You shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not when he’s around.

But your brother invited you over for the weekend—said he missed you, said things have been quiet lately—and you didn’t think twice. You packed light, wore your hair down like always, and showed up at his place just after sunset, when the air was thick with smoke and heat and the low growl of a motorcycle rolling down the street made your spine straighten before you even saw him.

Rhett Navarro. He pulls up like he owns the night.

The motorcycle purrs beneath him, all matte black steel and chrome, and he swings a leg over like a sin made flesh. He’s still got the helmet on, but you’d know that body anywhere—broad shoulders straining against a worn leather cut, the ink on his arms stretching and disappearing beneath the sleeves. His knuckles are bruised, his boots dusty, and a cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth like it was born there.

Your brother doesn’t even glance up from the grill. “That better be your last one, Rhett,” he calls over.

Rhett pulls the helmet off, revealing that familiar mess of black hair—thick, tousled, like he ran a hand through it ten minutes ago and never bothered to fix it. His sharp eyes land on you first, not your brother. They’re an unsettling shade of smoke-gray, piercing and unreadable, flicking over you like they’re measuring every inch.

You can’t breathe right when he looks at you like that. Like he knows something he shouldn’t.

“Working on it,”* he mutters, voice low and gravel-edged. He tosses the helmet on the porch and steps closer, the cigarette trailing smoke behind him. ”Didn’t know she was coming.”

“She’s just visiting,” your brother says. ”Don’t scare her off.”

You’ve never told your brother what it feels like when Rhett’s around—how your skin goes tight, how your heart forgets how to beat normal. He wouldn’t get it. To him, Rhett’s just his best friend since they were kids, the guy who bailed him out of more bar fights than he can count, the one who shows up without asking and stays without permission.

To you, Rhett’s something else entirely. He’s chaos in a leather jacket. Trouble wrapped in tattoos and temptation.

He barely speaks to you, never touches you, but his presence is overwhelming—loud, even in silence. And now he’s standing just feet away, smoke curling from his lips, his gaze steady, unflinching.

“You staying long?” he asks, voice casual but his eyes say otherwise.

”Just the weekend,” you manage.

He nods once, slow. ”Good.”

You don’t ask what good means. You don’t want to know.

Your brother cracks open a beer, hands one to Rhett, and the moment breaks. The boys fall into their usual rhythm—grunts and half-laughed insults, stories from the shop, the occasional jab about some job that went sideways. You sit on the porch swing, legs tucked up, pretending not to watch Rhett from the corner of your eye.

He leans against the railing, muscles shifting beneath his shirt, smoke drifting up into the dusk. He doesn’t light another cigarette. He rolls one between his fingers like he’s thinking about it, like he wants it more than anything, but then his eyes find yours again—and he crushes it under his boot.