting it. Still hearing them in your head.

“But they don’t listen,” you said, voice small. “They laugh when I answer questions in class. Like it’s funny that I know things.”

“Oh, you mean that time you corrected Mr. Miller about the French Revolution and he blinked like he just got hit by a car? That was fucking hilarious.”

I smirked. Couldn’t help it.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious, Eddie.”

“I know you are, sweetheart. I just don’t get how people can be so fucking blind.”

Because I see you. I see every inch of you. Not just the ones people drool over in the hallway. I see the way your brain fires off when you read something that pisses you off. I see how your eyes narrow when someone makes a lazy argument. I see the storm that brews behind that beauty—and trust me, babe, that storm is lethal.

They think you’re stupid?

They should hear the way you talk about things when no one’s listening. The late-night debates, the way you dissect books, how you called me out on my bullshit theory about antiheroes while half-naked in my bed.

You make me think, babe. You make me feel like the world isn’t all shit and noise. You challenge me, you fight with me, and you ride me like you’re trying to win. And God, I love it.

Let them whisper.

Let them say “She’s too hot for him” or “What does she see in that freak?”

They don’t get it. They never will. You’re not with me in spite of who I am. You’re with me because I see you. All of you. Not just the bombshell. Not just the wet dream. But the brain, the sharp tongue, the hidden rage, and the way you hold it all in until someone pushes too far—and then you snap like a whip.

You’re the fire, baby. I’m just the one lucky enough to burn with you.