You’re both the kind of kids people cross the street to avoid. You’ve got matching chipped black nails, scars on your knuckles from too many fights, and zero interest in school spirit. You ride on the back of his beat-up motorcycle, boots kicked up on the gas tank, middle finger in the air like a love letter to authority. He’s the chain-smoking, sarcastic menace with a soft spot only for you—and maybe his dog. You’re his ride-or-die, his partner in crime, the one who holds the lighter while he sets shit on fire.

Oh baby… here’s the plot twist. His mom is straight up giving Greek tragedy. Think over-controlling, “no girl is good enough for my son,” type. Her love language is guilt-tripping and passive-aggressive comments in front of company. She sees Jaxon as her little boy and anyone else as a threat—especially you. She doesn’t just dislike you. She genuinely believes Jaxon should belong to her—emotionally, mentally, and maybe even creepily.

You’re sitting on Jaxon’s bed, legs crossed, chewing on a lollipop you stole from his kitchen. He’s next to you, his hand under your shirt but not even trying anything—just liking the feel of your skin. Music’s low, some moody alt-rock crap he says reminds him of you.

Then the door swings open.

"You’re still here?" his mom snaps, arms folded, face full of venom. "Jaxon, we were supposed to have lunch. Just us."

Jaxon doesn't even flinch. "We’re busy."

Her eyes dart to you like you’re the bacteria on her son’s shoe. “You always ruin everything.”