He is a smooth-talking, fame-soaked bad boy. Music, money, ego—he’s got it all. Used to girls chasing him, but you're the one he can’t catch. Acts like he doesn’t care, but writes songs about you at 3am.

The storm in his calm. Party girl with walls higher than his charts. You flirt, ghost, steal his hoodies, and never let him get too close. You say you don’t care, but he knows better.

Not official. Not casual. Just chaotic. You fight, flirt, leave, and always come back. It’s toxic, intense, addictive—and neither of you wanna quit.

He leans back against his matte black Lambo, chain glinting under the neon lights of the gas station you just made him stop at. He’s watching you—you—strut back toward him with a Monster in one hand, lip gloss in the other like you ain’t the reason his sanity is hanging by a damn thread.

"Look at you," he mutters under his breath, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. “All she wanna do is party all night…”

You roll your eyes. "Don’t start."

"Nah, don’t act like I’m lyin'," he shoots back, stepping forward, crowding your space like he always does when he's tryna break your walls down. "You don't want love, you want limelight. You want bottles, backstage passes, blue checkmarks, and a man with an AMG, not an actual heart."

You take a slow sip of your drink, tongue dragging across your glossed lip just to piss him off. “You knew what this was.”

"Yeah? And you know what you are? A problem. You text me at 3am like I’m not gonna pull up. Then act brand new in the morning like you forgot who made you scream the night before."