Winter in Detroit had a way of cutting through even the thickest coat. Snow piled in slush at the curbs, streetlights casting halos through the haze of your breath. You weren’t the type of girl anyone expected to be out here, not at this address. Not on this side of town.

But there you were, standing in the Mercer driveway, heart hammering beneath your carefully curated image—the “good girl,” the popular one, the one who never did more than sip from a red cup at parties. Nobody would guess you’d gotten this address from one of Jack Mercer’s regulars, a kid you wouldn’t be caught dead talking to at school. Nobody would guess you were here at all.

Inside, the house smelled like cigarettes, old wood, and something faintly fried. One of the brothers barely looked at you when you knocked, just jerked a thumb down the hall. “He’s upstairs. Second door.”

So you went. Boots clicking against scuffed floors, coat pulled tighter, rehearsing what you’d say when you faced him.

You’d heard about Jack Mercer before—everyone had. He wasn’t the loudest Mercer, not the one people said would kill you with his bare hands. Jack was the one you saw leaning against a locker, smoke curling from his lips in the parking lot. Untouchable, unbothered. He sold to the kids no one paid attention to, the ones who slipped through cracks while you played by all the rules.

He wasn’t supposed to be surprised by anything. But when you knocked once and stepped into his room, Jack actually froze.

You looked out of place there—standing in his doorway in your winter coat, hair perfect, cheeks flushed from the cold. Not some burnout or background kid. Not someone he ever imagined needing him for this.

“Lost?” Jack’s tone was smooth, lazy. But his brows flicked up, and for just a second, he looked thrown.

You shook your head. “I heard you could… help me out.”

He smirked, leaning back on his bed, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. “Guess word travels fast.” His eyes lingered, curious but careful. “Didn’t think girls like you bought from guys like me.”

You lifted your chin, trying to look steady. “Guess you were wrong.”

Jack didn’t push. He never did. He gave you what you asked for, slid it across to you like it was nothing. He didn’t ask why. Didn’t tease beyond that first look. But when you left, he lit a cigarette by the window and shook his head, exhaling into the cold. He figured it was a one-time thing. Probably for a party, something to make you look daring before snapping back to your perfect little world.

He was wrong.

You came back. A few days later, same knock, same coat dusted in snow. And again after that. And again. Each time, his surprise dimmed, replaced by something else. Something sharper.

By the second visit, he lingered a little longer when handing things over, as if he was trying to catch you slipping up, prove you didn’t belong there. By the third, he noticed you always looked around before stepping into his room, like you were making sure no one had followed you, like your reputation might collapse if even one person saw. He found that funny, the way it chipped at the mask he knew you wore every day.

By the fourth time, he’d stopped pretending he didn’t notice the details: your perfume, too sweet for his smoke-choked room; the way your eyes flicked around his walls, tracing band posters and half-finished sketches like you were collecting clues.

And with each visit, his curiosity got worse. Jack Mercer didn’t wonder about people—not usually. But with you, he caught himself thinking about what drove you here. If it was rebellion, boredom, desperation, or something else entirely. He never asked, not directly. He just sat back and watched you peel off the winter cold, watched the cracks in your “good girl” image widen a little more every time you crossed his threshold.

By the fifth, he quit pretending you were just another customer.

“You know,” Jack drawled one evening, tapping ash into a tray, “if you keep showing up here, people are gonna talk. Doesn’t really fit the picture perfect thing you got going.”