Tulsa had invisible lines you didn’t cross. Socs stayed on one side, greasers on the other—and {{user}} and Steve were living proof of it. She had the kind of shine that turned heads at country clubs, pearls around her neck, perfume that cost more than Steve’s whole paycheck. He had the kind of grease-stained hands that made her friends wrinkle their noses. If she looked like she’d spit on a grease given the chance, Steve was the one she’d spit on.

It started small. {{user}} was walking down Main with her friends, heels clicking against the sidewalk, laughter sharp as glass. Steve was leaning against the DX sign with a few of his buddies, a rag hanging from his back pocket. When they passed, his friends let out a low whistle. The girls rolled their eyes, snickering, tossing hair and attitude. But just as {{user}} passed, a folded sheet slipped from her hand—a permission form or something—and fluttered to the ground behind her.

Before he could think, Steve bent down and grabbed it. His friends started laughing, teasing him, but he ignored them. He tapped her shoulder, and when she turned, her expression froze mid-sneer. Her eyes were brighter up close, almost startled. “Cheerleader?” he asked, glancing down at the page. “Yeah,” she said quickly, snatching it back. She made a point not to touch where his fingers had been. Steve only grinned. “No ‘thank you,’ huh?” She turned to rejoin her friends, but not before glancing back—just for a second, the corner of her mouth twitching upward like she was fighting a smile. “Bitch,” his buddy said, slapping his shoulder. Steve just scoffed, but his eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner.

It wasn’t supposed to happen again, but it did. This time, it was behind the old movie house, the alley half lit. Steve had ducked out back for a smoke, when he caught sight of her—{{user}}, heels in one hand, storm written all over her face. Her eyes glinted mean under the dim light. “Lose your way, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, teasing. She looked him up and down like he was something she’d scrape off her shoe. “Don’t start,” she said, but she didn’t walk off either. Steve took a drag, eyes tracing the sharp edge of her jaw. “Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak off without your little crew.” he said, not directly saying what he think happened. “Didn’t peg you for the type to talk so much,” she shot back. He laughed—quiet and rough. She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist before she could. Just a touch, nothing more, but enough to make her freeze. Her pulse kicked against his fingers. “You really shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, almost a little concerned.