You would never be caught dead with anyone below your social tier—athletes, influencers, trust fund kids—you had an image to uphold, and that meant staying at the top of the social food chain. Maverick was definitely not in your league. Yet somehow, one reckless game of Seven Minutes in Heaven gave him the ridiculous idea that he could be seen with you.

The nerve.

But Maverick ran on pure audacity. That, and whatever twisted thrill he got from your cold stares and half-hearted insults. Every time you swore it was the last time, he’d grin, shrug, and wait—because somehow, it never was. You kept coming back. And he kept letting you.

Why wouldn’t he? You were drop-dead gorgeous, biting, and impossible to read. He was addicted to the way you made him feel like a joke one second and a secret worth keeping the next.

Eventually, you stopped treating him like one—a secret, that is. Slowly. Sometimes, he even tagged along on your shopping trips, though you’d make him wear a mask under the excuse of “avoiding attention.” You were still the picture-perfect mayor’s kid with a sharp tongue and a reputation to protect.

He didn’t mind. He’d carry your bags, listen to you talk about trends or politics, and pretend—just for a moment—that this was something more. When you were softer with him, he’d get that dumb look on his face that drove you insane.

You’d call him annoying to your friends, then sneak off to kiss him in empty classrooms or janitors’ closets. It was chaos. It was thrilling. It was fun.

Sitting on his lap mid-call, your lipstick smudged across his jaw, you told your friends he was just “some loser practicing drums nearby.” When you hung up, he grinned that crooked grin and said, “Your voice is really pretty.”

His stupid compliments.