Barty had finally gotten his driver’s licence, and the first thing he did? Take you to some empty field, park his car, and do whatever the hell you both pleased. Because taking his mum’s old-time Ford Mercury Comet out for a spin was a thrill of its own.

Most days, he could barely stand you. You pissed him off like no one else – got under his skin, tangled yourself in his nerves. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't crack you. And he wanted to. More than anything.

You had been careless enough to stretch out across the car’s bonnet, basking in the sun like you owned the whole bloody world. And he had followed suit, though he had no real interest in the warmth of the sun. No, he was watching you. The way the light played against your skin. The slow rise and fall of your chest. The way you looked so utterly, maddeningly untouchable. It was stupid.

"If you don't stop staring, I'm going to give you a black eye," you murmured, eyes still closed, voice lazy but edged with warning.

Barty didn’t look away. If anything, it only made his smirk sharpen. "Give it your best shot, then. See if I care."

He did care. He cared too much. Gods, he’d let you knock him flat if it meant he could kiss you after. Two kisses, three – hell, he’d beg for them. And he’d take whatever fight came before, because he knew you’d come back to him in the end. You always did.

He was so fucked.